Prologue

It was a cold night. Shadows danced along the giant stone pillar that stood alone and erect in the lonely valley. The flickering of torchlight could be seen around the great stone, and there were creatures creating the shadows that danced along the pillar. Small, goblins and scimitar-armed orcs had encamped around it. Their size was fairly small for a raiding party, but they had a special purpose, which was to perform a special ritual, a dark and almost forgotten ritual. Their leader stood, looking at the stone pillar.

He was not like them; he was a human and stood taller than the others that walked around him. This man had an aura about him that of evil. He wore a great fur cloak that whipped in the breeze, a shirt of black mail, and a great horned helmet that covered his scarred face. He had long forgotten his old name, the name that he once had used when he had that old life, but the life he once had was far behind him. He gave a slight sneer at the memory of it. He was Granthog the Great, Granthog the Terrible, and Granthog Kin Killer. He was a cruel and horrible taskmaster. And what of the humanity that was still left in him? Why, that too has almost faded away into the great history books of the Silver Council. He was what he was then and there, and nothing more. He was a servant, neigh slave, of the Witch Lord. He had seen one hundred and eleven summers pass, and still he showed no signs of age. He looked young and fair except for the three long scars that marred his young face. These were not done by any foe, but by Granthog himself who carved the long trenches in his face as a sign of loyalty. He mused about his old name, the name that Anina used to call him. He thought for a great deal of time, but could no longer remember. The only name that ever came to mind was Granthog. A tear came to his eye, but he quickly wiped it from his eye. He drew his dagger from his belt, took off his glove, and stabbed his hand. He winced and wrenched the blade from his hand and watched as his healed slowly, the blood seeping back into the arteries and the skin slowly reattaching itself. He looked again at the great stone pillar and told himself, "She died long ago. Let us finish our task."

He turned and walked back into the camp. He saw the orcs and goblins talking and eating together, and speaking in their harsh tongue. He did not care to learn the language for most orcs already knew how to speak the common human language of that area, and thus he felt no need to learn it. Finally he arrived at his tent. Inside were many furs and in the corner was a desk for him to read or write should he grow weary on his long and tiresome journeys. He took off his helmet and placed it on his desk. He sat down and began to read a long papyrus scroll when an orc arrived at the tent flap. The orc bowed and he looked at the man.

"What is it Grunth? Any news from the necromancers?" The knight said glancing at the creature and quickly returning to read the scroll.

The orc stood his ground and grunted, "The necromancers are here, milord. What shall I tell them?"

The knight stood and picked up his helmet and walked to the orc. "Take me to them at once, and tell the others to assemble. We begin at once…"

"I am glad to finally see that you have come." Said the knight as he approached a group of hooded humans near the pillar.

A man stepped forward and he removed his hood. He had a grayish beard and a long nose. The man gave a smile and showed his brownish teeth. "Our order has never done such an act in many a long year. It is an honor."

"You know that if you continue with this task, you have damned your own race to its own death." The knight said as he touched the stone pillar and then glanced back at the necromancer.

"Of course, but we know that he shall be a better master than King Mahlan. We offer our services gladly." The man bowed.

The knight motioned for him to stand. "We must start the ritual as soon as possible. His return must be soon."

"Of course," he said. He turned to his men and gathered them together. The knight turned around and gathered his orcs.

The necromancers gathered in a circle around the great stone pillar, and the orcs hoarded around them. The head necromancer went up to the pillar and placed his hands on the stone. The knight breathed heavily, and he could feel sweat upon his brow. Much was at stake, and he knew that nothing must go wrong, or the entire operation would be null. He turned to an orc who wore wolf skins and carried a long spear.

"Pokil." The knight said to the orc.

"Milord." He kneeled and bowed his head.

"I want you and twenty of you stealthiest orcs to patrol the area and make sure that nothing can go wrong with this ritual. Is that understood?" He piercingly stared at the orc.

"What do you fear? I smell it." He moved closer, but it was too close to the knight, and he backhanded the orc. Pokil fell to the ground, and his purple blood smeared his face. He stared at the knight in shock.

"I fear nothing, and don't you forget it, or you shall feel pain unimaginable." Said the knight, gathering his composure. He was afraid. "Now go, you pathetic worm."

The orc nodded his head and scampered away gathering his troops.

The necromancer raised his hands, and shouted in Dark Elf. With this act, the ritual had begun.

Pokil rubbed his hand on his face and wondered what could possibly have the master in such a foul mood. It was a joyous occasion, so why would he be anxious? He let the questions settle in his head as he ordered the orcs to survey the valley. He looked around for possible ambush points, and he found one. It was the forest's edge. An army could fit in there and not be noticed.

Motioning for his orcs to gather around him, he said, "Unar, take Guil and Jubik to the edge, and check for enemies. We have orders to not let anything happen, so, lets be sure that nothing does happen, got it?"

"Aye, Pokil. We got it." said Unar.

"Alright, off with ya then." He pointed towards the woods, and the group silently ran off.

Quietly, in the woods, a division of soldiers waited. They wore chain and bore the crest of the blue dragon, they were official soldiers of Westguard. A man who wore a blue cape walked up to a mounted knight and began to relay the situation.

"Why do we wait, Milord? We have the advantage! More men, cavalry, and archer support. Why don't we just charge?" He paused waiting for an answer.

The knight removed his steel helmet and replied, "Because, we were told to wait, and see what they are up to. We are not to attack unless Rakail, says so." He had short blonde hair, and looked rather young to be a knight.

"With respect, sir, we need to kill them. These orcs are trying to do something, and I know that it can't be good. Please, heed my warning." The man stared at the knight.

The knight turned to a hooded man next to him. "What do you see Rakail, may we attack?"

The hooded figure slowly turned his head. He removed his hood and showed glowing white eyes. "The orcs are summoning a Greater Demon. I advise that we interupt the summoning as soon as possible." He put the hood back on. and sat on the ground and went into a trance, staring at the pillar.

"Well, that's enough for me to call out the order. Wake the men. We fight now." said the knight he put on his helmet and rode towards the cavalry that stood ready.

The other drew his sword and pulled up his chain coif and gave the signal. the knight rode up beside a horseman.

"Are we attacking now, sir?" said one of the horsemen.

"Aye, it is time to break up their little party." said the knight. He rose his sword into the air.

Granthog nervously fidgeted his sword. He could not be still. This was an important moment, and he only wished that it would not take this long. He looked around him and saw the forest's edge. He did not have much time to look at them, for a great flash of light came from the necromancer. The necromancer shouted out loud, "It has begun!"

Granthog sighed in relief and turned and looked back at the edge of the forest. Why could he not just watch the ceremony? Why were his eyes drawn to that spot. He almost turned away when he saw it. A flash from the forest. It was a fire arrow. A signal of some kind.

"Curses." He muttered under his breath. "Orith!" the man cried.

"Sir." An orc approached him. "What's wrong?"

"Alert the men. We have guests." he drew his sword.

The orc hesitated, "But sir, we have only a few men. We should fall back. Forty can not hold back a well armed attack force." As he said this, he knew he would regret it.

"What did you tell me?" said the man raising his sword.

"Nothing, milord." He cowered before his master. "I will do as you say." The orc scampered off and began alarming the men.

A necromancer walked towards Granthog. "Shall we continue the ceremony? There seems to be a commotion."

"Continue, necromancer, we shall handle our fine guests." said Granthog walking towards the edge of the camp.

"Very well then."

"Steady, men, steady." said the knight as he rode up the line of footmen. "Remember, keep your wits sharp and your eyes open. We have our orders. Slay them all." He rose his sword into the air.

A younger soldier, barely the age of war, turned and looked at his older comrade. "Whats it like fighting an orc?" he trembled.

The soldier smiled and replied, "Like fighting a man. Courage, lad. We will see the gates of Westguard once more before this is over." He patted him on the back and drew his sword when he saw the knight's arm rising. "But first we have a little fight to finish."

The knight looked at the man with the cloak and said, "Get your archers ready to move in front. We want little to no casualties for this battle."

"Understood sir." He walked towards the archers and drew his long sword. "Archers forward!" he shouted.

"Alright." grumbled the knight. "Let's go."

"Sire!" cried Orith "Their archers approach us!"

The knight looked and saw a line of archers step out from the woods and draw closer to the rock.

"We must meet them. We can not allow the necromancers to be hurt. We hold the line at all cost. No retreat." said the knight as he hurried to the rabble of orcs. He surveyed the shadowy landscape, and could see no escape. Maybe I will die here... he thought to himself. It was not as he expected. He hoped to die in a great battle in the very throne room of king Mahlan, but as he gripped his sword tighter and tighter, he knew his end was near.

"All right you filthy cur!" he shouted at the orcs, "Form bloody ranks! I want you to line up you worthless pieces of sod!"

The orcs hurriedly lined up and drew weapons. Some only wore fur clothing. Some wore heavy chain. Some wore close to nothing except loin cloths or leather skirts. The orc group was a rag tag group. As Granthog looked at his troops he knew that the battle was not in their favor, yet he continued to rally them and bark out orders. He took one last look at the stone pillar.

"I hope I have served you, milord." He rose his sword into the air and shouted the charge.

"Archers, draw your arrows!" shouted the caped man. The archers drew their deadly arrows in unison. "Ready your arrows!" They notched their arrows. "Fire!" A deadly hail of arrows sprang from the archer's bows into the darkness of night. "Archers, draw your arrows!"

The knight and his footmen and cavalry were ready to charge. All eyes were eagerly fixed on the knight. The knight rode down the small line and shouted, "After the next volley we charge!" He returned to his cavalry and rose his sword.

"Ready your arrows!"

A silence came form the footmen.

"Ready... Fire!"

The volley flew into the darkness, and the men charged. Into the night they ran, out of the cover of the forest. All eyes were fixed on one position: reaching the pillar, and stopping the orcs, before it was too late. Half a mile was between them and the enemy orcs. The footmen slowed down and let the cavalry take lead while they reformed and charged more closely fit. The cavalry reached the orcs, and the sound of battle was heard in the plain. Both sides cried out in pain. The footmen could see the orcs now, and they quickly advanced to the cavalry's aid. They hit the orcs hard, but now all that was left was to see who emerged victorious.

The necromancer's brow sweated as he chanted feverishly the lines and stanzas of the dark magics used for the summoning. He quickly finished one line, but had to move on to another. He knew time was running out, but he was so close to his objective. Only a few more words now, and he would at last be complete. He finished and looked to the sky. A great plume of red flame emerged in front of him and a giant man that stood a few feet taller than him emerged. He had fiery skin and great black horns that rested upon his brow. He had jagged rows of teeth and when he spoke flames jutted from his mouth.

"Who calls forth the gatekeeper" he said with a snarl as he hoisted a great fiery whip into his hands.

"I do, oh mighty one." said the necromancer as he fell on his face and bowed.

The demon lifted an eyebrow and gave a chuckle and spread his wings. "You, a human, calls forth the mighty gatekeeper? What joke is this?" He turned around and saw the carnage that ensued rom teh battle in the plain. "What goes on here; it looks good." he gave a toothy grin.

"Great one, we ask that we could return our master to this world so we may be led by a true ruler." He winced at what he said.

"And who is this man that you speak of?" He turned back and looked at the necromancer.

"He is the Witch Lord."

The demon laughed and leaned over and came face to face with the necromancer. The necromancer could feel the heat of the flames that danced upon the demon's red body. "He has been damned to the underworld for all eternity. I am his keeper, and no one leaves the underworld... unless." he looked at the other necromancers that stood close by.

The necromancer caught on to the demon's game. "Unless another soul is sacrificed. A willing replacement."

"Precisely." The demon roared in laughter.

The necromancer hesitated. "I am to be that sacrifice." He closed his eyes and waited for the demon to reply.

"Is that so?" he chuckled and drew back from him. "Are you willing to spend all eternity in the underworld, just for the sake of your master? You are more foolish than the Great One."

"I am." he replied.

"I can not take your life, human. You must do that yourself. I can only exchange the souls." the demon drew a leather sack and pulled out a glowing wisp. "Here he is. Now, do it already. I see that you do not have much time."

The necromancer looked at the wisp. He clasped his hand around a small dagger that hung by his side. "Very well." he croaked. He raised the knife to his throat and ended it.

The demon watched as life faded from his eyes. "Ah. A new soul. Finally. This one was getting boring." He grabbed the necromancer's soul and let loose the wisp. The soul hovered over the corpse of the necromancer. It began to take form. The flesh of the necromancer began to rip off the body and attach itself to the soul. A scream came forth from the head as it sprouted legs and arms and collapsed to the ground. Finally, it was finished. The creature breathed heavy sighs and looked up. He had grey eyes and looks at the battlefield. He turned and looked around and saw the necromancers who rushed to his aid.

"Where am I?" he said in a cold, unfeeling voice. "Where have you brought me?"

One of the necromancers clothed him in a black cloak and said, "You are at the Great Pillar, milord. We have brought you back form the underworld."

"I see." He stood and walked towards the field. "We shall leave now." He gathered the necromancers together as he walked down the stone steps that led to the pillar.

Granthog hacked and slashed, but nothing seemed to stop the human's assault. He had killed three and wounded several others. He decided to fall back to a group of orcs and ordered them to surround him. They did so and fought back the humans. Granthog kneeled and tried to catch his breath, but could not for some reason. Standing, he looked towards the pillar in hope that the summoning was complete, and there he saw him, the Witch Lord, stepping onto the grass of the field. He could see his face in the torchlight. The summoning was over. The Witch Lord would save him and his orcs. He gave a brief smile, but then he could not believe his eyes. The Witch Lord lifted his hands into the air and clasped them together, and in a bright flash of blue light, him and the necromancers disappeared. He dropped his sword.

"He left us." he said aloud.

Rakail lifted his head up and screamed. He saw the Witch Lord too, the terror of this world had returned. He shakily covered his eyes with his hands. "How could this happen?" he said to himself. "I must warn the council." He stood, lifted his head to the starlit sky, raised his arms to the sky, chanted a few words in Elfin and shouted, "The great Darkness has returned!"

An old man stood upright in his bed. "No. It can't be true." He stood from his bed and walked down a long, stone corridor and finally came into a vast room. It was dark, but the old man clasped his hands together and a bluish light faintly hummed around the room. The room opened with light and inside were mountains of books and scrolls stacked upon one another. Treasures, old and new, scattered around each table. The old man glided toward one of the tables and shouted in Elfin and the books uniformly stacked themselves and he smiled, "That's better." He then picked up several books and skimmed through each quickly and then tossing them to the floor as they gently floated down to the ground and landed without noise. Scroll after scroll, book after book, legend after legend he looked through until he paused and took a scroll from another pile. "Unithor the Seer... maybe..." he said as he opened it. He unrolled a scroll and looked at it. "The prophecy says that six heroes from a different house of Gard will repel the fourth darkness. They will be great heroes, better than the ones of old." He looked up and said, "It is time, Orb."

A glowing blue rock floated towards him. "Yes, Kas?"

"We have a lot of work to do." said the old man as he rolled up his sleeves.