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Epilogue

Epilogue

Summer 965 MC

L

ord Creighton, Earl of Riverhurst, stared out across the uncharacteristically still waters of the Windstorm Depths. "Incredible, isn't it?"

His aide, Camden, strained to see what had captivated his master. "My lord?"

"This lake," explained the earl.

Camden scratched his head. The earl could be fickle at times, and the aide had to wonder if the young noble wasn't touched in some way by the Gods. "If you say so, my lord."

Creighton sighed, turning to face his companion. "You are my aide, not a servant. As such, I expect you to have opinions."

"Certainly, sir. What opinion would you like me to have?"

"Never mind." The earl turned from the lake and began walking back towards the camp. The army of Riverhurst had marched, and now, almost a month later, they waited on the shores of the Windstorm Depths for the arrival of King Leofric.

"Where can they be?" he wondered aloud.

"Surely they must be on the way by now, my lord."

"One would certainly think so. Have we no word at all?"

"None, my lord."

Creighton winced. Young Camden was forever using the proper etiquette of court, but his constant use of the phrase 'my lord' drove the earl to distraction. "Send more horsemen north," he commanded. "Let's see if they can find any sign of him."

"Yes, my lord." The young man ran off, eager to be of service.

The earl wandered through the camp. Most of his soldiers were young, untested in battle, yet he possessed a small cadre of older, experienced veterans. His father had always instilled in him a desire for peace, yet at the same time had insisted on a sizable army. 'Peace comes at the end of a spear,' he would say, something Creighton had taken to heart.

Pausing by a fire, he warmed his hands against the early morning chill. It was often cold in the windswept area of the northern reaches, something he had no desire to become accustomed to. No doubt his wife would be snuggled up in her furs back in Riverhurst. The thought brought a smile to his lips, then he was suddenly struck by a sense of dread as if he might never see her again. His hands went to the symbol of Saxnor that hung from his neck. He knew it was nothing but superstition, and yet he couldn't quite shake it.

"Sir?"

He turned to see a rider coming towards him. The man halted, then bowed his head. "Message from the scouts, my lord. They've spotted movement to the northwest."

"The Weldwyn army?"

"It looks like it. We'll know more once they draw nearer."

"Fetch my horse. I would see them for myself."

The man bowed once more. "Aye, my lord." He turned, galloping off to do his master's bidding.

Creighton clapped his hands, then rubbed them together, desperate to warm them up. "At last!" he said. "Now we can get on with the business of ending this war."

Camden soon appeared, trailing the earl's horse behind his own. "Your mount, my lord."

The earl pulled himself into the saddle.

"Do you wish an escort, my lord? I can rouse a complement of cavalry if you wish?"

"I hardly think that necessary, do you? King Leofric is not one to stand on ceremony." He urged his horse forward at a trot, keeping his aide to his left.

"How shall we welcome him, my lord? A feast, perhaps?"

"That will largely depend on the condition of his army."

"I'm not sure I understand what you mean, my lord."

"The army of Weldwyn has likely been marching for many days. I expect they'll be tired, and Leofric will likely wish to rest a day or two before continuing on, in which case a feast would be appropriate. Of course, he may also wish to march immediately, in which case we cannot brook further delay."

Camden still looked confused.

"It means," added the earl, "we must ask the king his wishes in this regard."

"Ah, I see, my lord."

They passed the northernmost sentries, then turned west, following a natural trail.

"Over there, my lord," said Camden, pointing. "Our scouts."

Creighton shifted his gaze. Three horsemen stood upon a promontory, staring north. He and his aide rode up to them, acknowledging their presence as they reached the spot. "Sergeant Egbert, isn't it?"

The lead scout smiled, pleased to be recognized by his master. "It is, my lord."

"Where are they?"

Egbert pointed. "There, Lord. You can see their banners."

Off in the distance was a large mass of men and horses, kicking up dust as they made their way across the plain. Above them flew the flags of Weldwyn in all their glory.

"Magnificent, isn't it," said Creighton.

"They are moving quickly, my lord," said the scout, "but they are still in formation."

"A testament to their discipline. It bodes well."

"How so?"

"Had they suffered a defeat, they would not be so well organized."

The sergeant frowned. His Lordship liked to think of himself as a skilled tactician, but he lacked his father's experience. Did the man seriously believe the way an army marched revealed such details?

"Come," said the earl, "let us ride out and greet them." He spurred on his horse, not waiting for a reply as he left the rest to play catch-up.

They rode down from the promontory, then trotted across the plain, the distant flags drawing nearer. A low sound began drifting their way, and Creighton halted, trying to ascertain from whence it came.

"What is that?" he asked.

"I have no idea," said Egbert.

"It sounds like someone wailing, my lord," offered Camden. "As one does when they've lost a loved one."

"No," said the earl, "it's more than that. It's as if an entire village was in mourning."

The noise intensified.

"It's coming from them." Egbert pointed at Leofric's army.

"Don't be ridiculous," said the earl. "Why in Saxnor's name would they be wailing?"

Camden's face paled. "Those horses, my lord, they're…" His voice trailed off.

Lord Creighton shifted his gaze, his eyes falling upon the mounts of the cavalry. His eyes widened as he beheld the sight, for the horses were covered in flayed flesh, revealing the bones below. Worse yet, the riders were naught but ghostly shadows of their former selves. Above them flew the battered and burned flags of Weldwyn.

"Saxnor, save us!" shouted Creighton. He tried to turn his horse around, eager to be on his way, but the cursed beast was fearful and refused his commands. All he could do was watch in horror as the unholy army drew nearer.

At its head rode King Leofric, his image twisted by the dark magic holding him in bondage. Half his face was missing, revealing the skull beneath, and yet superimposed over this terrifying sight was the ghostly image of the man he was in life.

The spirit king came closer, drawing his sword as he approached Lord Creighton. Behind him, the wailing increased until it was all the earl could hear. Try as he might, the Norland lord could not find the courage to draw his sword.

The spirit of the Weldwyn king, however, had no such trouble. Raising his sword on high, its blue blade caught the early morning sun as he brought it down upon Creighton's head.

Robed figures moved amongst the dead, examining the bodies. Every so often, one would stop, arms would extend, and words of power would be spoken, drawing the spirits forth to be bound for all eternity to their new masters. Penelope watched as her minions wandered the field.

"It's a rich harvest," observed Margaret, "and our numbers swell."

"Indeed. Our Shadow Army grows with every victory."

"Queen Kythelia?”

Penelope turned to greet the new visitor. "Ilarian? What is it?"

The sorcerer bowed. "With the greatest respect, my queen, we have reached our limit. Our agents can bind no more souls this day."

She looked over the field once more, a smile creeping to her lips. "A situation easily remedied." She turned to Margaret. "Come, I shall show you."

Off they went, trotting through the dead to where the Spirit Army stood ready. All eyes were on her as she passed through the army that never slept. She rode up to the spirit of Leofric, halting right before him. "This, as you know, is King Leofric. At present, he is but a spirit, bent to my will by the spell of binding, but I shall now make him more powerful, a creature of darkness able to control followers of his own."

"How is that possible?" asked Margaret.

"Blood Magic," said Penelope. "Nothing is impossible with such power." Her eyes wandered, picking out one of her lesser Necromancers. "Sildan," she called out, "come here. Your queen would have use of you."

The Elf came nearer, throwing back his hood and bowing respectfully. "I am here, Your Greatness. How may I serve?"

In answer, Penelope began mouthing words of power, manifesting dark, wispy shapes that circling around her at an ever-increasing speed. Her eyes pulsed with a dull purple light, and then she pointed at Sildan with her left hand. Almost immediately, the Elf crumpled as if a great force had pulled all the fat and muscles from his bones. The air turned foul as she pointed her other hand at King Leofric. A dark shadow rose from the dead Elf to fly through the air, sinking into the former King of Weldwyn. A terrible screeching sound burst from his mouth, and then his entire image changed.

Where once stood the spirit of King Leofric, there now was the fearsome sight of an undead overlord, a creature of such malevolence that Penelope backed up. Leofric's features were still evident, but now the eyes were pitch black, swallowing up light like some foul creature born of nightmares. It shifted its gaze to Margaret, but she stood her ground.

"What is that?" the former princess of Merceria asked.

"It is a dark spirit," explained her mentor. "Summoned to us from the Underworld. Do not worry, it's bound to me as surely as any here. As it possesses the spirit of Leofric, it can draw on all his vast knowledge and experience. Think of it as a spiritual leech, but instead of living off blood, it feeds on spiritual energy."

"And this overlord can control spirits?"

"Oh, it can do far more than that. It is intelligent. Say hello to the general of my Shadow Army."

<<<<>>>>

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