Forces Gathering

Sarah stood at the railing along the forecastle of the black ship, letting the wind blow through her unbound golden hair in a vain attempt to forget that she was well and truly trapped.

The sky was a vault of bright cerulean seeming to stretch forever, striated with only the faintest wisps of feathery clouds, the earth far below a carpet of emerald grasses as vast as the sky above it. Every now and then the princess spotted the patchwork fields of farms or orchards below, or the occasional clump of buildings to denote a town or village. She was too high up to see people, however.

Sarah turned away from the forecastle, standing upon the deck to see it stretch back quite a ways toward the large cabin in the stern. The black ship was a galleon, the largest class of air vessel, harboring four masts with broad black sails and two sets of large canvas-covered wings extending from the sides of the vessel amidships. It was all dark wood, its hull sheathed in black metal worked along the front and sides in the imitation of a great dragon. Indeed, the figurehead upon the prow of the vessel was worked in the likeness of a ferocious many-headed creature. It was the Duchess Tiam's personal transport vessel.

Despite its size, this was the fastest airship the princess had ever ridden on. Usually size and speed were inversely proportional for airships, but this vessel was not like any other, not with its mistress aboard. Sarah knew why now.

All about the deck, the crew moved and worked in utter silence. They were barefoot, blank-faced men with the most hauntingly empty eyes she had ever seen. She had read tales of undead and knew these men were not such, but they were surprisingly close to what she thought a living person could be to dead. What they really were, were slaves to their mistress's will.

The princess wore a green samite dress today worked heavily in thread-of-silver with an elaborate velvet cloak lined in ermine, to stave off the cold winds whipping across the deck. The crew worked around her mechanically as she moved, and she tried not to look at them. A sad thing, but she could do nothing for these poor sailors now. She came down to the main deck and walked past two great masts toward her captors.

As always, the Lady General Mari was clad in her scarlet armor, striding back and forth impatiently, her scarlet eyes focused on the deck below her boots, gauntleted hands gripping the bejeweled hilts of her falchions.

Marilith, the princess knew now, the Fiend of Fire. They had not bothered to keep their secrets from her once in the skies. They would have her do her duty to wrench the army from Garland, and then they would dispose of her, and blame it on Garland. It was most likely a plot to increase her father's hatred toward the former knight in an effort to control the king, while at the same time finding something more to threaten Garland with in order to bring him back into line.

Like her father, Garland had been a good and honorable man once. Sarah knew now that their change was the Fiends' doing. And the legendary Crystals were dying, their power subverted under the Fiends' will. It was destroying them slowly but surely... and the entire world with them.

The Duchess Vival Tiam was as nearly as tall as General Mari, but where the cobra-clad warrior was fully armored, Lady Tiam wore only a pale yellow dress that was nearly diaphanous, hiding little of her voluptuous body beneath. As the Fiend of Wind, Tiamat certainly wasn't bothered by the cool winds whipping over the deck of her vessel, but her flaunting herself disgusted Sarah.

Yet what could she do? Sarah had no choice but to take back the army from Garland if she wanted any chance of saving her country from invasion by the Dragon Empire. Over the last year, Sarah had been used as an emissary in talks discussing land rights between Kingdom and Empire. Sarah had known from the start that these talks had been nothing but pretense, and she suspected the Dragon emissaries had known as well. A war was brewing, and it had been her father's plot, not the Empire's.

The princess had still not learned all the Fiend's plans, though they spoke freely before her now. It seemed to her, however, that whatever their personal ends, what they wanted in the interim was war and strife...

Chaos.

Yet as Sarah watched Tiamat lounge and Marilith pace, the princess had hope. If this was indeed the Time of Prophecy, then there were other forces gathering besides those of darkness and strife.

Though it had been years, Sarah remembered the text in the old tome clearly:

Four youths they would be...

Unknown to most, they would come...

Each bearing an orb...

Yellow, Red, Blue, Green...

They shall ascend with the Dawn...

Darkness fleeing at their advance...

...Warriors of Light

If there was fear, there was courage. If there were lies, there was truth. If there was evil, there was good. If there was darkness, there was light.

All this Sarah had read in the Prophecy of Lukahn, one of the first sages, the first person ever to try and make a complete record of the broken history of the world, and his insight had been prophetic. He had lived three hundred years ago, and it was rumored by some who studied such things that there was a conclave somewhere in the world where the descendants of his closest disciples kept the old knowledge complete.

"Would you please stop with the ceaseless pacing, Marilith," Tiamat said airily, "You are making me tired just watching you."

The Lady General whirled about, her red eyes glaring. "Damn you, you brainless nit, can you not get us there faster? This is taking too long!"

Tiamat laughed gaily at the insult, waving away the other's concern. "My, always so uptight, aren't we little serpent. We are moving with all possible speed, I assure you." She idly swirled the wine about in her glass.

Marilith clenched the hilts of her sheathed blades even tighter, but said nothing, whirling away to stalk past the princess without so much as a glance in her direction.

Tiamat deigned to notice Sarah then, her sapphire eyes glittering with amusement. "Ah, there you are, Princess. Do not let Marilith's tantrums bother you; they are as frequent as they are pointless. How are you taking the journey so far? If you are hungry you can dine in the cabin if you wish. I was thinking of a light repast myself."

Sarah kept her face neutral. "You and Marilith do not get along well," she observed evenly.

The woman laughed again, like the tinkling of bells. She shifted to her side, her long blond hair wrapped about her nearly to her feet. "Do you think to cause dissension among us? My advice is to not waste your time. There is already plenty to go around. We are not, nor have we ever been friends, but allies of necessity. We will not turn on each other because we cannot. As much as I hate to admit it, our fates are tied together. Are you certain you're not hungry? I am all but famished myself." She gave a smile that was decidedly predatory.

Without a word, the princess lifted her chin, not bothering to cool the scathing look in her eyes. She then turned and strode away to the mocking laughter of Tiamat.

Forces were gathering, that much Sarah could sense. It was all coming to a head quickly. A new month was drawing near, the spring ripening. Sarah could not say what was coming, but she somehow knew that it would be profound.

IIIIIIIIII

The Point of Phemnal was a broad rise in the land just below the Pass of Jenharl between a small cluster of mountains to the north that made up the isthmus between the northern and middle continents. South of the Point spread the northern frontier lands of Highland Kingdom, while beyond the pass to the north was the southern most border of the Dragon Empire.

The Point was fortified now, with palisades and wooden walls erected, wreathing the hillside in a protective barrier. Inside, clusters of hide tents for the berserkers and warriors of the Red Axe Tribe surrounded the neat rows of gray tents that marked the grounds of the Imperial Forces, consisting of armored halberdiers and archers. These in turn surrounded the tall peaked pavilions of the Dragon's elite Lancers, centered in the camp on the highest point of the rise.

The Dragonfang, Crown Prince of the Empire, son of the Wind Empress, sat troubled upon a high-backed chair. Before him within the grand pavilion was a large oval table inlaid with lapis lazuli along its edges. Maps of the surrounding countryside covered the top of the table along with sheaves of reports that had come in from imperial scouts.

It was true. Highland's army had abandoned the Point and headed east after utter victory over the Red Axe forces that had come to hold Phemnal while the rest of the Dragon Army was still moving down the pass. An army always took a long time to move with its footman and supply trains, and the Dragonfang had arrived to find the graves of the fallen berserkers that had sworn to the Empire's cause. The Red Axe tribesmen were ferocious in battle, but these had all fallen, taking very few enemy pikemen with them and not a single one of Highland's Royal Knights.

Imperial spies and scouts had reported as much. The full strength of Highland was now camped two days away to the east. The Dragonfang put a dark-armored hand to his helmed head, wondering exactly what it was that Highland's general was up to. He leaned forward in his chair tapping an armored finger atop a map with a depiction of the Point of Phemnal, where his forces currently resided. He then slid his finger to the right three inches, stopping it near the chess piece of a knight.

What game was this Garland playing? The Dragonfang could march his imperial forces south, right through Highland's border, and a comparably sized force two days east would not be able to stop him from doing so.

Of course, the Dragonfang could not go forward, not until he knew his enemy's intention. If he left he Point with all of his forces, Garland could take his army north through the pass and invade the Empire with impunity. Either that, or he could simply follow the Dragon Army south and flank it while it marched toward Cornelia.

Amongst Garland's forces, there were imperial spies, but the man did not let his true intentions be known to anyone, at least not anyone that the spies could ferret out. And then there were the ruins themselves. Upon the map, under the chess piece, it was marked dually as the Temple of Fiends and the Chaos Shrine. Amongst the Empire virtually nothing was known of these ruins. It was said that long ago, when the world was much different, these ruins had been a vast temple-city where droves of zealots worshipped some dire evil and made sacrifices in its name. This dark force had been destroyed, however, though not the wisest scholar in the Empire knew how or why. Dragon spies in Cornelia itself had so far been unable to discover many of Highland's oldest legends, due to the fact they they were kept under lock and key in Cornelia's famed White Temple. The 'white mages' there were apparently incorruptible, much to his spymaster's frustration.

Imperative in the art of war was to know your enemy, and there was still too much mystery shrouding the intentions of Highland. The Dragonfang shook his head irately. It seemed as if Garland was daring the man to come to him, daring the Imperial Forces to advance into the unknown. If at all possible, let the enemy come to you, to your chosen ground. That the Dragonfang would have to go east to meet the Knight-General did not sit well with him, and Garland was no paltry foe, he had proven that already. The Dragonfang could not simply ignore him, and Garland had no reason to come to him, since it was apparent that by leaving the Point, Garland would allow the Dragon Army into Highland.

Giving a weary sigh, the Dragonfang stood in his dark dragon armor, heavily stylized full-plate enameled black. The helm was its most prominent feature. Ornamental ribbed wings flowed back from each side of the helm, and the visor was worked intricately to replicate the face and snout of a dragon. Eye slits allowed the man's dark eyes to peer out, wide enough not to hamper his vision. Only his lower face was visible, as he took up his long-bladed spear to the side.

Afterward, he left the pavilion, ready to confer with his officers and the Red Axe tribal leaders about the dispositions of their forces. Before the day was through he would also have to send a flyer on wyvern-back north to Ember Peak, the Empire's capital city, with a report for his mother. The Empress had to be updated frequently on the state of the army.

Doubts bubbled up in his mind, but the man quelled them with a short prayer to the Empire's patron deity. "Lord of the Skies, Bahamut, I beseech you! Lend me strength this hour."

And he went; spear in hand, moving through the narrow paths of the camp between tents and cook fires. Men saluted him with arms crossed before chests as he passed. He gave acknowledging nods in return before he came to a clear patch of ground between tents. Another similar was located a half-mile down amongst the Red Axe tents, and it was close-by there that the conference would be held in one of the tribal lodges.

Fixing the direction, the Dragonfang focused quickly before suddenly running several steps and leaping. He went into a high soaring jump, his armor light as a feather as the winds whipped about. Those strong enough to complete the grueling training of a dragoon were granted the Blessing of Bahamut, which allowed them to soar. Very few could handle such training, which made the Empire's Lancers a small but powerful unit and the core of the Empire's armed forces.

In no time at all, the Dragonfang scythed down through the air to land in a crouch. A ring of officers bowed when he stood; his lieutenant and the captains of the halberdiers and archers. The Red Axe clan leaders were present as well, large men and women clad in the furs and hides of the deadly creatures that stalked their mountain homes. Their nods were not quite bows, they were a proud people after all, and they would seek the blood of those who had killed their kindred.

The Dragonfang still wondered at Garland's true purpose when he was flanked by his officers and led into the great lodge.

IIIIIIIIII

It was so peaceful here.

There was a gentle music coming from everywhere and nowhere, a beautiful melody yet tinged with sadness. Deep within him, he felt a loss he had never known while listening to it.

The throne room within the temple was beautiful here where it was only a ruin without. He did not understand it entirely, except in knowing that the barriers of time were weaker inside...

Here, in this lost place.

If it was lost, then so was he, but there was a kind of peace here, and he tried to embrace it.

He looked about. It was a vast square chamber with walls seemingly carved of smooth milky stone. The floor was made of tiles like glass that glittered like crystal. Four massive pearlescent stone fountains gurgled at each corner of the chamber and the vaulted ceiling overhead was inlaid with designs wrought from a thousand different precious gems. Fluted columns lined the walls between the fountains, floor to ceiling, with niches between each one where hovered a small shard of silver crystal, each seeming to chime as it slowly rotated.

How could such a beautiful place be called a lair of fiends?

Traces of the ancient memories that he had forgotten came to him more frequently here, though they were still so muddled that he could discern little more than fleeting impressions. As before, that unfathomable light ended all of them, causing the man to clench his jaw bitterly.

"They will come," he reassured himself. "They will come, and I will finish it."

At the northern wall of the room a crystalline dais rose up from the floor topped by a massive stylized throne of black and scarlet. Wicked and serrated, it was twenty feet tall and worked in designs of web-work like the black strands of some monstrous spider. It was certainly at odds with the serene beauty of the rest of the chamber...

But then again, so was Garland himself.

He had always been a large man, but was now larger, armored head to toe in elaborate black armor that had somehow grown more wicked. He no longer wore the surcoat of the Royal Knights; having torn it away in a fit of rage after the impressions had left him one time. His cape was still royal blue, yet strange patterns had woven themselves in, stark web-work in black thread. The horns that sprouted straight out from either side of his helm had grown longer. Still, able to see his reflection in the very floor beneath his feet, Garland had noticed his eyes through the wicked eye slits in the visor of his helm. His eyes glowed brightly scarlet now and flickered as if a crackling flame lay behind them.

He was growing closer to what he had once been so long ago. That was perhaps the reason for his changes. Indeed, he felt no need to eat or sleep any longer, nor any inclination to remove his armor. It seemed apart of him now. He was at best barely human, everything except his mind... and that was going as well.

His army did not dare to come into this place. They stayed camped outside after what had happened to the first few men that had come to inform Garland that the camp was set. Three of those men still stood in the center of the chamber, utterly petrified, their stone forms beginning to crumble into dust.

It had not been Garland's wish for this to happen at the time, and he had somehow managed to free one of them from the Break. By his will, the last knight had twisted out of the spell and scrambled in silent horror back out into the world outside. Word had gotten around, as well as the description of Garland himself, now changed. The army had not fled, however, much to Garland's surprise and he had left the temple to confer with his officers several times. He no longer felt the need to do so any longer.

Whatever twisted power kept normal humans from entering the temple was also twisting Garland. He had feared it at first, but now felt little need to even stir from his throne. He would stir, however, a few more times anyway.

"They will come," he reassured himself. "They will come and I will finish it." Had he said that before? He couldn't be certain.

He suddenly gripped the armrests of his throne with his armored claws when the impressions came again. He knew they were coming and steeled himself, but this time was nothing like before and agony surged through his head as a montage of madness blasted him.

Outside, the army huddled in fear as they heard an unholy roar sound from within the temple. Still, they could not flee... something was holding them here, something they could not resist.

Garland found himself on the floor before his throne, staring at his reflection, unaware that he was gibbering to himself. He stopped, however, as he gained his feet, his glowing eyes no longer flickering, but solid red orbs blazing through the visor of his helm.

He laughed suddenly, a bitter maniacal uproar. Afterward, quite calmly, he gripped the hilt of his enormous black sword. Its ebon surface seemed to swallow normal light and it was wreathed in tendrils of darkly red luminescence.

"They will come!" he roared in triumph, "And I will knock them all down!"