Chapter 3
These were dark times. Whole nations collapsed in upon themselves due to infighting, greed, corruption and malice. But our story focuses on the fields of old England. Kings and princes, warlords and wizards fought for supremacy, razing the country side, raping and killing on their own personal road to greatness. A group of great scholars met and took over a small village, far away from the hottest fighting; determined to end the self destruction of their land. For years they tried to master a force, any force, capable of defeating the ravenous armies of the many warlords. Naturally, they found many secrets, and their number grew smaller as smaller groups broke away, with firm belief that these new found secrets of nature and life would bring around the downfall of the aggressors. And, when confronted with the armies of the warlords, those secrets wrought great destruction and fear, but, ultimately, did not save those brave scholars from an untimely death from the warlords' forces. The number scholars started to dwindle, as they either died out or ran away in fear of their lives. Four years had barely passed when the army of a certain Hersmond Slewsgate, a lesser warlord, stood at the gates of the little village, in hopes of subjugating the few sages left to create weapons for his rise to power. Slewsgate, in his arrogance, rode into the village himself, with his elite guard and most trusted wizards. Outside, his army stood by restlessly, waiting to hear the screams of the helpless; the laughter of the wicked. And they heard screams, but no laughter, no flames of victory, no conquerous flag raised over the defenseless village. Instead, all they saw was their lord atop his horse, fleeing wild-eyed from the quiet village, screaming insanely. Waiting for the orders that would never come, the soldiers turned to their commanding officers in fear, waiting to be given some coherent order. Before anything could be said, before the insane warlord had even fled the battlefield, the first rows of soldiers were cut to shreds by invisible swords. Seconds later, the second rows ripped apart by powerful, malicious hands. An enormous massacre of men took place on that field, but only those wearing the jerkins of the warlord were killed. The killers themselves were not even seen.
From the gates of the village stood two groups of scholars. The first, dressed in scholarly robes of all shades and hues, watched on, horrified. The second, dressed in shabby black robes stood perspiring, their eyes closed, chanting frantically to control whatever magic they were casting. At the forefront of this second group stood a tall man, his eyes wide open, his milky white pupils staring at nothing, his face haggard, his mouth a thin white line. This man is the most important man at this point in history, for it was he who discovered the lost secret which brought so much destruction to the invaders.
Years ago, he was blinded, trying to protect his family from a band of pillaging deserters. He failed, and his family was slaughtered in front of him, before his eyesight was taken away from him. But to top it all off, the marauders decided to gut him like a pig and leave him for dead. Instead of dying and joining his family, he somehow survived, and was rescued by a traveling healer, on his way to the scholar's village. Blind and helpless, the healer knew that he would not live for long, and took the man with him. For years, the blind man listened to the talk of the various scholars, the debates, the theories. It was not until a week before the invaders arrived did he discover a force, a power so destructive, that it would thrive on the death of those around it. In truth, the secrets that came before this failed because they were meant to preserve life. The secret he discovered was meant to destroy life, and the dead were its fuel. For this secret was the raising of the spirits of the dead, the harnessing of these spirits, then the unleashing of a vengeful force intent on the destruction of all that lived.