Into the Darkness

Before the fates conspired to bring about the destruction of the great Darkstone, before destiny began weaving it's intricate web; there were other stories, other tales. In a time rife with them, this is but one.

For the proud people of Moram, war was everything. The glorious campaigns, the battles, they were meat and drink to the powerful warrior nation. Year after year, since time immemorial, the Moramians had ridden into battle against those who opposed them. The hills, the forests, the plains; all were drenched in the blood of a thousand enemies, and the loss of life was but a small price to pay for the glory and the honour.

In the capital city, flags and banners fluttered from the battlemented walls of the Royal Palace, as the army prepared, once more, to ride to war. Proud members of the Night Guard rode through the streets to the sounds of trumpets, blaring out in their honour. The Royal Elite Regiment brought up the rear, their uniforms and buckles seeming to shine in the bright sunlight. Cavalry flanked the army on either side, riding through the streets with a haughty arrogance that only brought more cheers from the close packed crowd.

At the head of the great force was General Gor Tumlack, a powerful, stern-faced man, who ignored the excited crowds and rode through the noise as though he was out for an evening stroll. He looked neither left nor right, but kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, on the gates of the city. His calm, assured confidence brought courage to the fresh recruits who were riding behind him, and they became caught up in the excitement and energy that was building in the streets. For many of them, this was their first campaign, and a touch of fear caressed their beating hearts. But they were also proud to be fighting for the greatest nation in the world, and they ignored the fear, concentrating instead on the honour they would receive when they rode back victorious.

For Gor, he barely noticed the noise and the hubbub around him. He had done this many times in the past and it was nothing new. He was thinking ahead, to the battle, and his outwardly calm appearance was nothing more than a mask to hide his true feelings. For the Moram were riding to do battle with the one force that they had yet to defeat in the field of combat, and Gor experienced fear for the first time in his life.

Ahead of him, the gates of the city swung slowly open amid the rising cheers of the crowd. He led the column out through the gleaming golden portal and for a brief moment, fought to keep back the panic, which surged through his veins. He had to remain calm, or everything was lost. He was the guiding force for the army, the symbol that held together the crumbling ruins of the ancient civilisation. For if truth be known, the Moram nation was dying. Its one remaining glimmer of hope was conquest, and it clung to that that tiny flicker with tenacity and vigour.

At last the army was clear of the city and Gor led his column up a rise, cresting the hill with guarded apprehension. What he saw spread fresh lances of fear through his chest. On the plains below him, were the swarming hordes of the enemy, milling about like ants. There were thousands, covering the landscape as far as he could see like a vast sea of black. Tattered banners and flags rippled in the air, but the sigils written upon them were foreign and alien to the General.

As his force spread out across the hill, a roar of hatred thundered from the masses below, and weapons were raised into the air forcefully. Gor cringed inwardly and wished he were anywhere else but here. The terror and fear were almost overwhelming to the General, but he crushed them, concentrating on his hatred and anger.

Trumpets and horns rang out from the horde below and the jumbled mass began to form into a semblance of order. Columns began to emerge from the chaos, and Gor realised that they were preparing to attack. He knew that if that were to happen, his own army would be crushed. Despite the fact that they had the advantage of the hill, the sheer weight of numbers would be enough to almost destroy the Moramian army. Raising his arms he looked along the neat rows of his men and watched the proud faces of his commanders. There was no sign of fear or uncertainty on any of them, and he felt shamed at his own terror.

At once, the disciplined Moramian forces roared the age-old war cry and propelled their steeds forward, riding down the hillside like rolling thunder. Gor felt the giddy excitement of battle overcame him and he cried out loudly, instilling fresh courage into the hearts of his men. As he raised his sword, his column hit the Karim with all the force of a tidal wave, and the battle began.

Gor rode in the vanguard, his sword slicing through the air, the sun glinting off the gleaming metal. All thoughts of fear were gone from his mind now, and he could think only of the combat. Battle rage dimmed his vision, and as he engaged the first of the enemy, he was barely conscious of what he was doing. His blade arced down, slicing through flesh and bone in a deep red spray of blood. Crimson droplets flecked his uniform and armour, but he did not notice. He slashed out in a frenzy of wild abandon, feeling his sword cut deep with each stroke.

He became aware of a rider boring down on him to his left. He thrust his sword forward, impaling the man he was fighting upon the point, then swivelled his horse around, parrying the downward blow with his shield. The metal jarred painfully against his arm, but he hardly noticed. He kicked out with his foot, catching the inexperienced Korim fighter in the face. The man screamed and tumbled to the ground, blood spouting from his ruptured nose like a geyser. Almost immediately, another man thundered in, a blade whirling madly around his head. Gor cackled in glee and slashed the man deeply across the chest. The horse reared backwards and the man crashed to the ground, his lifeblood staining the earth a deep crimson.

Chaos reigned all around the General. The Moramians were hemmed in, surrounded by the overwhelming numbers of the Korim fighters. Screams and cries of agony pierced the air, accompanied by the tumultuous clanging and banging of sword on shield. Bodies fell to the ground in droves but were replaced almost immediately by others, all willing and eager to taste the sweet nectar of war.

For over an hour the battle raged, neither side willing to give any quarter. Bodies were thick on the ground and bloody gore stained the rocks and earth. The stench of death was thick and cloying, invading the senses like a noxious gas.

Gor and his faithful fought like madmen, cutting down their enemies faster than they could attack. A ring of corpses surrounded the General, but signs of weariness were beginning to appear, and the Korim sensed victory close at hand. He could feel the fear creeping back into his mind but he thrust it away angrily, refusing to give in to it, even now. The battle was lost, he could see that, but his pride and arrogance refused to allow him the dignity of surrender. Instead he battled onwards, his leaden arms feeling like they were about to fall from his body.

One of his commanders staggered in from the right and saluted. "It is over General Gor. You must order the retreat."

Gor glared at him in anger. "Retreat? We will never retreat. Moram will be victorious, or it will fall in the attempt. And you, traitor! I will see you hanged when we return!"

The commander shook his head in pity. "You are insane General. We cannot win. I am going to order a retreat." He swung his horse back into the field of battle before Gor could stop him and was gone, swallowed up by the fighting.

Gor cursed and slammed a fist into the nearest Karim. He followed it up with a wide stroke from his sword then wheeled his horse around, his eyes searching intently for the commander. He could see nothing in the wild chaos all around him and he gritted his teeth in frustration. A few seconds later a deep, braying horn call pierced the clamour and the disciplined Moramian forces reacted instantly, disengaging their enemies and fleeing back up the rise. The Karim army cheered raggedly, waving their swords in the air.

Gor spat. "Cowards!" he screamed, glaring at the retreating backs of his men. He was about to follow them when something heavy struck him from behind. His vision swam for a few painful seconds, then blessed darkness took him and he fell to the ground with a crash.

Gor awoke with the foul stench of decaying flesh pervading his nostrils. Flies and other winged insects, none of them particularly friendly, swarmed around his head and around the bodies that were heaped on the ground about him. The General felt bile rising in his throat and he fought to keep it down, fearing that the act of vomiting would render him unconscious once more.

He battled to gain his feet, staggering weakly as he stood, and remained on the spot for long moments. His head ached as though a thousand dwarven hammers had been pounding on his skull, and when he reached back to feel the base of it, his hand came away sticky with blood. In addition, his arm and leg muscles felt stiff and he spent several minutes flexing the feeling back into them. It was a painful task, and when he was done, he felt almost worse than he had before. But he could feel his limbs now, and he knew that the pain would fade eventually.

At length he took stock of his surroundings and at last understood the futility of war. The battlefield was a chaotic jumble of bodies. Some of them had been butchered gruesomely, while others appeared only to be sleeping, their faces free of the lines of worry and care. The carrion birds were already feasting on the remains, their sharp beaks dragging free long red strips of meat from the corpses. Gor felt sickened and turned away.

Of the two armies, there was no sight. His men must surely be back in the city now, nursing their wounds. The Korim were most likely celebrating their victory, telling tales of the cowardice of the Moram nation, and of the great battle in which they had routed the weakling army of Gor Tumlack.

The General gritted his teeth in anger. He could visualise the scene in his mind, the leaders of the Korim sitting in their halls, feasting and drinking, and laughing as they remembered the fleeing backs of their enemies. The most charismatic of them would stand, and act out the scene, making a mockery of the glorious warrior nation, telling lies about their defeat on the plains. Those listening and watching would laugh in genuine glee, relishing in their triumph.

It was too much, and Gor howled his anger and frustration to the skies. He lifted his sword high above his head, and swung it a mighty arc, around and around. He felt dizzy and close to fainting but he ignored the sensation. His rage knew no bounds, and with the last reserves of strength in his body, he flung the sword into the air. He watched it spin and twirl, catching the gleaming rays of light from the sun. And then as it returned to the ground, its tip penetrating the hard earth, he collapsed into a heap.

It was some hours later and close to dark when he finally awoke again. Most of the pain had fled his body and Gor felt much better. He climbed to his feet and spent a few minutes searching for his sword. He found it where it had fallen, the hilt sticking up into the air. He pulled it free and carefully wiped the blade clean before returning it to its scabbard. His shield he discarded as useless. The metal was twisted and bent from the long battle, and it would be little use now.

At last he turned to the east, looking across the plains towards the mountains. For months, the Korim had been bottled up in the passes and crags of those mountains, defending their great city like a dog over a scrap of meat. The Moram had pushed them further and further north, until their holdings had been reduced to a small section of the Pardors, and the plains. The Moram had gloated, laughing over their victories, secure in the knowledge that soon, another pitiful nation would fall to their might.

But their confidence had been misplaced. The Korim rout had been a deception, and as Gor had led his men for the final assault into the mountains, they had swept down like an avalanche, breaking the Moram forces as easily as an Ogre breaks a twig. That had been the first defeat, but it had been followed by many more, the worst of which was today's. Now it was a major task for the Moram to simply keep what land they had gained in their first push.

Gor gritted his teeth. If the Moram were beaten in this war it would be the beginning of the end. The nation was collapsing upon itself, under the weight of an age of conquest. The pressure of keeping its people fed and its lands tended was too much. They would fall, and the fall would be great enough to bring all the scavengers on the continent flocking to greedily pick up the pieces. The General was determined that that would not happen.

He adjusted his sword and started walking. East, to the fabled city of Korim, the beloved of the Gods. The place where even now, the Darkstone lay in its cradle. The prize would return the Moram to their rightful place, as rulers of this land.

Korim, a city of beauty, beloved of the Gods and held in reverence by the people of the continent.

To Gor it was a place of disgust, to be looked upon as a man looks upon a cockroach, and to be treated in the same fashion. For too long the Korim people had sat in their halls of marble, secure in their arrogance and their belief that they were the chosen people, blessed by the Immortals. The General knew it was time to change all that. The Darkstone belonged in the hands of a nation capable of keeping it safe, a nation who would draw power from the stone and use it to further the glory of the rightful rulers. It belonged with the Moram.

As he approached the great city, he slowed his step to a near crawl. It was a huge place, with high, thick walls capable of holding an army at bay for months. The gates were graceful arches of gold, but to Gor they were ugly, as was anything that could not be crushed or moulded to fit his needs. Gleaming spires and towers could be seen rising up beyond the walls, their glittering peaks almost touching the skies as though trying to rival the Gods themselves. Guards patrolled the battlements, but they were few. Gor smiled to himself.

He crept forward, using the cover of the rocks and bushes that littered the ground. He was silent, barely more than a dark shadow against the blackness of the night; and he was patient, sometimes not moving for as long as twenty minutes as he surveyed his surroundings. Gradually he grew closer, and the guards had not so much as looked in his direction. Fools!

A sudden noise to his left caused him to stiffen in alarm. Slowly, he turned his head and peered into a patch of undergrowth nearby. He could see nothing in the darkness, and he silently cursed the night. Again the noise came, but this time it was followed by the appearance of a dark, cloaked figure, who stepped from the bushes and came to a stop no more than a foot from the General's hiding place.

Gor gaped in shock and surprise for a precious few moments, then fumbled for his sword. A hissing laugh came from the figure and then it spoke; a voice that sounded like it came from the deepest, darkest pits of the void. "Relax General Gor, I am a friend."

Gor kept his hand on the hilt of his sword and peered at the dark shape intently, trying to see its face, or at least a scrap of bare flesh. There was nothing. The figure was shrouded in its entirety, a dark hood covering its head and a black mask hiding its face.

The cloaked figure hissed its laughter once again. "It is said that friendship comes in strange forms, and in stranger places. I am here to help General, whether you consider me a friend or not."

"Oh?" Gor could not see the face, but he could imagine the arched eyebrow and the amused expression. "Then how do you intend to get into the city? And what do you intend to do once you are in there?"

"How I accomplish my goals are not your concern," replied Gor. The entire situation was insane. He was here, at the very gates of the enemy, talking with a cloaked figure that spoke in riddles and laughed like the Dark Lord himself. He fumbled for his sword again, but this time the stranger waved a hand and muttered a series of incomprehensible words. Gor froze, his limbs immobile, his throat constricted and unable to utter a sound. In frustration he strained at the invisible bonds which held him, but to no avail.

The stranger shook its head. "This is not needed General. I came freely, to give my aid to your great nation. Whether you take it or not is not my concern. I cannot, however, allow you to draw your sword. Not that it would harm me, but it would be a most unwise move on your part for I would be forced to kill you. It is not something I want to do, but it would not be a matter of choice. You understand?"

Gor could do nothing but stare in futility. The stranger nodded. "I am glad we could reach an agreement General Gor. Now listen carefully. In a few moments, the guard will change, and you will have but a few seconds to slip into the city. I have unbarred the small gate on the side wall, which will allow you access. The gate is always checked on the changing of the watch, so it will be found and locked afterwards. You must make your way to the front gate and unbar it, to allow your army entrance."

The stranger looked at him with its head cocked as if waiting for something. Presently it raised a hand in mock stupidity. "Ah, my own idiocy will one day be my undoing." He waved his hand again and the General found he could move once again. He flexed his muscles experimentally.

"You will find everything in order General. Do you understand what I have told you this night?"

Gor nodded slowly. "I will do as you suggest. But, there is one thing that I do not understand."

The figure laughed again, and Gor felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. "Only one thing General?" it said, its voice mocking. "I would have thought there was much about this conversation that you would not understand. But ask away."

"My army is not here. What use will the open gate be if there are no fighting men here to make use of it?"

"They WILL be here General, they will be." The figure stirred and looked towards the gate. "It is time. The changing of the guard is about to begin. You have precious few seconds. Go now."

Gor hesitated. "There is one more thing. Tell me your name, so that we may praise you in our records."

Gor nodded and then was gone, slipping through the shadows and the darkness as silently as though he were a part of it. The last thing he heard, as he slipped through the gate, was the hissing, sibilant laughter, of Golan Loman.

Gor unbarred the gates silently, his heart beating with barely restrained excitement. The moment of truth had almost arrived. The moment when Moram, the greatest nation in the known world, would crush the pitiful Korim into oblivion, and gain the prize which would assure their place in history. He could see the great stone in his mind's eye, the colours swirling behind the depths of the many facets, chaos and order clashing in an eternal battle within the gleaming walls of the great prize. He forced his mind to concentrate on the task at hand, and inched the gates open.

The General need not have worried; the gates were in perfect condition, and they opened with less noise than a Katrin running over a thick rug. Soon he was finished, and Gor looked through the gates eagerly, his eyes searching for sight of his men. The darkness was thick and complete, and at first he could see nothing. He gritted his teeth, keeping his anger firmly at bay. The stranger had not lied about the side gate being unlocked, or about the changing of the guard, so there was no reason he would lie about this.

He struggled to remain calm and focused his eyes on the heavy brush, which lined the walls of the mountain pass. He could still see nothing, but a sudden thought struck him, and he cursed himself for a fool. He reached into the pouch at his waist and drew forth a small mirror. He angled it so that it directed light from within the city, and aimed the resulting beam into the bushes. Several breathless seconds passed, then Gor was rewarded with the sight of a second shaft of light, which struck the wall to his left. He smiled to himself and dropped back into the shadows.

He did not have long to wait. Within seconds, two of his men were in the city, and he could see others slipping across the narrow stretch of land to the gates. The idiot guards above were so confident of their position that they saw nothing. Gor doubted that they were even watching. He smiled grimly to himself, knowing that he would enjoy the destruction of the Korim nation. It was his destiny he realised. The task that he had been born to perform.

When he deemed that enough soldiers were within the gates, he issued a swift, whispered command, and beckoned five of his men to climb the stairs that led up to the walls. He allowed himself a cruel grin and watched as the fighters slipped up the stone stairway, silent as wraiths. Once at the top they disappeared out of sight, and Gor waited in breathless anticipation. He was rewarded a few seconds later with a smothered, gurgling cry from above, and the muffled thump of a body hitting the floor. It was repeated three more times in swift succession, and moments later, his men returned down the stairs, their leader nodding his affirmation.

The General turned to look out the gates. Over half his men were now within the city walls; more than enough to begin the assault. He signalled into the bushes for the remaining soldiers to move more quickly, then let his attention turn inwards, to Korim itself.

The city was built in layers, with each succession platform built higher up in the mountains. The result was a confused jumble of stairs, twisting streets, and arched bridges. Narrow, sloping roads led up, away from the gate. Gor followed their snaking route, letting his gaze travel along the winding streets and thoroughfares towards the gleaming palace he could see at the very top of the city. A silver, glistening spire rose up from the centre of the building, and Gor knew that that was where the Darkstone was kept.

His eyes lit up in greedy anticipation of the moment when he would hold the prize in his hands, his glory and honour complete. The strange twists and turns that fate had delivered upon him so far in his life, had been deliberate, guiding his destiny to this one act that would rise him to the status of living God among his people. They would praise his name for centuries to come, and he would live on in the memories of the Moram, as the saviour of a failing nation.

With a gleam in his eyes, the General led his men away from the gates and up into the city of Korim. He was balanced precariously on the edge of insanity. Each of his men knew it, but they were too afraid, and too hateful towards the Korim to do anything about it. They followed his lead without question.

And as the night deepened, General Gor grew closer to his destiny, and to the destiny of a world.

The shadowed army of Gor Tumlack moved silently through the slumbering city. Nothing stirred in the grim, dark streets, and the people slept peacefully behind their curtained windows. The General curled his lip in a contemptuous sneer, revolted by the misplaced confidence the Korim had in their puny city and insignificant army. In Moram, there was never peace. The guards watched their posts diligently, always on the lookout for the enemies of the empire. For as in the wilderness, there was always a bigger beast waiting to snatch up the mantle of dominance.

The gleaming walls of the palace grew closer, and Gor's heart beat faster. His men moved with all the stealth of experienced assassin and with the courage to match. The General was proud of them. Nowhere in the world could you find a better trained army, or one so loyal.

They reached the final platform, and a single, paved street wound up the hill to meet the gleaming silver gates of the palace. It was a short climb, but it was exposed and vulnerable to attack. Added to which, there were two guards standing watch outside. They would easily be taken care of, but not before they raised the alarm. Gor chewed on his lip, lost in thought. Trees lined the road, but they were tall, thin affairs, and would not provide enough cover to hide a pixie, let alone an army.

An idea struck him. He did not have a pixie; he had something better. He motioned to one of his men, signalling with his hands. The soldier nodded and slipped down the line. Moments later he returned, a dark, shadowy figure in tow. Gor grinned mirthlessly and nodded at the newcomer. "Grimlay, it is good you are here. I have a job for you."

The figure waited in patient silence. Gor grunted, realising he should have known better. Grimlay - or Shadow as he was often referred to - was not best known for his social skills. He was, however, well known for another talent, one that Gor intended to put to good use. He pointed up the hill to the gates of the palace. "Our goal lies beyond that wall Shadow. I need you to gain us access. Can you do it?"

The Shadow nodded and Gor smiled his pleasure. "Good. Then do it. But do not let me down my friend. Everything relies on you."

Grimlay vanished into the darkness at the roadside, and the General marvelled that he could see nothing of the man. It was as if he had winked out of existence, or become a part of the night, a spectre.

Minutes passed slowly and the men began to fidget, unaccustomed to long periods of quiet waiting. Gor hissed at them to be silent, knowing that even the slightest sound could draw the notice of the entire Karim army. He turned his attention back to the front, realising his own nerves were on edge. He focused his mind once again on the prize he would soon possess, and his fears and worries vanished. He was unable to contain his excitement, and a small cackle of delight broke free. The soldiers behind him glanced uneasily at one another.

More time passed and Gor was beginning to believe the Shadow had failed, when the man suddenly materialised out of the darkness, directly in front of the General. Gor was barely able to hold back a startled cry and he glared at Grimlay in annoyance. The man said nothing, and accepted the angry stare with calm indifference. Gor grunted. "Well, did you do it?" he asked.

The Shadow nodded and finally spoke, a hissing, cruel sound, which entirely suited the sinister, black-cloaked figure. "It issss done General. The gatesss are open, and ready for you."

"Good, return to your place." Grimlay nodded and slinked away, back down the line. Gor motioned to his men and they began to move once more, slowly and cautiously.

The Palace grew closer, rising up out of the darkness before them like a gleaming treasure. Gor squinted up at the towering minarets, and slender towers. He acknowledged their beauty, but to him, beauty was not a thing to be admired, it was a thing to win, to own; if he could do neither - to crush.

As the small army finally reached the palace gates, Gor began to sweat. His breath came in heavy, panting gasps - a product of his giddy excitement - and he spent a few seconds gathering his scattered thoughts. Once inside they were sure to be discovered. One could not move an entire army through the royal palace of Karim without drawing attention. The trick was to gain as much time as possible without raising the alarm. He chewed his lip thoughtfully, but before he could do any more, the sound he had feared rang out. The shrill, harsh glare of the Karim bells.

The Moram force reacted instantly, moving into a tight battle formation. Gor ground his teeth in angry frustration, but knew there was nothing he could do. His only choice was to wait as the Korim fighters flooded out of the gleaming double doors. The initial numbers were small - being nothing more than the palace guard - but it was only a matter of time until the entire Korim army was pounding up the mountain. Already he could hear the horns bleating from the depths of the city.

He parried the first clumsy thrust and absently impaled his attacked on the tip of his blade. His mind was racing, sorting through the limited options he had available. He could stand and fight; a last, glorious battle before the Korim slaughtered them; or he could flee, leading his men on a coward's run. The third and most agreeable option was to fight his way into the palace, and gain the prize he had come for. His men would hold back the enemy forces as he battled his way into the heart of the Korim nation: the chamber of the Green Flame.

Gor's mind reeled with the thought, and at once his decision was made. He slashed the nearest man across the face with his sword, drawing deep red blood, then hurried across the stretch of open ground to the palace. Korim fighters flung themselves in front of him, and Gor was forced to stop and fight them, his anger growing. He swept left and right, only half-hearing the cries of the men he slew. His entire being was focused on the palace doors and he barely managed to contain a wild cackle of intense glee.

Then, suddenly, he was in, squeezing through the opening into the marble hallway beyond. Crystal lanterns hung in uniform rows from the walls, bathing the chamber in brilliant white light. Archways opened off the room on all sides, but straight ahead was a set of bronze, double doors. He grinned, and moved swiftly across the plush, carpeted hall, making little noise despite his large bulk.

Beyond the doors was a long passage, awash in pale, white light. Paintings and beautiful tapestries hung from the walls, but to Gor, they may as well have been the work of a five-year-old. He swept past with barely a glance. Ahead of him was another set of doors, this time gleaming silver. His heart was beating almost painfully as he flung them open and passed through.

He found himself in a wide stairwell, which wound its way upward, snaking around the walls like a serpent. The upper recesses of the chamber were shadowed and dark, denying the General a view of what was above. He stopped for a moment's respite, reviewing his options. He could hear the distant cries of his men, battling outside the walls of the palace, but he could also now hear shouts from within as Korim fighters searched in vain. He smiled grimly, knowing it was too little too late. The Darkstone was almost within his grasp; he could almost feel the flawless facets of the glowing gem against his palm. He wiped sweat from his face then darted forward again, his excitement lending speed to his weary legs.

He took the steps too at a time, pounding raggedly upward. He was still unable to see the top, but he no longer had to. In his heart, he knew what was up there, and soon it would be his. He gripped the handrail as he ran, his sweating hands sliding against the smooth wood. The shouts were growing closer, and Gor could hear the anger in them. The Korim could shout all they wanted, it would make no distance.

Suddenly the top was in view, and the General put on a final, desperate burst of speed, his heart beating fit to burst. He could sense his crowning achievement approaching, that moment when all of Moram would bow before him as a God. A single, shimmering door of gold waited for him, the gleaming metal seeming to praise him for his destiny. He felt a welcome unlike any before, and he knew that this was the one moment; that single, unequivocal event for which he had been born.

He passed breathlessly onto that final step and flung wide the door, his eyes gleaming brightly. Beyond waited his destiny, and that of a world

Bright green light flooded Gor's vision as he entered the room, and for several seconds he could see nothing. He rubbed at his eyes with the palm of his hand and slowly reopened them. Before him, hovering in the air and surrounded by shimmering green flames, was the Great Stone. Its many facets gleamed brightly, radiating the power and strength which could shape a world. Chaos and Order fought within the depths of the stone for all eternity, the essence of the gods who had created it.

The General stood enraptured, his attention caught and trapped by the sheer power of the stone, to the exclusion of all else. His heart thudded like a warhammer in his chest, and his eyes shimmered at the incredible beauty and energy of the thing. He felt it searching his mind, probing the depths of his consciousness. He let it in, revelling in the ecstasy. Nothing he had ever dreamed of compared to the glory and beauty of the Darkstone.

He was suddenly overwhelmed with an even greater feeling of longing, a need to possess. The sensation was so strong and urgent that he stepped for forward with the intention of taking the stone from the flame.

Something moved to his left and the General spun his head around, his attention caught. One of the cursed priests was hurrying across the room towards him, the emerald robes he wore rustling as he ran. Gor spat and drew his sword. Nothing would stop him now. He was too close to the prize; a heartbeat away from his destiny.

The priest saw the blade drawn, and without slowing, pulled a sword of his own from the scabbard at his belt. The sword glowed strangely, reflecting the light of the green flames. Gor had never seen a sword like it, but he did not have the time to stop and study it. He moved to meet his enemy, the weapons clashing together with a ringing clang.

For a moment the blades were locked, neither man willing to give a quarter, then the General heaved forward, pushing the priest backwards. The man caught his balance quickly, and reversed his stroke, parrying the swift thrust from Gor. The Moramian grunted, realising he was up against a skilled opponent, and cursing himself for not expecting it. To think that the Darkstone, an gift from the Gods themselves, would be guarded only by the fools outside. He shook his head irritably and stepped back to review his strategy.

The priest watched him calmly, crouched in a battle stance. His small, hooded eyes tracked the General's moves like a hawk, and he adjusted his grip on the blade accordingly. Gor offered his grudging respect with a slight tilting of his head, then lunged forward with lightning speed. Amazingly the priest was expecting it, and he parried the blow cleanly, bringing his sword around in a wide arc and catching Gor a slash to the cheek.

Fresh blood dripped to the floor. Gor wiped at it absently, his entire being focused on the fight. He could not remember ever having fought an opponent so skilled or so determined. The priest's reflexes were barely human, and the Moramian realised he would have to produce something special to win. He circled the man slowly, watching for an opening. The priest moved with him, offering no attempt to attack, but watching closely, his eyes never wavering. Gor jabbed half-heartedly, testing his enemy. Each blow was calmly and efficiently blocked.

For long moments they circled, neither man forcing a move, then suddenly Gor slipped, his leg buckling under him. At once the priest was upon him, his sword aimed expertly for the General's heart. Gor smiled grimly to himself and dodged to the left. His trip had been a feint, and his sudden dodge had left the priest's side wide open. He whipped his sword downwards, and watched in satisfaction as the tip cut a deep gash in the man's flesh.

The priest did not cry out, but when he spun around, Gor could see the anger plainly in his eyes. It was a sight he had been hoping to see; it meant his opponent was more susceptible to mistakes, and thus, more open to defeat.

Again they circled, more warily this time. A sudden lunge to the right caught Gor off balance, and he parried the blow clumsily. The priest gave no respite and pulled back his hand to deliver a second, heftier chop. Gor parried it, but the metal jarred against his palm and he cringed, dropping back a step. The emerald robed priest pushed the advantage and delivered blow after ringing blow. Gor blocked each one, but he could feel his strength slipping away. He looked frantically for an opening, then suddenly it was there. A particularly wild swing from the priest had left his body open, and Gor took his chance eagerly, pushing with his feet and driving his blade deep into the man's chest.

A tide of crimson blood gushed to the floor and the priest uttered a cry of pain, anger and grief. He toppled forward, his eyes already dimmed in death, and collided with the General. Gor was caught off balance, and he fell backwards with the corpse, his feet knocked out from under him. His arms flailed wildly, but it was too late. He passed through the green flame like a knife through smoke, and crashed into the pedestal beyond.

Time stood still, and for a moment, Gor could hear the cries of the Void as clearly as if he were there. Shards of glass billowed outwards in an explosion of magic, chaos, and power. Colours, as varied and vivid as they were magnificent filled his vision, colliding and merging into a tapestry of light and shadow. He was filled with power, immense and terrible, and then had it tore away, only to have it returned a split second later. Noises invaded his senses, crashing through his mind louder than a thousand dwarven hammers pounding against rock as one. He clutched his head, and rolled onto his side. Thunder boomed and suddenly it was over. Silence descended, the silence of a tomb. It lasted for no more than a moment, and then the second explosion came. The walls around him evaporated into so much dust, as the particles of magical energy were released from their ages old confinement. Swirling eddies of primal energy merged and fought in the air around him, iridescent sparks shooting off into the night sky like the brightest of fireworks.

Gor fought to regain his feet. The magical forces swirled around him, tossing him into the air like a rag doll. He screamed his rage, but he was held fast, carried into the air on the wings of ancient magic. He rose upwards, powerless, and then came to a shuddering stop, suspended in the air. Voices filled his head, imploring him to look upwards and see the damage his mortal vanity had caused. Reluctantly he opened his eyes and stared into the oblivion of the Void.

Visions of the world flickered in front of his eyes like a kaleidoscope; images blurring together into one continuous stream of horror. He could see the Pardor Mountains rising up and cracking, as though a mighty hand had pounded on them. Oceans receded and others roared in to claim the land that had once been populated by the peoples of the world. The earth split apart like the shell of an egg, steam rising into the air like a malignant wraith. Rivers were formed into the blink of an eye, only to be forced back as the magical currents caught them.

And everywhere there was death, as men, women and children ran to flee the terror and chaos which was all around them. But there was no safety to be found.

Gor closed his eyes and screamed. He screamed until his ragged throat could take no more, and then he screamed in silence. The voices laughed, and at last he was released and dropped to the floor. For a moment he lay there, sobbing in grief, then slowly he gained his feet. The air was still now, but he knew that beyond the gutted remains of Korim, the world was changing, and the chaos would continue.

The palace was gone, as was the city, vaporised into the dust from which it had been made. The green flame still burned, as it would continue to burn forever, a symbol of the folly of man. Gor looked at it in mute shock. He could no longer feel anything, save a powerful loss deep within him that he felt would never heal. He turned away, only to find his way blocked by a cloaked, shadowy figure. It was Golan Loman, the man who had opened the gates to allow Gor access to the city. His face was hidden, but the General could hear the soft, mocking laughter. He made to draw his sword, then dropped his hand in defeat. He could blame nobody except himself for the mistake he had made.

"It is good to see you again General," said the figure. "I am pleased to see you acted according to my plan. Indeed, the performance was better than even I anticipated."

"I am all and nothing General. I am your worst nightmare, your brightest dream. Wherever there is chaos, wherever there is order, you will find me. When you wake in the morning, mine is the first face you see. When you sleep at night, mine is the last voice you will hear. I am everywhere and nowhere. I am the Void within you all."

Gor understood at last, but he had no more grief to shed. "Will the world ever forgive me?" he asked, his voice low.

Golan shrugged. "Who am I to say what the world will and will not do? It will endure, that I know. Not even my careful planning can destroy what the Gods created. But I am content to throw chaos into the equation every now and then. Eventually I will return in force, and the world will bask in the light of my glory. But for now, I am happy. It will take a long time for the world to heal the damage the Darkstone has caused. It will never truly return to what it was, and for that I thank you, General."

Gor said nothing. He looked down from the mountain, over the lands blasted with the magic of the Darkstone. It was a brave new world, and one in which only the strong would survive. Golan whispered in his ear. "Go General. Make a name for yourself. See the world you have created."

Note: The guardians of the Darkstone were continually referred to in this work as Korim. They were, in fact, named the Karim. This curious oddity is due to the fact that a Moramian transcribed the above work. The Moram language is unique, it that it inflects each word differently, depending on the context in which it was used. In this case it was used to describe a nation that was considered far below the Moramians in terms of honour and evolution. The use of the o was meant to detract from the power of the word, and thus demean the Karim. It will always be found in any Moramian work.

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