Prologue
A bloodcurdling shriek sounded through the woods of the north. As panicked flocks of birds took flight from their trees, Carla Langerans and her husband, Lars, stiffened and rushed to their window. Through the third-story aperture they could see the trees shaking under the twilight, as if something were moving through them unseen. A second scream sounded, longer this time. From the west, just north of the park, there was a sudden flare of light and out of the glare came marching the worst fear of every Asgarnian who knew what was good for him- undead. Zombies, the rotting foot soldiers of the unholy legions, some carrying crude stone axes, their flesh rotting in many places and their will to feed as apparent as it ever was or would be. Skeletons, some armed with round crestless shields and cutlasses, others with their bare bony fists, still others with corrupted amulets and staves or bows and arrows. Ghosts, shades and wraiths, now visible and solid, now gliding straight through other minions, their cold breath freezing whatever it touched. And behind all those a rank of humans who stepped forward and made towards the crowd of defenders fortifying Falador's northern gate. Their apparent innocence gave the front line pause; this was rectified after a few whisperings of courage from the commanding officers. Suddenly, when they had descended the mountain slope that ran the northern length of the city, a terrible change came over them as they charged. The color drained from their faces, their limbs grew old and decayed, their faces were transfigured into something less human but still recognizable…
"Vampires," Lars Langerans whispered.
From the high walls of the northern gate, the cannons were being made ready. The city's scant population of magi had reached the gathering of militants and were preparing their magic. When all four cannons were loaded, the officer in dark blue, standing at the southern edge of the tower, lowered his raised hand in the direction of the horde.
"Fire!" he cried.
Four deep, earsplitting booms echoed across the landscape as the cannons fired in sync, the balls singing through the air and smashing into the dark army. The zombies' ranks were cleft in two, the skeletons were sent into disarray and the vampires were all but obliterated by the volley. The defenders breathed a collective sigh of relief- before the immortal blood-drinkers picked themselves up, their wounds healing with uncanny and unholy speed, and charged the city once again.
"Archers at the ready!" came the call from the command unit. The sound of twenty crossbows being loaded echoed between the gate towers.
"Fire at will!"
Bolts, hollow, tipped with wood and filled with sacred water, whistled from the ranks. Expertly aimed, each bolt found the heart of a vampire and they each crumbled to dust in mid-stride. The immortals were gone- but the minions that approached now were far too much for the Faladorian guard to handle. Reluctantly, the commanding officer gave the order to call upon the magi. As the azure-clad minority strode forward, gripping what staves they had with both hands, they began chanting in unison.
"Zamorak, Lord of Darkness," they recited, almost silently, "we dispel your unholy minions to your realm of the dead." A faint, warm glow began to emanate from their staves.
"Zamorak, Lord of Darkness, we dispel your unholy minions to your realm of the dead," they intoned, somewhat louder. The glow was spreading out from their position and lapping like water around the feet of the undead.
"Zamorak, Lord of Darkness, we dispel your unholy minions to your realm of the dead!" Tendrils of mana reached up from the pool of energy and curled around the limbs of the attacking legion.
"By earth, air and chaos, minions! Begone!" The final cry hailed a spectacular sight- zombies being pulled apart and dissolved by the magic, skeletons falling and crumbling and disintegrating, bolts of holy magic spewing forth from the now-shining staves and crushing any undead they crossed. When the glaring brightness receded, all that remained were the physical forms of the defeated leagues; the life and breath and evil had gone from them. The defenders laughed nervously as the magi, their moods not even slightly lightened by their success, retreated to their homes. The swordsmen sheathed their blades, the archers slung their bows over their shoulders and made to depart. The battle, however, had not yet been won.
Out of the trees, a wave of dark matter came sweeping forth. Trees aged and decayed wherever they came in contact with it; once it had enveloped the roots they shed their leaves and died. The grass turned brown and a pall of dark smoke billowed out from out of sight. From the miasma of energy strode a figure as impressive as he was evil- armor as black as pitch, with golden trim around the shoulders, elbows, knees and neck. A long black cloak trailed behind him. A huge black broadsword, glowing with golden runic symbols, hung at his waist. He held a staff, carved from yew and inscribed with runes of death, topped with a black orb; although it gave not what a human would call light, it was evident that the source of the destruction was in the hands of this individual. His hair was long and white, his face young but scarred. His eyes had no color, merely black rings with a decadent sparkle in them. Just before the remains of the fence on the ridge he stopped. When he spoke, it was with a voice so ancient it drew clouds of doubt over his apparent age. It was a dry rasp, but powerful- the voice that nonchalantly created or destroyed as it pleased. What it said was this:
"Citizens of the puny human city of Falador, in the pathetically unenlightened kingdom of Asgarnia, hear me. I am the Necromancer Irrigar, Lord of the Dead, devoted servant to His Dark Majesty Zamorak. Entire planes have burned in my boot prints and many more will follow. I have mastered the art of the dead; the way to true immortality, above that of the vampires you so effortlessly dispelled, is mine and mine alone. I come to bring you an ultimatum: drop your arms, flee to the safety of your homes and surrender your lands to my forces, or face destruction beyond the dreams of your muddled prophets. Let it be known that if you refuse this amnesty, it will not be offered you again. What say you, people of Falador?"
It was silent. From the crowd a man with short, fair hair and a golden Saradoministic symbol on the white cloth over his plate mail stepped out. Gripping his shield and drawing his sword- a long, shining steel construction- he shouted up to the necromancer,
"O pathetically loyal devotee to our collective Enemy! I salute thine dedication to thine twisted cause and wilst have thee know that the people of this noble city wholeheartedly laugh at your misguided attempts at domination. Destruction beyond dreams of prophets? Faugh! Bring sword and spear and match with me in the heat of single combat; let not these dark minions do thine work for thee! Art thou afraid to lay thine skill in battle alongside that of an obviously more capable foe such as myself? I defy thee, Dark One, to the greatest extent of mine ability! Come now thyself or forever hold thine craven peace amidst the chaos of the wild!"
The necromancer stood stunned for a split second- and from the cavalier expression they held, his features formed themselves into a grimace of livid anger. Grasping his staff, he invoked,
"You dare defy me, Paladin? You overestimate the strength of your pathetic benevolent deity and you will pay for your indiscretion! Now- by the power of Iban! Death within me! Fire around me! Destroy this wretched excuse for a mortal! I command you!" The runes on the necromancer's staff glowed a bright, vulgar shade of purple, the light folding itself inwards, towards the orb, growing darker and darker. As if the surface of the orb was porous, a black fume began to leak from it, falling no lower than the point where the orb joined the staff. As more was expelled, the matter began to take the form of a gigantic spectral beast; an elongated cranium, scythe-like claws, no discernible body or legs, eyes the same shade of purple as the runes on the staff and glowing. As the militant populace of Falador watched, the beast detached itself from its birthplace and rose into the air, hovering expectantly as if awaiting a command. The necromancer issued one.
"Kill him."
With a shriek more terrifying than any that had gone before, the beast swooped down upon the holy knight, shattering his shield, impaling him with its claws. It latched its vile mouth, lined with glittering rows of black fangs, onto the paladin's chest, directly into his heart. With the sound of flesh being rent at the seams, it dove into his body, and as the paladin uttered a last, gurgling scream, his soul was devoured by the Iban beast; his body reduced to dust, along with its destroyer; his armor clattered to the ground, empty; the necromancer gave a yell of triumph.
"Your foolish holy warrior has sealed the fate of your city! Shades, children of shadow, by the power given me by His Dark Majesty, consume the town! Let not a soul leave it alive!" And with this he vanished into the dark whirlpool from whence he came, which in turn folded itself away and dissipated, leaving behind the dead plants and animals it had covered. Almost immediately, the shadows of the Faladorian guard, cast by the bright full moon, sprang to life, figures of ghostly illusion and yet eerily solid. Their robes fell to the ground in folds as they rose, extending translucent, skeletal hands and reaching for their previous owners. One guard had the presence of mind to swing his sword at the shade; it merely passed through the apparition, breaking off at the hilt, frozen by the cold of the crypt. The shade reached through the guard's chest, clutching his heart in its icy grip; he died instantly as the blood turned to ice in his veins.
It was at this moment that Carla and Lars Langerans, who had stood still as stocks for the whole battle and the two enemies' speeches, regained the use of their muscles.
"Quick, Carla, pack a bag of provisions for each of us," Lars whispered. "We must escape the house; get down to the mines; seek sanctuary with the Dwarves. Wake Christoph as quietly as you can and bring him; I will be ready down stairs in arms. Take your bow and your arrows of runite; perhaps the magical qualities of the metal will have some effect on the undead. Here is the key to the store room-" he handed her a small, intricate key made of iron- "take whatever runes you can find, the talismans from the wall, the maps, the tools, and any food we can keep without fear of expiration. The gold is in the third chest from the west wall; bring all of it. When you are done, we will set off for the mine entrance just east of here."
"What of the creatures that thrive on darkness in the mines themselves and wait for unwary passers-through such as us? Surely we will fall prey to them, if not the shades?" Carla asked agitatedly.
"They have enough brains in their heads and enough instinct in their hearts to see our weapons and smell our determination. They will avoid us; as for the insect kings, we will do our best not to wake them."
"Very well, my love. We will meet at the door." Without another word she drew her mantle around her and made for the supply room. From the entry hall she heard Lars gathering anything he could fight with from the display cases on the walls. Bows and axes and swords; anything at all that would turn foes or otherwise protect them. He straightened, as if he had remembered something long-forgotten, and walked to the fireplace. Taking a deep breath and sticking his head up the chimney, over the smoldering logs, he pulled a rusted iron bolt and out of the fireplace fell a magnificent weapon. A blade, half his height and twice the weight of the heaviest axe he carried, made of the most precious runite from the distant, wild lands of the north, whence the necromancer and his legions came and where, in the past, many had sought to make their fortune. Inscribed just above the hilt on both sides was the Langerans family crest: the twin suns of Asgarnia, for the motherland; above a larger dragon with a sword and a yew branch in its claws, the sword for valor and the yew for wisdom; all against a cobalt blue background, for the family's royal heritage; trimmed with crimson, for the blood that bound the family with their ancestors and with their descendants, inside the shape of the protecting shield. Inscribed lengthwise on one side in the ancient, neglected runic script of the Far North, which only family elders could read, write or pass down to their kin, were the words 'By this blade be the bearer blessed and cursed- blessed with the protection of the ancients, cursed with the burden of those yet to come'. On the reverse side was inscribed 'So it was written by Nørdvik Langerans, chieftain and patriarch of the First Generation; so it shall be until the last Langerans falls'.
Lars removed the sword's scabbard from behind a chest of drawers and sheathed it, rushing as quietly as he could and yet with an air of silent urgency to leave the house and go where it was safe. The Langerans' first-born and only son, Christoph Karlsson (after his grandfather), was asleep against his mother's breast; the packs were ready; drawing his mithril mace and girding himself against the unholy, Lars gave the signal to his wife and they left the house.
Several minutes later came a deep, resounding bang on the underground entrance to the Dwarven mining guild.
"Please, anyone, open the door, we are beset by legions of the damned and seek sanctuary with the Dwarves of Falador," came a strong, urgent male voice.
"Oy! What lily-livered gnome's armpit seeks to keep Kilas Winterbeard from his slumber?" came the gruff, accented reply, one with heavy, rolling r's, from within.
"Lars and Carla Langerans, of the Langerans clan, longtime allies of the Dwarves and in dire need of aid."
"Bear ye anyone else?"
"None but our son, Christoph."
"A runt? What be the age?"
"He is barely a year old! Please, good Dwarf, open the door; we see already the shades approaching, though they have not detected our presence."
"Son of an anvil-dropper! Undead? Why didn't ye say so, damn it, man? Let me find the key and I'll grant ye yer sanctuary," Kilas Winterbeard replied. There was a significant degree of rustling and a sharp bang. The luminescent red eyes of the shades snapped towards the family.
"Damn it! Cursed elven-made snotling-spew darkness!"
"Hurry!" came Carla's tense, terrified scream-whisper.
"I'm doin' the best I can!" The Dwarf managed to wrench the door open by a minimal amount; Lars passed their packs through, and Carla made sure their son came to no harm.
"Take care of the boy for us, good Dwarf," she implored. Lars passed through the runite blade, and helped Carla to get through the door first.
"They are coming, my love. Where are the runes?" She handed him a number of small stones, all glowing in slightly different colors. He took them and pocketed them. He gathered himself up, focusing shortly.
"Now!" he called to the approaching shades. "By the gods! Blood within me, fire around me, air above me, let the damned be purged!" With 'purged' a wave of flame issued forth from Lars' outstretched arms, illuminating a great and terrible sight- too many shades to count, many more than the two they had assumed, floating downwards through the cave roof. The magical attack slowed them, and indeed some burned, but for every wraith felled, another sprang up in its place. With repeated, violent chants of "Mind to guide me! Air above me! Fire around me!" Lars burned still more, but as they came closer and closer he realized it was a battle he was going to lose. He drew the mithril axe from his back and prepared to sell his life dearly. Swinging it in a great arc, there came the crackle of opposed magics as the necromancy binding the shade to the physical plane was dispelled by the natural energies of the magical metal. Carla, by the grace of her barbarian ancestors, had more than reasonable skill with a bow and was loosing up to three, sometimes four arrows at once, again and again. As if they realized a suicidal charge was not going to win the fight, the shades began swirling around the two hapless Northerners. With each pass, each slash of their ethereal claws, Lars felt himself growing weak; blind, deaf and unable to defend himself against the onslaught of magical energy piled against him. In his final swooning seconds of consciousness, he heard the rumbling of Dwarven contraptions, the soft, earthy hum of Dwarven magic, the din of Dwarven warriors… a great light burst from the door of the mining guild. A shade, its eyes glowing a malicious crimson, gathered itself up and thrust its insubstantial body through Lars' chest as the world faded to black around him.
-----Yahh! Eat cannonball, elf-kissing sons of the grave!"
"Kilas! Behind you!"
"Aye, lad- raagh! By Mother Nature and Father Time! Begone, wretch!"
"They're retreating! Charge! Cut them down!"
"No, damn it! Get back, ye beardless fool of a Dwarf!"
"Are they gone?"
"Aye. Beaten 'em off, we have, lads! OY! 'Ave a round on ol' Kilas, now!"
"Oy, Winterbeard-"
"Aye?"
"The humans."
"They can join in too, if ye reckon they'd fancy a pint of Winterbeard Stout."
"They're dead, Kilas."
"…Damn. All three?"
"Nay, Kilas. The runt lives."
"...Bring 'im inside, get 'im some clothes. We can't let 'im freeze to death in the mines."