The small procession walked as fast as they could without breaking into a run. They felt eyes all around them, hungry eyes that would strike out and drag them into the shadows if one fell behind. The towering walls of the mountains seemed ready to swallow them whole and the dark clouds above threatened to fall on top of them at any moment. They climbed a narrow, treacherous path, up to the peak of one of the smaller mountains. In their midst they dragged a young man in chains. His long black hair hung lank over his face and his body was covered with cuts and bruises. He stumbled along with the others, too weak to try and resist. He could barely see what was in front of him. Not that he wanted to, he realized. He knew where they were taking him.
They reached the top of the mountain. It formed a small plateau in the midst of the other jagged cliffs and peaks. The other men shoved the chained man near the edge of the plateau. The man look back. The mountain side was smooth and fell gradually down to the bottom. But it wasn't the drop his eyes were fixed on. It was the land beyond it.
The oldest of the procession, garbed in a red and black cloak, stepped forward.
"Rheith, son of Rhathar, you stand guilty of the murder of the children Neima and Palla," he said in a gruff voice.
Rheith's eyes shifted to Dollan, the father of the two girls. His face was twisted with hatred and his hands clenched into fists. Rheith matched his gaze, refusing to have his will broken. He stared back with the same intensity.
"By judgement of the council of Shadowgate, I sentence you to be cast into the Shadowlands, never to return to Deltora. We will not rembember you. We will not mourn. We will not regret."
"I regret nothing!" Rheith shouted, not willing to give them the satisfaction of him begging, "I will escape the Shadowlands and return here, and kill all of you!"
"You chose the darkness and now we give you to the darkness. Go, and be with your new Shadow Lord!"
One of the men carried a long staff and he jabbed it at Rheith's stomach, sending the chained man tumbling over the edge. The world became a blur of dirt as he fell, farther and farther down the slope. He tried to gain some kind of hold on the rock and the dirt, but the chains around his hands prevented any such attempt. Finally, he slowed down and came to a sudden, painful stop.
He grunted and spat out dirt as he heaved himself up. His body was burning with pain, his skin torn and ripped in many places. He managed to pull himself off the ground and look back up the mountain. There the other men stood, motionless, looking down at him. He glanced back at the endless gray land behind him, then tried going back up the mountain. Almost as soon as he started his second step, his boday slammed against the dreaded invisible wall. He looked again at the men at the top of the mountain, his rage growing more. He quickly spun around and headed for the Shadowlands. He would not let them see him suffer. He would not let them see his pain. Deep down, the fire that fueld his rage grew to an inferno. But he knew that even the strongest inferno could not survive in the darkness of the Shadowlands. And he felt it. Felt the darkness. Felt it calling to him from across the Shadowlands.
The voice of the Shadow Lord.