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II
----The Oath----
- The King’s Palace-

Silken, a shimmering robe of pearl-white glided along a floor of smooth tile. Features hidden by the low brim of a hood with embroidered strands of ruby red, a florescent figure strode past a row of pillars. The round columns cast segments of light and shadow across the marble path.
Arms folded and concealed by the length of his wide sleeves, a ghostly Priest, the leader of the nine Vessels, moved like a silent breath of wind. Coursing through the deserted passages of the rear palace—which were always empty and void of light or life—the white specter came to a dim hall.
A clatter of jars and a rasping call echoed along the stone corridor leading to the King’s chamber at the far end. The priest advanced without hesitation, but still haste did not lengthen his stiff strides.
Arriving at the doorway, his shadow fell upon the aides inside. They were occupied with the ill task of mending the grievous wound of their delirious master. The king’s voice rang out with madness and echoed along the damp corridors, calling for the Vessels. Noticing the chilling presence of the king’s man, a wave of silence washed across those in the room.
Methuselah’s pale eyes stared at the illuminant being who remained in the entrance of the bedchamber.
“Leave us!” the aged monarch ordered between guttural breaths.
The company of aides and healers exchanged quick glances of concerned fear before shuffling one by one past the ominous priest. Left alone, the still figure in the doorway came to life and tread slowly along the outside of the room. Passing the arched windows, he drew the curtains across each one until the room was filled with shadows.
The aged and weakened monarch watched in a daze as the priest stood before a table in the center of the room. Tossed aside, the wooden table splintered on the stone and its contents flew toward the wall. While bronze plates and goblets were still clanking on the floor, the priest swept a rug from the section of tile where the table had stood a moment before. A white circle of marble appeared in the dim light and Methuselah cowered before the sight of it. Retreating to the far side of his bloodstained bed, he clutched his pulsating wound.
Centering himself before the altar, the robed figure spread his arms with palms raised toward the ceiling. From within the darkness, the king could see claws—like those of a wild beast—rising from the man’s fingertips. Radiating from the marble, an eerie glow illuminated the priest’s menacing form. It seemed a continuous torrent of wind arose from the stone in waves of crystalline light, but its radiance was cold and hollow. Drawing a crescent dagger from within the folds of his long cloak, the priest pressed its edge against the grayed skin of his forearm. Blood trickled along the Vessel’s wrist and dripped in a steady stream onto the center of the circle of light.
Bending low, the priest used his bloodstained hand to smear the dark pool into the marble. Spreading the sacrament with the length of his fingers, he made three identical designs around the central splotch of blood. Once the markings were complete, the specter paused from his ritual and lifted a set of silver eyes. The molten stare fell upon Methuselah’s hunched form and peered into his soul. Before the king could blink, the priest appeared beside him and gripped him by the cloak. Dragged from his bed, the king found himself thrown to his knees before the marred sheet of marble. Dipping a clawed finger into the blood, the priest marked Methuselah’s forehead with a symbol similar to the one on the floor.
“Place your hand in the blood!” hissed the shallow voice of the priest. “Make the oath or die…”
Fingers quivering, the King obeyed and laid his palm in the center of the markings. To his surprise the fluid was cold as a frosty dew. A worming emptiness traveled up the king’s arm and into his chest. He could feel the wound close and the flesh sealed without leaving the slightest scar. A blackness crept into his soul and the radiating energy flared before dissipating with an unearthly hiss. Methuselah collapsed to the stone and the shallow dark returned.
“What have I done?” he whispered hoarsely before his mind was consumed by a deep sleep.
----°°°----
After traveling a fair distance on the run, the company fell to the soft, woodland soil. All breathing with exhausted gasps, except for the giant who seemed to be having no trouble, they sought shelter in a nearby glade. A small creek, a tributary of one of the mountain rivers, gurgled a peaceful course through the clearing. Cupping the water, they washed the sweat from their brows and drank with such a thirst that it threatened to dry the stream. Satisfied, Ohad stared blankly in the direction they had traveled. Glancing upward into the multiple layers of leaves, he tried to catch sight of the sun.
“How can we be sure we travel west?” queried the giant. “I cannot even see heaven’s guide from beneath the shelter of this dark wood.”
“Where we might be going,” interjected the pupil. “—would be a question best asked first…” The remark inflected with the intent of reaching Korien’s ears but the olden sage seemed lost in his thoughts.
Osoten slumped against a contorted willow and gazed with simple eyes at his master. He tried to ease the weighted breaths that surged in and out of his lungs but when swarming questions plague the mind it stresses the heart to beat. Osoten’s eyes fell to the silver blade in his hand. It was stained with blood to the hilt from the life it had taken that day.
Ignorant of his pupil’s feelings, Korien rose to get a glimpse of the sky through the thickened canopy above. “We must keep moving,” he said absently and walked off, heading deeper into the forest.
Osoten and Ohad exchanged worried glances—the demeanor of their leader was discouraging. Helping his friend from the ground, Ohad urged the young man to carry on. “He is right, best to run now while our feet are still unshackled.”
The High-Guard sighed and followed after the giant. “Perhaps I’d welcome a cool shackle over all this running…” he muttered.

They trailed behind the old master a ways but kept him in sight as the two walked until the forest was pitch-black and night had finally fallen.
“We must stop or we will end up traveling in circles all night,” shouted Osoten to the silhouette ahead that he knew to be his master.
A few moments after Osoten finished speaking, the old palace guardian stopped and sat on the cold, moist earth. Ohad huddled in the bushes and fallen leaves for warmth and soon was heard snoring. A few strands of moonlight illuminated patches of the forest floor and revealed Korien’s face as Osoten lay against a fallen tree and watched him with an intent stare. It was silent, for what to Osoten felt like an eternity, except for the breathing and rustling of the giant in his bed of leaves.
“You gave me life, Master,” said Osoten after long last “But now you have taken it away.”
Korien stared into the empty void of the dark woods with solemn disconcertment. “…You chose your own path.”
The young man advanced a single step and opened his palms in an offering of peace. “It doesn’t matter anymore…I request only that you tell me of your quest,” he requested with sincerity. “I can aid you in your task.”
“Go your own way!” There was no hesitation in the response. “…you cannot help me now.” The teacher spoke the words and turned—pain filling his expression as he hid his face in the shadows.
Osoten had never experienced such rejection and never did he expect it to come from the one man who had always been there. Crossing the moonlit gap between them, the apprentice plunged his master’s sword into the soft earth before him. He waited for even one glance from the man but none came.
“Tell me why I have raised this blade against my own brethren?” Osoten begged. “Tell me there is not innocent blood upon my hands? Will you not reveal to me the reason I am now marked and condemned,” his teeth barred with seething, cold fury. “…will you not, master?”
After his voice faded into the trees, the pupil stumbled away in a faint and exhausted stupor. Returning to his bed of roots and rigid bark, Osoten waited for sleep to come and numb the pain swelling in his heart.
----°°°----
Methuselah awoke with a start, a chilling sweat dripping from his forehead. Night had fallen and beams of moonlight painted arches of pale silver along the length of his chamber floor. Searching beneath the folds of his robe, the king found no remnants of the grievous wound that should have claimed his life hours ago. Drawing a hood over his head, the Monarch slipped from the bed and felt the cool tile beneath his feet.
Standing in the air of the calm night, he was gazing at the courtyard below when a shadow moved across the pane of moonlight before him. The contours of the masked silhouette were unmistakable, it was the priest.
“Speak, Vessel!” rasped Methuselah. “Why do you darken my council?”
“Be careful, oh great lord of men,” replied the shadow. “What you have been given can surely be taken hence.” Shifting, the priest moved from the direct focus of the moonlight and allowed his form to be seen. “You have sworn to fulfill the task, do not forget.”
“These events were not revealed to me!” spat the old ruler. “You said the Purim were no more!”
The priest placed a hand into the moonbeam and rolled his fingers as if he were playing with the silver strands of light. “I would feel them if they had returned. No, there is another force at work, but if we act in haste we can bend it to our will.” The Vessel’s fist clenched shut with a furious crack. “The time has come sooner than any knew…these are the days of the prophecy.”
“These are days of war!” The king strode to the farthest window away from the priest and rested his hands upon its granite frame. “The wretched dogs of Morna still plunder my land. Their forest protects them—they attack from cover and then disappear without a trace. If I am to do your bidding, you must destroy them!”
Considering this, the dark priest’s shadow swept across the length of the chamber until it came to rest behind Methuselah. “…They shall fall, but by the hands of your horsemen alone. Send the rest of your army north to prepare the siege of Havilah.”
The old ruler cocked his head to the side, afraid to turn fully and gaze into the bewitching eyes of the vessel. “Two battles at once I cannot do, I have neither the men nor the stomach.”
“Men do not win wars, nor does the sword drive them into the night—it is fear that brings all to their knees.” The specter drew close and whispered in the monarch’s ear. “Terror will claim the day.”
Methuselah hung his head. “I fear no enemy but time.” Drawing away from the window, he approached a chest of carved cherry-wood. Its bright lacquer glistened blood red in the faint glow of the moon. Flinging open the lid, the ancient lord reached inside. A chain of laced silver hung from Methuselah’s hand, a violet jewel inlayed within its engraved setting. “There are weapons greater than fear…” Hiding the necklace within his robe, he closed the chest and turned to the High-Priest. “Bring the generals to council, we march tonight!”

Surrounded by a myriad of dusty weaponry, a sickle-shaped helm rested upon a notch in a stone wall. Firm hands grasped the headpiece’s glossy frame and removed it from the shelf with reverence. Silver danced in the torchlight as the solemn figure in the armory stared into the empty visor. Gazing deeply as if he were looking into the eyes of an old friend, the man remained frozen in memory.
“Simma?” beckoned a voice from the shadowed entrance of the damp chamber.
“It calls us again, my brother.” The veteran placed the helmet at his side and lifted his gaze. “We never had the heart for war, Tyre,” he sighed. “Why then, is it we have lingered so long in its presence?”
Tyre took a step into the light, the silver armor encasing his torso reflecting the torches’ glow. “Perhaps we shall set aside our blades once and for all—Methuselah has summoned the council.”
“May it be for the last time,” responded Simma.
Abandoning the armory that lay deep within the foundations of the palace’s outer ward, the old companions ascended a dark stairwell. Winding up through the bowels of the squared towers whose balustrades looked out over the gardens, the stone-cut stairs led to a walkway supported by marble pillars. Stretching along the length of the inner-court yard, the bridge connected with a section of the domed temple—the rear most structure of the palace grounds.
A flurry of torches streaked the court below with an orange blaze. Men and armor clattered in a rush, filling the night air with their shouts of preparation.
“The scent of blood has got the dogs stirred into a craze,” remarked Tyre.
Observing the commotion below as he stiffly paced along the height of the colonnade, Simma scowled. “No word of Korien or Osoten?”
“No,” Tyre sighed. “A scouting party was sent out hours ago.” Gauging the concern creased upon his companion’s features, the warrior gathered his thoughts with care. “Our friends, why would they raise their hands against the king? It is madness…”
Simma stared dead ahead, his sagely eyes wide and contemplative. “The nature of it is amiss, there is something at work here I do not see nor understand. It lingers deep below the surface and both our brethren are now caught within its current.”
Passing through the archway and entering the temple, Tyre whispered in fear that his voice would carry along the hallowed walls. “Their lives are forfeit if they are caught!”
“How many men were sent to scour the woodland?” inquired Simma.
“How many?” Tyre’s cocked an eyebrow. “Thirty, maybe more—why?”
“Only thirty?” Simma lips curved in a sly grin. “It will not be enough.”
“I pray it is so,” Tyre muttered. “Who do you think will take command in the king’s stead?”
Simma halted and drew into the shadows away from the scattered sconces that lighted the temple passageways. “The throne relinquished?” He cast cautious glances down each end of the corridor. “My ears have caught different rumors. A physician’s aide spoke of being in the room when our lord was near death, blood filling his bed like a pool.”
Tyre stepped closer to his friend. “He survived? How is it possible…”
“The aide did not know. He said that before death the High-Priest arrived and all were forced to leave.” Simma gripped his helmet uneasily and gave the corridor another scan. “Then hours later, after the sun had passed from the sky, the aide went to tend to the body and found their master very much alive...”

The companions continued the rest of their journey in silence, their thoughts focused upon the disturbing happenings of the day. Following the torch-lit corridor led them to a broad stair lined with a scarlet runner. The dyed lace bid the men to remove their sandals and wash the dust from their feet. After utilizing the twin brass bowls beside each side of the stair’s marble frame, the High-Guards stepped onto the shimmering cloth that flowed like blood in the trace, flickering light.
The council chamber lay at the end of the elongated case that plunged deep into the foundations of the temple. Each stone upon which the soldiers now tread was considered sacred in the hollowed-out sanctum. Few were ever invited to the holy ward of the priests and, conveniently so, there was not a decent soul among men or angels who desired to venture within its dark confines. There are tales of those who have never returned after being summoned to the temple’s cold depths. Some feared the priests, or the Nine Vessels as they were known by their number, even more than some cowered before the presence of the mighty Nephilim. It was not unknown that Methuselah’s power rested not in the number of his men at arms, but in the wisdom of the priests and the strength commanded by the terror of the Spirit-Bloods.
Candlelight, with a clear-milky glow, bathed the threshold to the council chamber. Simma and Tyre entered with reverence and their eyes low. Falling to their knees, they placed their silver helms upon the floor and bowed.
“Rise,” commanded an authoritative but tranquil voice.
Both High-Guards stood and lifted their downcast eyes. A stone slab, cut to form a great triangle with chiseled symbols decorating its surface, rested in the centre of the room surrounded by twelve high-back chairs. The four closest the new arrivals were the only seats that remained empty—the other chairs were occupied by a fear-stricken company of commanders, treasurers, and advisors. Across the table and blurred by the hazy glow of the candles, sat a throne with a figure cloaked in the white and gold robes of the king.
“Your arrival pleases me,” Methuselah cooed from beneath the covering of his hood. “It is good to know not all of those who have sworn to protect me decided to break their oath and cut me down in my own palace…”
“Master, I rejoice that you are alive!” Tyre’s allegiance was even more fickle than his apprehensive companion’s but his desire to live provided a sufficient guise to pacify the king. “We are forever your servants…”
“For now,” replied the monarch while extending a hand toward the High-Guard’s place at the stone table. “Please sit.”
Tyre stared in awe, bewildered at the sight of his Lord risen from the dead. Restraining his surprise, Simma held a more solemn countenance. Glancing toward the corner of the room where there was no light, he spied the statuesque figure of the High-Priest. Arms crossed and head lowered, he was nearly made invisible by the shadows. Simma wondered whether any of the other men were aware of the priest’s presence as well…the foul wraith.
Methuselah slumped into his throne and glowered at the men assembled before him from beneath the brim of his hood. “Time is short, so this council shall be brief, but when we meet again it will be as the rulers of all Eden.”
Murmurs of disbelief erupted from the gathering, dismissing the proclamation as pure insanity. Before any could voice an objection, however, the king took the goblet from the arm of his throne and cast it toward the council. The gold chalice struck the table and then clamored to the floor, sloshing wine across the stone symbols during its hapless flight. Filling the carved grooves with auburn streams, the liquid spread like writhing serpents. “Do you dishonor me to my face? Where are your blades? Do you come to finish what your brother has failed to do—do you still not believe I am appointed by God our creator to take back his realm from the heathen?”
The General of the Army rose from his seat with a bow. “We are prepared to fulfill the Creator’s will but you cannot be suggesting we move on Havilah with the Mornan raiders at our gates?”
Methuselah laughed, his dry and sickly-deep tone mocking the council. “Do you have the mind of God? Or do you doubt his power?” Methuselah gathered his robes and stood erect from his seat. “See me now! Was I not at death’s door? I have been called back to fulfill this great task, laid before us...”
Replacing his fellow comrade at the helm of the debate, the Cavalry Commander bid his voice to be heard. “We fear not battle, but our homes require defense... or shall we leave our women and sons to the slaughter?”
“A wise sentiment, brave Varden, and that is why you will be chosen to ride to Morna and cut each man down while the rest of the army marches on Havilah.” The king’s lips curved beneath the cover his hood. “We have but seven days.”
“Do you give heed to the madness of which you speak?” spoke Varden in disbelief. “My men shall be ambushed in the woodland. The horses will get tangled in the bramble and spooked by the shadows.” He dipped two fingers into the pool of spilt wine and studied it before flicking the droplets across the table. “We will be scattered and brought down by our hidden foe’s crafty arrow and spear. There is no chance we shall even make it to their wall.”
Methuselah glowered at the man with shielded eyes of rage. His tongue stricken by the commander’s blatant impudence, the monarch let an uncomfortable silence descended upon the council chamber. Spying a cryptic form advancing upon Varden from behind, the king froze and let the scene unfold.
Moving unseen in the shadows of the walls, the High Priest had circled around the room. With the stealth of a wraith, he came within a breath of the commander without alerting the man to his presence. All eyes fell upon Varden, and the young leader grew pale but he did not turn. Straightening his stance, the commander stared with calm, passive eyes at the façade of a king before him. “The Master you serve is not my God…”
At this, the priest pulled the man into his chair with unnatural strength. There was a swift flash of a blade followed by a short, muffled cry. The long, white cloak of the priest swirled in a haze, masking the murderous deed. As abrupt as his appearance, the High-Priest departed and faded into a darken corner to wait in case his services were required once more. Varden was still alive when his assailant left him, a dagger pinning his neck to the wooden back of the council chair. The knife had no blood-drain and clogged the wound, making the commander’s death a slow one. Varden’s cold stare never left the king until he passed. Kept erect by the deeply embedded dagger, the man remained in his chair, his eyes slanted with condemnation even after the light had faded from them.
Methuselah clutched the arms of his throne with crooked fingers and lowered himself slowly down. “I suppose you are right,” he addressed Varden even though the man was clearly dead. “I will take a personal guard along with your cavalry and deduce Morna to rubble and scorched stone. Where you would not act, I shall have faith,” declared the king. Turning to the rest of the council he pointed a boney finger toward the door leading out of the chamber. “Leave and prepare my army!” he rasped. Extending an open palm to the bloodied corpse, Methuselah scowled. “…or befall the same fate as this faithless dog!”

III
----A Last Request----
-Night of the Seventh day-

The slow night lingered on as Osoten fell asleep against his tree. The silver rays from the moon trickled through the sheltering leaves of the forest and cast a heavenly glow upon the travelers that slept beneath the oaken boughs.
Osoten’s dream-filled mind was awakened when he felt someone hastily pulling on his shoulder. There was the sound of voices, and flickering lights sent shadows dancing through the forest around him.
“You must leave!” whispered Korien’s darkened and obscured figure.
Osoten peeked out from behind a root to survey the situation, the clutches of sleep still restraining his mind. There was a long line of men with torches and they were headed directly for him. The force of soldiers was stretched so wide that the only way of escape was deeper into the forest. Ducking back down, lest he be seen, the young apprentice turned to see that his master had disappeared. When his nerves and wits came to him, he crept over to wake Ohad from his oblivious slumber. The large man awoke with a great clutter as he grunted and kicked.
“Quiet!” Osoten hushed as he forced a hand over the giant’s mouth.
Torches could be seen all around them now and the numerous flames drew closer.
“Follow me.”
Staying low to the ground, Osoten crept to a nearby redwood and rested a hand against its wide trunk for balance. Ohad followed as silently as a giant could and the two progressed in a stealthy pattern, using the large forest trees as cover.
Commotion, arising from deep in the woods, rallied the Sorn and altered them to their prey’s neared presence. Crackling torches streaked toward the sounds as Osoten and Ohad hid in a dense thicket, afraid they may have been discovered. Before the hidden fugitives knew what had happened, screams and beastly roars resonated through the darkness. The two companions abandoned the brush and sped toward a small, stone cliff. Scaling above the confusion, they gained a clear vantage point of the hunting party that was advancing swiftly from behind.
Quiet as mere shadows, the two companions traveled along a steep slope while the carnage below progressed. The source of the violence remained unseen, shielded by the darkness, but the sounds were fierce and chilling. Resting at the top of the elevation, they surveyed the scene around them. Soldiers lay scattered upon the ground, their dead bodies torn and bloodied. The rest, those alive or wounded, were sparse and unorganized. Fire from the fallen torches feasted hungrily upon the dried leaves and acorns covering the forest floor. Desiring more, the flames spread in a wild fury and danced in the glow of Osoten’s eyes.
“There!” he said in a hushed tone, pointing at a dark furred beast that darted out of the shadows and chased after a man.
The soldier ran for but a moment before the predator was upon him. A muffled cry was drowned out by the crackling fire as powerful jaws sank into their captured prey.
Osoten’s gaze left the brutal sight and caught the glimpse of a familiar figure limping before the breadth of the Sorns’ search-line. “Korien!” he shouted, realizing it was his master.
The rising flames from the burning trees illuminated the crimson blood that stained Korien’s sword. He swung with fierce strokes at the figures behind him, cutting one down. The others attacked with ready swords that glimmered with the dancing orange light. Korien moved with amazing swiftness, despite his injuries, and finished off the rest with only a few precise slashes of his silver blade. A fresh onslaught of soldiers shouted as they came rushing to claim their king’s prize and avenge their fallen comrades.
“We must help him!” gasped Osoten as he started to climb down the slope.
“He left us to die friend, he is not worth it!” called Ohad, who chased after the determined man.
Osoten was already gone, his legs thrashing forward to steady his rapid descent down the steep slope. A drop off, twice his height, lay at the end of the slope and Osoten jumped, bracing his legs for impact. Rolling to lighten his fall, he came to a stop before two red jewels that stared back at him. Another pair of rubies appeared beside the second and began floating toward him in the darkness. Osoten backed toward the stone cliff behind him where a beam of moonlight passed through a gap in the trees above. The hovering red eyes followed the mortal into the silver light and presented their forms. Coats of thick gray fur covered short but powerful legs and arching muscular shoulders made the animals appear to be a mix of lion and wolf. The beasts’ hair bristled as they stalked their prey. Twin fangs, longer than the wolves’ own heads, dripped streams of saliva that created fog in the cool night air. One snapped at the mortal with large jaws, making Osoten’s skin crawl as his back met the stone cliff—ending his retreat.
With a tremendous shudder, a large form landed in-between the wolves and their meal. Startled, they hesitated at the appearance of the newcomer who had arrived in time to prevent his companion from being torn apart. Ohad’s posture was compressed from the fall, but the hungry beasts backed off as the giant rose to his full height. In fright, they scampered away in the opposite directions. Without a word of gratitude, Osoten sprinted past Ohad into the flickering light of the burning forest, pausing only to fetch a javelin that rested within the feeble grasp of its lifeless owner. His master, only moments away, struggled to escape the pursing fire and the undaunted hunters.

Korien was pinned against a tree and his weary arm shook as he blocked a downward slash from a Sorn warrior. The master’s sword-hand weakened and the soldier pressed his blade down against his opponent’s. Korien grasped his weapon with both hands but it was still not enough and the bronze edge crept slowly closer to his quivering flesh. A glint of reflected light flashed into the corner of Korien’s vision and his opponent’s strength vanished. The eyes beneath the soldier’s war helmet drained of life and the man crumbled to the forest’s soft earth.
With no energy remaining in his frail frame, the old master dropped to his knees; close enough to see the shaft of a spear protruding from the dead man’s side. Before there was time to see who had aided him, two soldiers burst through a wall of flame and rushed at their fallen prey. A limb of dried oak shattered the skull of the first Sorn and Ohad then used the broken branch to pin the second to a tree. The man gasped for air as he was lifted by the neck to the giant’s eye level. The soldier was held aloft until his legs ceased their struggling kicks.
The suppressive heat and black smoke had nearly blinded Osoten when he finally reached his Master’s side. He fought to lift the weakened teacher but both men stumbled in the suffocating fumes.
“Get up! We must get out of here!” urged the younger High-Guard.
“No, I cannot make it,” muttered Korien weakly between coughs.
Reaching into his belt, the weary old man feebly withdrew something and clenched it in a tight fist. “Take this to the Fire Mountains… follow the Gihon River.”
Osoten accepted a small leather bag from his master’s twitching fingers.
“I have wronged you my son, forgive me for laying this burden on you,” confessed the sage as he slumped back in exhaustion.
The small leather bag felt like it contained a split but smooth stone. Osoten loosed the stings to see what mysterious relic he held but Korien clutched his wrist to stop him.
“No…you must not open it—never open it!” his master commanded with desperation. “Go! You must leave before they take us both!”
Osoten resisted, he didn’t understand. The flames grew hotter and he could hear the shouts of scouting parties advancing.
“Leave me!” shouted the master, hoping his fury would urge his pupil into action.
Osoten hesitated and he lingered while his feet slowly retreated but his stare remained fixed upon his teacher. The moment his student had fully resigned to flee, Korien called out his name and gathered his final strength. The old man rose shakily, and then steadied himself against an ash tree.
The old master tossed his sword in a gentle arch through the air for Osoten to snatch from its flight before several Sorn warriors appeared amongst the flames to claim their prize. Catching the sword by the handle, Osoten fled into the darkness—hoping Ohad had already done the same. When he glanced back, the flames and smoke thickly shrouded the view of his Master and the Sorn.

The cool air of the woodland returned as Osoten escaped the heat of the forest-fire. Pausing at random, he surveyed the quiet darkness around him but there was no sign of the giant. Starting an eased run, he pushed his way through the low hanging branches and ensnaring bushes.
Stumbling over a tree, Osoten felt a slight vibration pulse from the earth into his palm. Out of the darkness, red eyes flashed toward him but then disappeared in the same instant. Osoten pulled himself up and summoned all his remaining strength in order to escape. His arms and face were cut as he stumbled blindly through the darkness. Glancing back, he allowed himself to rest against a smooth tree and his hot and heavy breaths formed a ghostly fog that comingled with the cool air. Sweat dripped from his face and his heart beat with an unfamiliar fear, the vice-grip of pure evil clutching at his soul.
Out of the corner of Osoten’s eyes, he glimpsed a passing shadow. He forced his breathing to steady and he sank down and braced himself against the cover of a thick trunk. There was a crunch of leaves behind him that raised the hairs on the nape of his neck. Clenching the handle of his sword, he held it before him. Cunning, the sounds approached from behind in a steady patter, cracking sticks and crumpling leaves as they crept closer.
Ostoten’s heart raced but his mind was as frost on metal; the footsteps were now directly behind him. Overcoming his fear, he lurched out from behind the tree with his sword ready to strike. His blade cut into the empty darkness with a metallic ring. The strike was true but its edge met only air before sinking into the soft wood of the tree he had used for shelter. Baffled by the sudden vanishing, Osoten searched the blackness with frantic glances.
“Nothing!” Osoten whispered as he jerked his weapon free.
Without warning, there came a thump of galloping steps that rushed to take the man by surprise. Osoten ducked as a black phantom leaped over him. When it landed, he swung at the beast’s head—slicing it across the left eye. The animal snarled and dove at Osoten’s sword hand, dragging him to the ground with brutal strength.
The wolf’s two massive fangs hanging from the sides of its snout were relatively dull but none the less painful as they tore into the man’s flesh. Desperately, Osoten clasped a stone with his free hand and stuck the beast across the snout. The wolf let go of its prey and staggered back in a dizzied walk. Given a chance to escape, Osoten rolled and clutched his bloody hand to his chest as he stumbled to get away. He could hear the wolf snarling behind him. Blood dripped from its fur and its eyes reddened as it roared and bounded after the man. Osoten fell against another tree and thrust out Korien’s blade, pointing it at the beast that came to a halt almost within reach of the moonlit point.
The darkness of night was fading now as blood and saliva dripped from the wolf’s gaping mouth.
“Give me the Urithornium, boy!” it growled with the tongue of a rasping man.
Osoten shook with renewed fear so intense that the sword he held out wavered back and forth. In a blink, the wolf straddled to the side of the blade and lunged for the kill. Osoten clenched his eyes shut as the huge jaws of the beast rushed toward him. There was a sudden crash and Osoten rolled limply to the ground.
After a moment had a passed and silence fell upon the forest, Osoten lifted his head and risked a squinted glance. The ghastly form of the wolf’s head and long fangs appeared nigh a hair’s breadth from his face. Lodging itself into the man’s throat, Osoten’s heart lurched within his chest. Leaves shuffled and drifted to the ground around him as he frantically struggled to escape. He was restrained by the branches of a smaller tree that somehow collapsed on the beast and entangled him.
Osoten took a sigh of a relief when he beheld Ohad’s towering frame smirking above him. Staring speechlessly at the giant with wide eyes, the smaller man nodded, acknowledging his thankfulness. They both studied the beast’s motionless carcass—its red eyes fixed in a vacant stare before fading to dark.
“We must go—with haste…” Osoten rose to his feet.
The two ran off from the spot as the gloom of morning descended upon the forest. The terrors of the night were behind them for now.
----°°°----
A red mist rose out of the creature’s gaping mouth, forming a dense cloud. From within the vapor, a spirit appeared. He was a great warrior; his status made apparent by the black dragon-style wings that unfolded. The spirit-warrior appeared beautiful but, while a hidden observer watched, a ghastly form pulsed sporadically across his face.
Peering down the rows of trees, the dark spirit readied his spread wings to fly. Now was the observer’s opportunity, he arose from hiding and charged the demon. The engaged spirit had barely made an attempt to resist before this new opponent struck him down.
Growling in fury more than pain, the demon was pinned to the earth as a grayed figure rested a foot upon his chest and stared into his hollow black eyes.
Strands of dull black hair swayed in the light toss of the wind, sweeping past the attacker’s gray eyes. Fastened to a belt of silver chains, an unsheathed and golden sword hung from his waist—swinging like a pendulum before his foe’s gaze. He secured his hold on the demon using thin but muscular arms and legs protected by tarnished silver wrist-guards and greaves. Sprouting from the humanoid’s shoulders, gray feathered wings arched into the air.
“Watcher!” growled the demon. “You will burn in eternal flames, coward!”
“Shhhh, do not give me an excuse to remove your sniveling tongue,” Watcher threatened as he crouched low toward his rival’s face and spoke with seething hate. “Why were you chasing the mortal…what does your Master know of the Urithornium’s fate?” he demanded.
“More than you think…” growled the dark spirit as he writhed beneath his captor’s grip. “And soon the kingdom of heaven will have a new God and you will continue to wander forever in a world of fire and ash!”
“Hm, a peculiar plan—” Watcher loosened his grip while he sought to draw his blade. “—however, familiar to that of my own, I’m afraid.” A smile twitched across the gray spirit’s features. “Unfortunately for you and your pathetic horde, I’m already a step ahead. And soon the Urithornium will be in my grasp and you shall serve me.”
The spirit laughed in a garbled speech. “Fool!” he spat. “The Urithornium will not even leave the forest—these woods crawl with shadow!” the spirit’s whole body began to convulse as his sickened laughter grew louder. “The Sorn army is on the move and your time has finally come!” The demon screamed with rage, his black eyes wide and fiery.
With those words, the demon’s pure white skin was ripped from his body and he was transformed into a greater servant of malevolence. Scaled, with no resemblance of its prior form, the minion’s power doubled. Its head was twisted and horned, its teeth jagged and black. Two additional arms sprung from its chest and took hold of the gray spirit’s neck, lifting him into the air. As the creature rose to its full height, it unsheathed a cruel, monstrous black cleaver and held it in its first pair of scaled arms.
Watcher choked in the ravaging, clawed grip of the demon while he struggled to get free. Inflicted by a single thrust to the base of the neck, the demon howled and dropped his smaller opponent. Long black claws thrashed in a powerful rage and attempted to shred the gray warrior who parried and countered with precise slashes. A severed claw and forearm spouted oily blood and oozed with a hiss as it fell to the ground. The fierce duel continued despite the devastating injury the dark servant sustained. Filled with infuriating pain, the demon met the gray warrior’s small but sturdy sword with his own massively hewn blade. The impact shook Watcher’s legs, nearly knocking the warrior down. Thrusting his wings forward, the gray spirit glided backwards in a swift flight away from the demon’s reach.
Watcher clenched his weapon’s handle in a tight grip, its gold blade beginning to turn red and flicker with flames. The demon lowered its beastly head, revealing several large horns as it charged forth to trample the miniscule spirit. Spouting crimson fire, Watcher’s unique weapon was flung at the creature’s chest. The fiery-red sword flew perfectly, its tip pointed directly at the charging demon. Now nearly molten, the blade melted through its target and the dark spirit released a horrid scream and exploded into a red mist.
The scream continued to echo through the forest as the gray-spirit wrenched his sword from the tree where it had imbedded itself. Feathered-wings emerged at the victor’s sides and he dived into flight. He flew low, soaring only a slight level above the tree line to avoid discovery. It was already nearing day time as Watcher headed toward the Mountains of Fire in the north. He had expected the dark forces to be aware that the time would soon be at hand, but he underestimated how close they would be to the stones—there must have been a mortal who made a deal with their lord. For now though, the fate of the Urithornium no longer rested in his hands and as he looked back he could see an endless presence of torches passing below the boughs of the forest.