PART III – THE SANCTUARY

DAVIDIAN

Death was at his back . . . and closing in fast.

In front of him, a wave of blue flames scorched a path to the Black Door. Crackling as

they leapt from his fingertips, the flames crawled up the ivory altar, found the Door and tuned it

to his home. The Rift beckoned Davidian onward as if eager to devour him body and soul. It

hovered before him, pulsating like a beating heart.

Death had him surrounded.

Hands – more bone than flesh – reached out for him . . .

Davidian dove into the Rift, leaving the dead hands to clench the air.

Thank the Gods, he thought as his soul spiraled through space. I didn’t think I’d actually

make it.

There was peace in the Rift – and he enjoyed every moment of it.

The tranquility allowed him to clear his head and to ponder his errors – there had been

many. He wondered what he could have done differently. Would it have even mattered? Could

he possibly have changed the outcome?

. . . No.

In that brief moment of peace, he came to the conclusion that nothing could have saved

them.

I did my best . . . and it didn’t mean a damn thing.

With that thought in mind, his tranquility came to an abrupt halt as the Black Door

callously dumped him onto a Dead World.

He was home . . . almost.

Davidian cursed in pain as he landed on his back. Instantly the tremendous pressure of

the world’s atmosphere began to crush him. He was only able to summon a thin veil of blue

flames around his body, but it was enough to relieve the pressure, allowing him to get to his feet.

It was a slow process. With every move he made, more vulgar and creative expletives filled his

mind along with the pain. Thankfully he had saved his trusted blade, Alithia, and was able to

make use of it as a crutch.

He carried the blade wherever he went, despite the fact that the Elders frowned on his use

of the weapon. Even though the edge of black steel was blessed, they considered any weapon,

other than the Oneness, an archaic method of combat.

But Alithia had saved his life several times . . . and many of those times had just recently

occurred. To escape the latest Plague infested world, he had nearly drained himself of the

Oneness. Lacking the ability to kill his enemies with blue flame, Davidian found the cold steel

of Alithia more than an acceptable substitute.

So much for the Treaty, he thought, still not sure what the hell went wrong back there.

Davidian was no rookie when it came to venturing into the Rift. He had been to many worlds, both living and dead. And had faced the Dark Army on countless occasions. But never before

had he seen such a brutal and blatant slaughter as that which he found on Torathius. So

consumed by madness, the Dark Army even ignored the feast, preferring to revel in pure carnage

. . . and chaos. The blood of the living, typically so precious and savored, was left to run down

the gutters and bath the streets.

I reckon Dona’Cora’s gonna burst into flames when she hears about this . . .

He tried to take a step, but with the thick atmosphere surrounding him, it was like

walking through a swamp. Not to mention every motion sent a searing pain down his shoulder

and back.

. . . If she hears about this, Davidian thought, beginning to wonder if he had saved

enough of his power to make it home.

The Dead World he stood on wasn’t his home, the black moon that orbited it was. They

dubbed the moon ‘The Sanctuary’, the home of the Elders and their Chosen ones. The only way

to reach it was by piloting a pod; metal vessels designed to be powered by the Oneness. There

was no Gate to the Sanctuary. The Dark Army could travel the Gate, but only the Oneness could

power a pod. It was a simple, but effective way to keep the Sanctuary safe from the Plague, and

it had done so for thousands of years. All Davidian had to do was reach a pod and he would be

safe, but the Dead World harbored a lethal environment. Every second spent within it was

incredibly taxing on one’s power – and Davidian didn’t have much to start with.

There were several pods scattered around the Rift, their egg-shaped metallic hulls

shimmering like a mirage as the planet’s sun beat down upon them. The closest of them was

roughly twenty standard feet away. But what normally would be quick stroll, now seemed like

an impossibility, considering Davidian had failed to complete a single step.

I will make it, he inwardly cursed. . . . I have too.

He didn’t come this far to die on a Dead World.

Davidian looked up, his dark brown eyes peeking out from a mop of disheveled black

hair. There it was . . . the Sanctuary, hanging in the sky; a half-moon sliver of metallic black.

It almost seemed close enough to touch. If he could just reach out to it . . .

He lifted his left arm. . . there was a loud pop. With the sudden jolt of pain, he nearly lost

control of his halo – the only thing keeping the dense atmosphere from turning his body into

pulp. He struggled to focus his mind, actually used the pain as a focal point.

He regained his senses as the pain slowly faded. Clearly, before he did anything else he

had to assess his injuries.

He wore a jacket of black leather, the cuffs and collar dyed blood red. A diagonal tear

ran the full length of the back of his jacket. The leather was cut clean, as if made by a razor -- so

too was the flesh beneath, exposing muscle, tissue and bone. His left arm hung at his side, he

once more attempted to raise it above his head, but only made it waist-high before his mind was

awash in pain.

Davidian couldn’t see the injury, but could guess at its severity. Most likely, his shoulder

blade had fractured or broken under the blow. The wide slice down his back was a flesh wound,

but a severe one. He knew the wound was deep, but thankfully not deep enough to harm his

spinal column or internal organs. All in all, nothing an Elder couldn’t heal, or even one of the

lesser Chosen for that matter. If he was stronger, he could do it himself, but in his current

condition he needed all the power he had left to guide his pod back to the Sanctuary; and the

longer he spent on the Dead World licking his wounds, the less energy he would have to make

that a possibility.

He gritted his teeth against the pain and trudged onward, one slow, excruciating step after

another . . .

Davidian was a Savior. He had spent the last decade on the world Torathius, anticipating

their scheduled destruction, as dictated by the Makii. He had found many on the planet he

believed could prove themselves worthy as Chosen. But before he could fully vet them, the dead

came – far ahead of schedule. That should have been his first clue that something had gone

horribly wrong, but despite the unexpected arrival, Davidian did what he was supposed to do; he

watched, and he waited.

He didn’t have to wait long, the Torathians were quickly slaughtered. The lust to kill was

unprecedented, even for the Dark Army.

That was his second clue – this time he didn’t ignore it.

He went into action. Saving the world was an impossibility – he vaguely remembered an

Elder teaching him that – so he went for the Chosen. To his credit, he collected five of them. It

was when he tried getting them back through the Rift that things went from bad to worse.

They had been just kids. They could have been great Chosen, perhaps even Elders one

day.

Davidian couldn’t save them . . . but before he focused on saving his own ass, he made

sure they wouldn’t end up as slaves in the Dark Army.

In his blood-bath scramble to get to the Rift, Davidian even took down a Dead God. As

Alithia slowly burned through the creature’s innards, he demanded to know why they had

abandoned the Treaty. It was common knowledge that it was a benefit to both sides, Dead Gods

and Elders. The Dead Gods had succeeded in devouring most of the universe, but their hunger

remained. It would always remain, such was their curse. In order to keep them sated, in essence,

the Elders created living planets for the Dead Gods to feed upon. And by doing so, they were

allowed to save their “Chosen” from these worlds and bring them back to the Sanctuary. There,

their powers could grow to create more planets for the Dead Gods to consume, and when they

did, the Chosen who had been elevated to Saviors would venture out to collect more Chosen . . .

etc . . . etc. And so it would go for all time – a truce (sort of). The truth of it was that the Elders

were enslaved by the Treaty. They were allowed to live and propagate, so long as the Dead

Gods were fed.

But the attack on Torathius was different than anything Davidian had seen, the Dark

Army wasn’t the least bit interested in feeding, just slaughtering anything with warm blood in its

veins.

Even as he twisted Alithia deeper, and black smoke curled from its torso, the Dead God

said not a word. It simply stared at him, oblivious to the pain. When whatever sort of life the

being possessed finally left, its eyes were as blank and empty as they had been the first moment

Alithia sank into its stomach.

Something is wrong as hell, Davidian thought, remembering the creature’s dead eyes. I

have to make it, I have to tell Dona’Cora.

He discovered reserves of power he didn’t know he had, and lumbered onward to the

gleaming pods.

Davidian grinned, gaining confidence as he drew nearer. He was going to make it. He

would get back to the Sanctuary and tell his tale. The Elders would heal him (make him strong

as ever), and together they would face this unbridled resurgence of the Dark Army. With Alithia

in his hands, he would make them pay for what they have done.

He stood in the shadow of a pod and smiled. He was about to send his power out and

open a door in the vessel when another shadow appeared – eclipsing both Davidian and the pod.

His smile vanished. He would have recognized the giant tree-like silhouette anywhere.

Of all the Elders, this being was his least favorite, and the last one he wished to see at the

moment.

‘Ostedes, what in the dead hell are you doing here?’ he asked as the creature rounded the

pod.

Davidian was also well aware of the being’s tremendous telepathic abilities, and knew

Ostedes would easily be interpreting his thoughts – most likely had been since he arrived in the

world.

The creature was a giant, nearly twice as tall as Davidian. Though his body and limbs

were thin, he seemed deceptively massive, for each of his arms had over a hundred limbs that

spread out from his body like branches. His feet were like roots, digging into the earth as he

moved. Ostedes had no mouth, only a blank face with a pair of glowing white eyes.

Suddenly the being reared up, and grew larger still, his branch-like limbs stretching out

and writhing in the air.

It was tough to tell through the hazy atmosphere, but he seemed even larger than

Davidian remembered . . . and his eyes, it was rumored they turned white when the giant was

angered, but now they shown like beacons. And there was something else . . .

Davidian, you damned fool!

He cursed himself. How could he have missed it?

Ostedes doesn’t have a halo!

Any living being without a shield of the Oneness to protect them would have been

instantly crushed in the dense atmosphere, leading Davidian to a simple conclusion – Ostedes

wasn’t a living being anymore.

He focused the Oneness, enhancing his speed. He had enough left for one strike –

maybe. But it had to count.

Davidian disregarded his injuries and dove for the being’s trunk-like chest -- Alithia

leading the way.

A hollow gurgle came from somewhere in the giant’s mouthless head. His limbs vibrated

and twitched as Davidian came on, but they didn’t move to intercept him.

They didn’t have to.

‘DAVIDIAN.’

The sound of his name reverberated through his mind. Davidian felt his body shutting

down, his own limbs were no longer his to control. And there was pain, a solid wall of fire that

prevented any rational thought.

But he was already in motion. Alithia was still heading for her target . . . the tip of his

blade made contact with Ostedes chest and easily sank in to the hilt. The strike must have

broken the giant’s concentration, for Davidian had his body back, the pain in his mind was but an

echo. He landed on his feet and pulled Alithia free. A spurt of black blood accompanied the

blade, drenching Davidian. He ignored the spray of viscous fluid and prepared for a second

strike.

The only thing moving on the tree-like giant was its flailing limbs. His eyes continued to

shine down on Davidian.

Perhaps he was mistaken, but it almost appeared like the bark ridges of Ostedes’ face had

twisted into a grin.

Davidian grinned back. With his next strike, he planned to bury Alithia into the Elder’s

face.

Smoke rose from Alithia’s edge . . .

. . . and from Davidian’s flesh. His face and body were suddenly on fire. Before he

could comprehend what was happening his skin blistered, burst and then sloughed from his body.

The black blood was like acid, burning into his skin. He summoned what little power he had to

stop it, but it was too late . . . and worse yet, the black blood wasn’t content to simply burn his

flesh; it was burrowing into it, seeping into his blood stream.

‘Curse you, Ostedes!’

Davidian was being possessed.

His leather coat was speckled with holes from which his life-blood was pouring. The

majority of the fluid had landed on his face, which was rapidly being eaten away, his tussled

head of hair became a skull cap of white bone.

Alithia slipped from his grip, the entire length of blessed steel pocked and rapidly

disintegrating.

Davidian screamed, but he didn’t make a sound, his voice swallowed in the dense

atmosphere.

‘I HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR YOU, DAVIDIAN. I KNEW EVENTUALLY A SAVIOR

WOULD COME, AND WHEN THEY DID . . .’

Even as his flesh melted away, Davidian summoned all the Oneness he had left, and

prepared for one last attack.

But Ostedes took his mind, and with it his power. The branch-like limbs came at him,

digging into his body.

‘SAVE YOUR STRENGTH. I HAVE NEED OF YOUR POWER. I AM COMING

HOME, AND YOU WILL BE THE ONE TO TAKE ME THERE.’

The strange choking noise came louder from the giant. Davidian’s eyes melted from his

head. Before the darkness took him, he realized the choking sound was Ostedes’ laughter.

ANON

He walked the garden; the bountiful vale of life that was the genesis of the new world –

the last salvation of the living.

A breeze followed the man. It surrounded him in an invisible shield. Leaves parted at

his approach, tree bows bent. Where there was only dense forest a path was cleared. The breeze

brushed his mossy green cape, stirring the many silver bells sewn into the cloth and filling the air

with their gentle ringing. Birds echoed the sound throughout the canopy.

There was even a rainbow breaking through the trees . . .

The world’s golden sun was replaced with blood-red ball; cold, and seemingly too

decrepit to fully arise.

. . . He stood in the ruins of a once colossal structure. Slabs of rubble etched by the

elements closed him in. They rose to the sky; giant grey monoliths hundreds of feet tall. On the

horizon, the light of the dying sun cast the land into shadow. The shadows of the monoliths

became warped replicas of their creators, stretching over the man.

The shadows were all around him . . . like ghosts of the temple’s former greatness. One

of the shades even moved, and it drew near.

“Have you made contact?” Anon asked as the humanoid silhouette shuffled over to him.

“Yes,” the being replied, his voice half echo, half whisper.

“And yet you live?” he chided the being.

“Ha . . . so it seems. It appears their hatred for the new enemy has trumped their hatred

of me.”

The being was wrapped in darkness, he wore it like cloak. His face was shaped like a

human, but his features were an indistinguishable dark blur.

“Sadly, few of my former brethren were inclined to meet with me,” the being continued.

“I’ll admit, the love lost between us is great. Yet even so, I would wager the majority have

ignored my call because they have either succumbed, or been reclaimed by the Void. And those

who answered, said but little. They fear their fate will soon mirror that of their lost brethren, and

rightly so. It was only when I mentioned the great Anon that they spoke at all. They think you,

their greatest enemy, is now their only salvation.”

“They are forsaken. Nothing can save them now,” Anon bluntly stated.

“I know the truth of it . . .” the shadow said, performing an elaborate bow. “But felt the

knowledge should be withheld. An act of kindness perhaps, for those who were once my

brothers.”

“Kindness?” The man said, arching an eyebrow in mock confusion. “I didn’t think you

were capable of it, Imorbis. Nor are your brothers deserving of it.”

“We, the Makii, have much to atone for, Anon. Those who are free, only wish to set

things right with the Maker.”

“Their time will come. One day they will meet the Maker, let them beg for atonement

then. The Maker may be blessed with infinite kindness, but after what your people have done,

my guess is they will only be granted suffering.”

“A chance to stand before the Maker is more than we deserve. No doubt, his punishment

will be just.”

Anon nodded. His head was bald on top and had a clump of hair on either side.

“What then, have you learned from them, these brothers of yours?”

Imorbis withered away as though the shadows were drawing him in.

“It is as you feared, the Dark Army will move against the Sanctuary. In this, we will

need all the allies we can get, even the free Makii.”

Anon wasn’t so certain, he already had a difficult time trusting just one of them.

“I knew it would come to pass, but sought to deny it. Only one empowered with the

Oneness can reach the Sanctuary . . .”

Anon lowered his head, pondering the meaning of his own statement.

“Surely we have been betrayed by one of our own. But why would an Elder seek our

destruction? Why would they dare open a Gate into the Sanctuary?”

“There is but one who would wish such a thing, but he is an Elder no longer. We thought

him dead, killed by your own hands. But it seems we were both greatly mistaken.”

Anon raised his head, his bulging brown eyes filled with white fire.

“Even if what you say is true, the Oneness has left him. He cannot create – not even a

Gate. Death is his only power.”

“Not his only power,” Imorbis replied.

Imorbis was right, Anon remembered the evil being’s telepathic abilities all too well.

“And my brethren say his powers have grown. He doesn’t plan to create a Gate himself,

but force one of your kind to do it for him.”

Anon’s flesh disintegrated in a burst of white flame. He was a faceless man of fire – in

front of him hunched the shadowed being that had once been a Dead God.

“The Sanctuary’s loss will be unavoidable.”

Anon’s voice came from every direction, from everything.

“But we may yet save many lives . . . if we can free them from the Sanctuary. However I

fear such a task could prove as difficult as a direct confrontation with the Dark Army. Any

attempt to rescue them could very well become a suicide mission.”

The Dead God’s face warped into a shadowed grin.

“Yes, Anon, I know. Of course, I have already given the matter thought, and believe I

have a plan.”

“Of course . . .” Anon replied, dreading to have to go through with another one of the

Dead God’s plans. The last time he did, he had died.

But, as it was then, he had little choice.

“Alright, Imorbis. What do you have in store for us this time . . ?”

And so it began . . . Imorbis discussed the plan with Anon. He went into great detail,

describing what should and would happen, when and where. Though he never once lied to

Anon, he omitted one immensely important detail – Sevron. He spoke truly when he told Anon

the evil force behind this attack was one he had defeated and left for dead. What Anon didn’t

know, was that the being he referred to was Sevron, and that he survived because of Imorbis’ sin.

In his longing to be free of the Hunger, he resurrected the greatest evil the universe had ever

known. He unleashed him upon the Elfin God-Tree, the Graelic, and in doing so, he

unknowingly imbued Sevron with unimaginable powers – powers that Imorbis should have

possessed.

But now Imorbis sought another power, had another plan to be free of the Hunger. Now,

Imorbis walked a different path.

No, he would never lie to Anon, to do so would make him a prisoner to the Hunger for all

time. On the other hand, he couldn’t help but wonder what will happen when Anon discovers

the truth? Sooner or later he’ll see it for himself. Will he continue to forgive Imorbis’ sins? Or

will he send him to hell alongside his old friend, Sevron?

Either way, he’ll be free of the Hunger. Either way, he’ll hold steadfast to the Maker’s

path.

BRONTES

They fell out of the Rift into an ocean of black ash.

The Magi went through first, their halos of the Oneness the only thing keeping them from

being buried and suffocating in the field of dark debris. Their halos swelled, becoming giant

flaming bubbles that pushed the toxic air back. Then, able to breath safely in their bubbles, they

surveyed the world they had tumbled into.

A grey cliff arose in the distance – a pile of sulfur and ash, the recent deposit of some

cataclysmic volcanic eruption. It was well over one hundred feet high, but was loosely cemented

and constantly crumbling; large chunks of solid magma were mixed in with the volcanic

afterbirth and tumbled free, splashing to the earth and sending waves of ash to crash against the

Magi’s blue shields.

The earth shook, sending several of the Magi to their knees. A plume of smoke and fire

erupted behind the grey cliff.

“Are you sure this planet is safe, Brontes?” one of the Magi asked, shouting to be heard

above the rumbling volcano.

Their faces were all hidden beneath black masks, their bodies in tight, form-fitting black

suits. At first glance, the fabric seemed to be made of silken thread, but should one try to pierce

or tear the thread they would find it nearly impenetrable. The suits were a gift of their new

allies, the dwarves, who had grudgingly decided to remain behind. They wanted to help the

mission, even if they weren’t allowed to join it, and had crafted each member a custom suit of

their dwarven blue-steel. The steel retained its unbreakable strength, even when thinned to a

hair’s breadth. With so many steel filaments woven together, the suits were certain to provide

great defense against the Dark Army’s bite.

“This planet is unstable, to say the least,” the mage continued, struggling to keep his

balance.

Only the symbols embroidered on their foreheads distinguished one mage from another –

they each wore the symbol of their fallen home-world. The speaker had a crescent moon

centered below two suns. His name was Ollius, and like the dwarves, he was another new and

powerful ally. Ollius was once Gatekeeper to the human populated world Omicron. When the

Great Exodus began, he led his people into the Black Door prior to the coming of the Plague, and

from there they wandered from world to world, the Dark Army always one step behind. They

lost many along the way, and would have all fallen had it not been for Ollius. He kept them alive

long enough for Brontes to find them, and guide them to their new world.

Other than Ollius, none of the humans they rescued had shown the slightest desire to join

Brontes’ current mission -- Brontes couldn’t blame them. After all, they had only recently made

it out of the Rift, and they had but barely escaped. The moment they arrived on the new world,

the majority of the humans fled the Black Door and never looked back. The others wasted no time building defenses; strengthening the great wall the dwarves had named “Lock Core”, or

beginning their own fortifications somewhere deep in the outerlands.

There was safety there, in the new world -- a planet the humans had begun to call the

Seventh World – and safety was something none of them dreamed they would ever find again.

The humans thought Brontes and his companions were insane to leave it. To risk losing it

forever in the darkness of the Black Door was a thought that few of them could fathom.

To escape the Rift once was nearly impossible, to do so again – was a miracle.

If he survived, this would be Brontes’ sixth time escaping a besieged world. And yes, he

was in fact quite accustomed to witnessing miracles. He knew that as long as the Maker was on

his side anything was possible – it had been proven so, time and time again.

He remembered the first miracle – his own rescue from his Plague infested home-world,

Idrllian, a planet that was virtually defenseless, having been located deep in the Unified core.

None expected an attack would come from H’aleron – the capital world of the Makii. None

would have guessed that the Makii’s vendetta with death could unleash a wave of annihilation

that would spread through the entire universe.

There was little left now, and the annihilation was spreading quicker than ever.

The Makii once fashioned themselves gods, but to complete this belief they dared to

become one with death. Considering all their accomplishments, the Plague was their greatest

success, for once infected they truly became death incarnate.

But the price for their immortality was great. Unbeknownst to them, their dark powers

unleashed a horror even greater than they. The Void itself was awakened into reality, born in the

corrupted soul of the elven Great Tree, the Graelic.

That was Brontes’ second miracle, his second brush with death in the Black Door. On

the elven planet Ki'minsyllessil, he was actually killed – infected by the Dead Tree, but the

Maker brought him back . . . and gave him a mission – to save as many souls as possible before

the Void claimed their worlds.

Since then he had visited many worlds, mostly lifeless ones. Sadly, in most cases he was

too late, the Dark Army moved too fast. In all his journeys through the Black Door he was only

able to gather survivors from three worlds – each one a miracle.

Souls had been saved, but Brontes would be the last man to call any of the missions a

success -- far too many souls were lost before they made their way out. Lately, Brontes feared

he was not only running out of living worlds to save, but miracles as well.

I just need one more . . .

This mission was different. There could be no failure this time. Brontes honestly

believed all souls were equally precious, but in the war with the Void the ones he sought now

were priceless.

They were gods . . . once upon a time.

“Of course it is unstable, Ollius. It is a Dead World, after all,” Brontes replied to his new

friend. “If you were expecting to find paradise, then you signed up for the wrong mission. We

must deal with what we have. If the volcano becomes active . . . the Maker willing, we’ll find a

way to deal with that too.”

Brontes’ symbol was a large, silver diamond with twin triangles, their tips conjoined at its

center; all three shapes were aflame.

His right eye was somewhat visible through his mask, as was the pink scar that had

replaced his left eye.

He took in the ash covered world around him with his one good eye.

Brontes looked to the horizon, there should have been a sun or stars up in the sky, but

even with his eye of mage-fire he could only see ash.

The sky was pure black – a cloud of ash five hundred feet thick enveloped the entire

world. Only by using the Oneness as a lens was he able to see anything at all. The cliff of

collapsing ash vented its own clouds of sulfuric gas. At the base of the cliff, the liquid sulfur sat

in a steaming orange pool. Encircling the pool was a yellow crust -- like pus drying around an

infected wound.

And the smell! Brontes didn’t want to waste too much power cleansing the air of the

odor, but the sour stench was nearly unbearable.

“Truth be told,” Brontes jested. “We have seen worse.”

Much worse.

Ollius couldn’t deny that, having been through hell himself.

“I doubt Anon would have sent us here if this wasn’t the best location; the closest to the

Sanctuary and least hostile. We have to trust him in this . . .”

Was this your decision, Anon?

Anon had acquired a new ally on Ki'minsyllessil, one that Brontes was none too fond of

-- to say the least.

Brontes sensed the Dead God, Imorbis’ hand in this rescue mission. Whether that was

good or bad, was yet to be determined. The Dead God was considered a genius . . . and he was

Anon’s ally. That should be enough.

Then why did Brontes still have his doubts?

Most likely, they stemmed from his past experiences with Dead Gods -- particularly the

one who took his eye, Sevron the so-called “Servant of Death”. Even among the Dead Gods he

had a reputation for cruelty – a reputation he fully lived up to while conquering Brontes’ home-

world. Sevron hadn’t been interested in spreading the Plague, only carnage. Those he

slaughtered didn’t rise again to join the Dark Army. When Sevron was done with their bodies,

there wasn’t enough left of them for even the Plague to resurrect.

Thankfully, Sevron wouldn’t be rising again either – Anon had made sure of that.

“And where is Anon now?” Ollius asked, as if he was reading Brontes’ mind. “If he truly

is as powerful as I have heard, his aid would be much appreciated for the assault . . . or

rescue . . . whatever you are calling it.”

Having never met the man himself, Ollius had a tough time believing the tales of Anon,

and that many of the past miracles had actually been performed by Anon’s hand.

“Well, I certainly hope to call it a rescue . . .” Brontes replied. “Nor do I doubt Anon’s

power, or question how he chooses to use it. Rest assured, Ollius, if we truly needed him he

would be here. His absence can only mean one thing; he trusts us to succeed in this, just as we

must trust in his judgment. Besides, we cannot expect him to fight all of our battles, some of

them we must win on our own.”

The rest of the Magi nodded in acceptance. Even though he could only see their eyes,

Brontes hoped his doubts were better hidden than their own.

“Make no mistake, I’m with you, Brontes. No matter where we go or who we fight. I

would never have made it this far without your aid,” Ollius said. “I apologize if I’ve offend you .

. . I just can’t help being worried about jumping into the middle of the Dark Army.”

You and me both.

“It gets easier after a couple times,” Brontes jokingly replied, his grin hidden beneath his

mask. “There’s no need to worry, Ollius. We may not have Anon, but we do have the Elf

Prince.”

Brontes would’ve bet that at the mention of Adros, Ollius was grinning as well.

“Speaking of which . . .” Brontes said, growing serious. “We should probably get him

here and the sooner the better.”

Wasting no more time, he ordered the Magi to secure the environment.

The Magi banded together, sending out their blue flames to clear a path for those who

followed. Their burning halos flowed together, turning ash into oxygen and clearing an area a

mile wide.

Altogether there were twenty of the Magi – a small force compared to the number of dead

they expected to face (which could very well be the entire Dark Army). But Brontes didn’t

intend for this mission to become a prolonged fight, just a quick strike – in and out. Thus his

decision to leave the dwarves behind, though they were great warriors, with their short and

stocky legs they were simply too slow. Convincing them to stay behind, without offending them,

had been a delicate bit of persuasion – Anon himself had to step in and handle that one.

The giants, however, would not be denied. Another . . . ‘arrangement’ had been made

with them, an arrangement that Brontes whole-heartedly disagreed with, but Anon had allowed.

In the end, they did manage to convince them that because of their size, only ten could come.

The honor went to ten of their eldest. And though they were old, they were all tough, war-

hardened veterans who had hacked and smashed their way into their twilight-years – and didn’t

intend to stop until they were dead.

As for the elves . . . Brontes wouldn’t leave without them. As always, every member of

the elven race would accompany him -- all fifty-two of them.

Brontes accepted the fact that, like their previous missions, there would be casualties, but

the size of his group ensured the casualties would be minimal. He also hoped to be leaving the

planet with over twenty times the amount of Magi he arrived with . . . if things went well. If they

didn’t, none of them would be leaving.

Once they had the environment under control, Brontes sent the others a signal that all was

clear; a wisp of blue flame left his hand, swirling out into the darkness of the Black Door

The elves answered his summons, gracefully striding through the pulsating Rift. They

were tall, thin beings, their eyes of grey and white the only feature visible through their own

black hoods. Even their pointed ears and golden manes of hair were tucked away beneath the

fabric of blue-steel.

One symbol was emblazoned on all of their foreheads – a tree, its roots forming a world,

its branches blazing like a sun. Many of them were difficult to distinguish from one another, but

Brontes could easily pick out the Elf Prince, Adros. Not only was he a head taller than the rest,

as ever, his trusted staff of King’s Wood was tightly clutched in his hands. The blood red tip

seemed to throb in this bleak environment, as if warning the Prince of mortal peril.

The wood held the life-force of Adros’ fallen home-world. And though it was a sapling

of the Great Tree, and thus the embodiment of life -- to the Dark Army it was death. Countless

of the undead had fallen to Adros’ staff, ending their long span of immortality as lifeless husks.

After they abandoned his home-world Ki'minsyllessil, Brontes and Adros quickly bonded

through their mutual mission to save the worlds. Since then, they have suffered, and survived,

countless turmoil in their attempts to save other races from the coming Plague – and in doing so,

have grown to be the closest of friends.

Adros and his elven kin were remarkable in so many ways. One of which was that they

never hesitated to journey back into the Black Door – even after all the horror they suffered on

their own home-world. Without their aid, there would have been no survivors on any of the

other worlds. The Elves were remarkable warriors; immune to the Plague, but also incredibly

agile and fast. Brontes had seen them stand as equals against the Dead Gods themselves in

combat.

Over the past several years, Magi and elf had fought as one in many a battle. They had

proven themselves to be a formidable union, surviving some of the harshest Dead Worlds in the

universe. But no matter how the odds were stacked against them, they always survived. And

they always went back for more. The one being Brontes would credit most for their bravery and

success was Adros. He led them in battle, and he led them to safety. Without him, none of it

was possible.

The Elf Prince had no fear.

As though the world around him was full of sunshine and rainbows, and not ash and fire,

Adros calmly strode over to Brontes, his slender fingers reaching out to clasp his hand. The

mage gladly accepted the gesture, feeling far more comforted now that the Elf Prince had

arrived.

Next to the Prince was his guardian, X’ander. Brontes recognized him first by the lifeless

glaze in his eyes, not the fact that he was always at the Prince’s side. Unlike the rest of the elves,

X’ander wasn’t a soldier or warrior, he was a killer. And a more skilled killer Brontes had never

seen. He was just thankful the elf employed his skills against the undead and not the living.

Because their tight fitting suits were so similar, he recognized but one other elf, and only

because she cast him a sultry wink. As usual, he did his best to ignore the flirtation, but his good

eye probably lingered a little too long on her shapely body. It was especially difficult to look

away when the tight-fitting suit of blue-steel accentuated her every curve.

S’ilindsa . . .

How he wished she had stayed behind.

He couldn’t afford to worry about her in the coming rescue. He knew that to do so would

be a weakness on his part. S’ilindsa was more than capable of making her own decisions and

taking care of herself. Perhaps when they returned to the Seventh World he would finally return

her affections . . .

Why wait?

Especially since there was a high probability at least one of them would not be returning.

He returned her wink with his one good eye, then turned away before he could witness

her response. S’ilindsa was bold and shameless, an unpredictable combination. He didn’t dare

encourage her further, not with her adopted father, Adros present.

Brontes aided the twenty Magi as they ensured the elves’ safety, then he summoned the

next group of warriors.

They were the giants . . . the Mithrlnites. They had to step through the Black Door single

file, so thick were their bodies. Unlike the rest of the party, the giants weren’t dressed in suits of

blue-steel, but were mostly bare-chested, wearing scant amounts of clothing; vests and

breechcloths of exotic animal skins. Their clothing was basic – but well crafted. Medallions of

gold and silver adorned their clothing; symbols of their valor in past battles. The rest of their

bodies were covered with bushy tufts of grey hair, their thick, corded muscles rippling beneath.

An inch thick and tough as bark, their skin was armor unto itself. Thus their refusal of

the dwarven suits. They did, however, accept the dwarves’ gifts of weapons; gargantuan axes

with silver inlay, and steel hammers as tall as Brontes.

Even the Elf Prince Adros, seemed small next to them – a twig next to a boulder.

The Mithrlnites were the newest additions to their little army. They had been told to stay

back, but they wouldn’t take no for an answer. They were fearsome warriors, but they were also

slow, cumbersome behemoths that could potentially jeopardize the mission. But Anon (or most

likely Imorbis) allowed them to come, granting them a role in the coming battle that would

ensure their value. Truth was, the addition of the Mithrlnites could make all the difference. As

much as he inherently hated their role in the mission, Brontes was glad to have them along.

After all, he had seen their leader, Rag’nerack kill a Dead God – with but one blow of his

hammer.

Rag’nerack was the most impressive of his kind, towering over them all as though they

were children. In his massive, hair-covered fist was a thick column of steel with a glowing brick

of crystal fastened to the end. Brontes had yet to learn the giant’s true name (perhaps never

would) ‘Rag’nerack’ was a title given to him by his people. The ancient meaning was something

akin to ‘World’s end’, but in the giant’s tongue, the title meant ‘God’s weapon’ and represented

a position of great honor among his kind. Rag’nerack was the closest thing the Mithrlnites had

to a Chosen, though he wasn’t a product of the Elders, his size and strength had certainly been

enhanced by the Maker.

In general, the giants were an incredibly hardy people, a fact made evident as they

lumbered out of the Rift and refused the Magi’s offer of protection, sucking in a vigorous breath

of the planet’s acidic and ash filled air instead.

“Well,” the giant Rag’nerack thundered, his fist clenching on the steel column. “Let’s

get on with it.”

“You’ll have your vengeance soon enough,” Brontes replied. Brontes was still in awe of

their size, and found it difficult to be authoritative when his body was the size of Rag’nerack’s

arm.

“The moment they create a Door, we’re going in,” he continued, craning his neck up in

an effort to look Rag’nerack in his massive brown eyes.

“And how ya be knowing they’ll make one for sure?” Rag’nerack asked, heaving his

hammer onto his shoulder.

“Anon said it will open, so it will be so,” Adros replied, before Brontes had the chance.

Brontes knew Adros and his kin wouldn’t have a problem waiting, when your life span

lasted a millennium one gained a bit more patience. But the Mithrlnites were more than eager to

see their mission fulfilled – and their time was limited.

“The Gate will open to the Sanctuary, and when it does, I will sense it. We will do our

best to gain access, but it could take some time. Every moment counts, the longer it remains

open, the more of the Dark Army we must face. When we do gain control, it will last but a short

time. As soon as the Dark Army senses our efforts they will tune us out. We are but twenty

Magi, the Dark Army has thousands of Makii. Once we are discovered, we will be shut out

immediately. Our battle is not for control of the Gate, but for the souls of those stuck in the

Sanctuary. We land and we leave. The more time we spend fighting, the more we lose to the

Dark Army.”

Brontes looked to the giants, acknowledging that they would be the exception to the rule.

“As much as we wish this to end, this battle will pass to our ancestors. It will be they

who fight our final battle. They can change the fate of the universe, but only if we live to pass

on our knowledge and help them grow. If we fail in this, all is lost. This new world we have

made together will surely fall. We need them . . . as much as they have failed us in the past, the

Elders, the Chosen. They are Magi. And without their bloodline we do not stand a chance.

They have no idea what is coming for them, or that we are coming to save them. But we will

save them. We the ‘Guardians of Death’ will save the gods.”

We have to.

Then he felt it . . . just as Anon predicted, the Dark Army tore open a Door directly into

the Sanctuary of the Elder Gods.

The Magi at his back sensed it as well, and shuffled nervously in anticipation.

“They’ve done it,” Brontes said, torrents of flames leaving his hands to pour into the Rift.

“Get ready. We’re going to the Sanctuary.”

The roar of the Mithrlnites made the rumbling volcano seem like a whisper.

DONA’CORA

She was hunched over, her back bent from a harsh life that spanned ages. The small,

yellow-eyed woman scurried through the dark tunnels of the Sanctuary. Her nostrils flared as

she breathed, almost as if her sharp, pointed nose was sniffing the air, searching for a path

through the maze of tunnels.

And to think, there was a time when she walked through hallways gilded with silver and

gold, and all who beheld her fell to their knees. Worlds worshipped her . . . then she led them to

their deaths. After that, she lost everything.

Almost everything . . .

She still had one thing left – revenge. The thought of it had kept her going all these

years. Her flesh should have withered to dust long ago, but by focusing her vast reserves of the

Oneness on slowing her cellular decay she had outlived her own mortality. Like the Dead Gods,

her ‘immortality’ came with a price; to continue her quest of vengeance Dona’Cora had to

sacrifice her power. Sadly, she had devoted so much of it to maintaining her existence that she

was hardly the goddess she once was. But she was still a goddess, and still powerful enough to

be ranked among the Elders. Though with every passing day, the processes required more of

her. It was only a matter of time before she was as weak as any Chosen, and shortly thereafter,

the great and powerful Dona’Cora would be little better than a bloodless. Likewise, the process

to extend her life only slowed decay, unlike the ‘immortality’ of the Dead Gods, it didn’t stop it.

Little by little, Dona’Cora was inching her way toward death.

Surprisingly, her advancing geriatric condition was the least of her worries. With the

latest wave of reports (or lack thereof) she very much doubted she would be dying of old age.

As she moved through the tunnels, the same thought that had plagued her of late

continued gnawing at her -- Something was wrong.

Dona’Cora’s mind was clouded with a sensation she rarely felt, an emotion she had

thought herself incapable of – fear. She vaguely remembered experiencing it as a child, and felt

as helpless now as she had then. She was an immortal, a goddess, perhaps the most powerful

being in known existence, and yet she was as frightened as a little girl.

Dona’Cora was ancient and had been born before the Age of Death. Since then, she had

witnessed virtually every imaginable nightmare come to life and had faced all those horrors

unflinching and unafraid.

There was truly only one thing she feared – failure.

The Void was coming to reclaim her – reclaim them all, and she wasn’t ready. A

thousand years of planning, all for naught.

It’s over, she thought, a new (more familiar) emotion arising. I’ve failed. This will be

the end, my final battle, and once more I will be defeated.

Anger replaced fear.

I will not die easy.

Her anger flared. How she wished to bath herself in the Oneness.

Soon enough . . .

She had a promise to keep, and there were many Makii left to kill. No matter what

happened, she would do her best to see that promise fulfilled.

Even so, she harbored no illusions of victory. If the Dark Army found a way to the

Sanctuary, death would be an inevitability.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to end.

She had been so close; her Chosen were stronger than ever. In only a short matter of time

they could have marched against the Makii. But they weren’t ready now – and most likely all

those she had invested on the Living Worlds were either dead or enslaved to the Dark Army.

For over a standard year, there had been only silence from the Living Worlds. No

Saviors returned home bringing a new flock of Chosen. Even the sparse communication with the

Dead Gods was no more – and likely so too was the Treaty. Most recently, she had sent a team

down to the Rift-world to investigate the Gate. But they were long overdue. With every passing

moment of their absence, Dona’Cora drew closer to the conclusion that they were all dead, and

the Rift-world was compromised.

What is happening out there . . . ? she wondered, not used to being left in the dark.

The Conclave of Elders had been summoned to discuss the situation, but Dona’Cora

knew that it would become a war council, for it was obvious that the only thing left to discuss

was an impending attack.

She walked through a tunnel of black glass to reach the Conclave, one of the many

pathways the Elders had carved through the mountain of basaltic obsidian. She crossed paths

with many Chosen and even a few Elders as she walked the tunnels, but she spared them hardly

even a yellow-eyed glance. Soon they would all be dead; nothing she did could change that.

That was the truth of the coming battle; she didn’t want them to read it in her eyes.

Let them have hope in the battle to come, it may be the only thing left to them.

Those she passed gave her a quick bow before scurrying out of her way. Clearly,

everyone sensed her mounting anger as well as the mounting threat of danger, and none of them

wanted to have any part of either.

There was an unusual amount of traffic in the Sanctuary’s halls. Dona’Cora wondered

where they were heading. Where could they possibly go? It was doubtful they even had a

destination. Without access to the Gate, each and every one of them were trapped in the

Sanctuary. Part of the reason it remained standing through the millennia was that the moon was

inaccessible, but if the Dark Army controlled the world below them, then the Sanctuary was also

inescapable. The metallic ships they called ‘pods’ were the only way to reach the moon, and the

only way off of it as well.

The thought of taking the pods and fleeing into deep space crossed her mind, but she

dismissed it almost instantly. Since the creation of the Rift, star-charts were no longer

maintained. They wouldn’t know what direction to begin their journey, or even what they were

searching for. Not to mention, the power of the Oneness was limited – space was not. They

could only go so far before they became stranded.

No. A trip to deep space was akin to suicide. Dona’Cora wouldn’t end it that way . . .

Thane . . .

She remembered her fallen lover, and how she found him killed by his own hand rather

than risk becoming a demon.

No. She will die in the fight. The Dead Gods will have to kill her, she wasn’t going to

give them any other choice.

As for their own choices, the only other way off of the Sanctuary would be to make a

Gate on the moon itself. But the Dark Army would love nothing more, for the moment they did

so, every last undead being in the universe would pour through. Even if the Elders could take

control of the Gate, the entire Sanctuary would be flooded with the dead by the time they did so.

There was but one choice left to them.

Our only choice is to fight.

But who would stand beside her now? Who could she trust?

She had sent her most loyal to the elven home-world, Ki'minsyllessil – the place where

her best laid plans began to unravel. They were to return with a great source of power,

something that could have brought Dona’Cora her long sought after victory. But instead, they

were all murdered.

Anon . . . if ever we meet again.

She once thought Anon was trustworthy -- perhaps even a friend -- but now the man

plotted against her. Sources said he even aligned himself with a Dead God. He betrayed her on

the Elven home-world, not once, but twice. His first betrayal was in the form of his acolyte,

Alana. He entrusted her to save a Chosen one from the dying world Ki'minsyllessil, but instead

of leaving with the Elf Prince Adros, she took it upon herself to stand against the Dead Gods –

thereby forfeiting the Treaty. Her actions brought about grave consequences, of which

Dona’Cora was soon to suffer. It was apparent their ‘peace’ with the Dead Gods was broken,

allowing the Dark Army to run amok throughout the universe.

As for Alana’s quest to save Ki'minsyllessil; predictably, the world fell anyway and

whatever Chosen existed on the world had been lost – or so Dona’Cora thought. A handful

remained, most markedly their leader, Adros.

As punishment, Alana was sent to the Forsaken Worlds, and Anon was sent to

Ki'minsyllessil to fix the mess she had made. But instead of returning with the remaining elves

and their source of power, he hid them all – even from Dona’Cora. And her loyal followers who

were sent to aid Anon were now dead, presumably murdered by Anon’s hand.

Despite this travesty, many yet viewed Anon as some sort of sacred entity. She could

almost forgive the naiveté of the Chosen to be swayed by his lies, but even some of the Elders

had become followers of Anon’s monotheistic belief in a so-called ‘Maker’.

If anyone had knowledge of the gods, it was Dona’Cora – she was one, after all. She was

the leader of the gods, the most blessed with the Oneness.

As for Anon, she was quite certain the man was barren of the Oneness. Without a doubt

he did ‘things’, but how? She felt no power in the man; saw no signature of blue flame when he

did his ‘magic’. He managed to convince many it was the hand of the Maker itself that gave him

power, but Dona’Cora wasn’t so easily fooled. He had been an illusionist in the ancient times,

and most likely was still little more than a charlatan now.

But he was beloved, and had risen in the hierarchy of the Elders because of it.

Dona’Cora though was at the hierarchy’s top, not because she was loved, but because she had

incredible power and a devotion to succeed against the Dark Army that was its own religion.

She put her faith within herself. She didn’t require the power of some supreme being to fight her

battles, her powers were supreme.

In a millennium, they had only failed her once . . . she vowed they would never do so

again. No matter how grave the circumstances had become, she trusted them still. Ideally, she would have bided her time -- let her army of Chosen grow -- but if a battle was imminent she had

no choice but to fight it.

The nagging sense of doom grew stronger as she reached her destination. The room was

a spacious, rectangular chamber located deep within the Sanctuary. Like the majority of the

Sanctuary, the walls were smooth obsidian glass. The ceiling was over four stories high, and

from one end to the other was filled with elaborate, magic wrought carvings depicting the fallen

star-systems of every Chosen and Elder who had ever stepped foot in the Sanctuary. As she

always did, Dona’Cora paused for a moment at the threshold, her yellow eyes immediately

darting to her own system, her own fallen world.

Demicron . . .

Of late, she remembered little of it. If it wasn’t for the mural, she would probably no

longer even recognize her own system.

‘Greetings, Elder Dona’Cora. What news have you on the mission to the Rift?’ an Elder

God asked, interrupting Dona’Cora’s attempt at nostalgic reverie.

Dona’Cora took her eyes from the ceiling and focused them on the Elder, a one, Mila

Dosanti. Mila was kind-hearted, intelligent, trustworthy and brave. Nevertheless, Dona’Cora

couldn’t help sneering at the woman. What annoyed Dona’Cora was that she belittled each of

those benign qualities by flaunting her other (less wholesome) ones. On any world in the

universe she would be perceived as a remarkable beauty. She stood just less than seven standard

feet tall, though she seemed taller with her hair made up into an elaborate crown of jet-black

curls. Her features were subtle and flowing; like tiny, wind-blown waves stirring the surface of

still water. Her flesh was soft and smooth – far too soft in Dona’Cora’s opinion. She would

prefer it if the woman spent more time enhancing her physical fitness, hardening her flesh in

anticipation of war, as opposed to enhancing her physical beauty in anticipation of love-making.

Even so, Dona’Cora would have been willing to overlook her lack of physical discipline

if only the woman could be persuaded to wear the proper attire.

Mila wore nothing at all -- that is to say, no physical garb. Her naked flesh was covered

by a thin layer of blue flames instead. The Oneness was her wardrobe, a constantly shifting

sheet of silken flames. The more males in her company – the less blue flames. At the moment,

five were present, thus she revealed enough skin to only be mildly vulgar. But it was still far

more of Mila than Dona’Cora would have liked to see.

Mila returned Dona’Cora’s sneer with an angelic, bright smile.

‘As one would expect, those we sent to the Rift-world are no longer among us,’

Dona’Cora replied, communicating telepathically to hasten the pace of the meeting.

‘Are you certain? They were all highly trained Chosen, led by one of our own, the Elder

Corrisan. He is no novice to the ways of the Dark Army, and would not have succumbed to a

trap – especially knowing he was heading into one,’ the Elder, known simply as Ome, said.

Among the remaining Elders, Ome held the greatest amount of Dona’Cora’s respect (and

he held the most power as well). For a mortal, he was old, perhaps several centuries so. If they

had been of a like age, Dona’Cora would have easily outranked him in power, but now they were

near equals – Ome edging her out, but barely.

He was wise, old, and a veteran warrior. But could she trust him?

Because they were so similarly matched in power, Ome would not simply bow before

her. He had his own opinions on how the battle should be waged, and like the boulder he so

resembled, he was immovable, highly resistant to changing his stance on anything.

Ome was a squat, thickset being. His appendages were little more than stubs poking

from his ball-like body. He only had three fingers per hand, each of which were so small and fat

they were all but useless unless utilized as a sort of claw. Ome had no definable head, his race

had long since evolved to the dense gravity of their home-world by melding head and body into

one. His eyes were giant saucers on his chest, while his nose and mouth shared the same

location; a hole where his belly-button should be.

His limited vocal chords made verbal communication nearly impossible. Nor did

Dona’Cora stand a chance speaking his native language -- which was comprised mainly of

gurgles and grunts; meaning formed by subtle variations between the two. Thankfully, the

Oneness enhanced telepathic abilities and Dona’Cora didn’t have to try.

‘I cannot claim knowledge of what occurred down there, Ome. I know only that

Corrisan is long overdue and that can mean only one thing . . . an attack is imminent. The Dark

Army is coming to claim the Sanctuary.’

There was silence and nervous shifting among the Conclave, and then Ome replied, ‘We

should have heeded his warnings.’

‘Yes, but what good would it have gained us?’ another Elder asked, a stocky, grey-

skinned being named Atomin.

‘Anon would have welcomed us to his new world . . .’ Ome began, before Dona’Cora

forcefully interrupted.

‘ANON! You have spoken with Anon?’

Ome continued, ignoring Dona’Cora’s interruption, ‘But now we are beyond that.’

The group of Elders backpedaled as Dona’Cora ignited into a pyre of blue flames. She

would not be ignored!

‘Anon spoke to you and you failed to inform me of it?’

Her gaze concentrated on Ome, as if attempting to bore a hole in him with her beady little

eyes.

‘Did it ever occur to you that we are in this situation because of him? That he is the

direct cause of this? It is possible, even quite likely, that he is the one orchestrating this

assault.’

Ome was the only Elder brave enough to stand his ground as she stormed toward the

Conclave. His own halo was but a thin blue shell while Dona’Cora’s had grown to a towering

inferno.

‘You’re wrong about him, Dona’Cora. Wrong about what he has done, what he is, and

what he means to our struggle. Why is it, that among the Elders, you alone cannot see it? There

is no doubt that you are wise and powerful beyond any one of us, but nonetheless, you are

wrong.’

Dona’Cora was shocked, so much so that her grasp of the Oneness faltered, her flames

sputtered and died. In a millennium of life, she had never been spoken to so bluntly.

‘How dare you . . .’

Her flames returned, stronger than ever. Even so, Ome continued to stand his ground,

unafraid.

‘I have dedicated my life to eradicating the Plague, and you would betray me for one

knowingly aligned with a Dead God. You fools. You believe Anon is a God, perhaps even the

Maker. The man is a fake, a murderer. He left my most loyal companions to die on

Ki'minsyllessil, or killed them himself. If ever I see him again he will surely pay!’

As stoic as ever, Ome replied, ‘He assumed you would feel this way. Thus, he came to

us. We are sorry to hide this from you, but you leave us no choice. Anon may have betrayed

you, but his reasons are justified. Even had he not told us his tale, we all see it . . . the hate in

your heart.’

Ome continued talking, even as Dona’Cora’s halo bathed him in flame.

‘If anything has led to our downfall it is that. You have been consumed with vengeance

for so long you can no longer fathom the true purpose for your existence. You no longer

understand why we fight. It is not simply to defeat our enemies, but to ensure the continuation of

life. That is the Maker’s path . . . and you, Dona’Cora have strayed.’

‘Damn your Maker, and damn you as well, all of you. This won’t be the first time I have

faced the Dark Army alone. I promise you, once more I will be the last one standing. Even after

you have become ash and bone, I will stand against the Makii. When the Plague enters your

veins and you lay in agony, rotting, wondering why your Maker has forsaken you, I will not

hesitate to burn you to ash.’

Dona’Cora had heard enough, and said enough as well. She spun away, putting an end to

the final meeting of the Conclave of Elders. Where she once stood, a pool of steaming, molten

glass remained.

‘I feel for her,’ Mila said, her dress of flames swirling around her. Tears formed at the

corners of her sparkling blue eyes. ‘Did it have to be this way? She has suffered more, fought

harder than all of us combined.’

Ome shifted his weight, wobbling over to her.

‘She is lost, Mila – has been for far too long. It is up to us to bring her back. When the

Dark Army comes, I do not doubt she will be the last of us standing. If half of Anon’s tale is to

be believed, then this new mutation of the Plague is sure to destroy us all. As gods, we have

proven ourselves false. Only one power can save us now, the power of the Maker. If

Dona’Cora remains blind to the truth until the end, then I too shall feel for her, for when she

stands before the Maker, he will find only hate in her heart . . .

Damn them, damn them all . . . Dona’Cora fumed as she aimlessly stormed through the

Sanctuary. But you most of all, Anon, may you rot in hell. I so pray you are behind this, and

that you find the courage to come and face me in your betrayal. Let them watch what a true god

is capable of. Let the truth be revealed as you die by my hand.

As she rampaged through the Sanctuary, she hardly noticed that the once bustling

hallways were now completely empty. When she did finally take note, it only served to fuel her

rage even further.

Where in the dead is everyone? The cowards, they flee when we should be gathering for

an assault.

Out of curiosity, she sent her power outward, her tiny blue threads sweeping into the

tunnels. She would find where they had hidden, and with what little authority she had left, she

would make them stand and fight.

What she sensed should have shocked her, but after what happened in the Conclave she

wasn’t the least surprised.

Fools, all fools. And to think, I had such high hopes for you all.

Dona’Cora sensed a large gathering -- including the presence of many of the Elders -- in

the Hangar. Undoubtedly, instead of staying to fight they thought to flee with the pods. It would

be possible to launch a preliminary strike on the world below, thus challenging the Dark Army

for control of the Rift, but Dona’Cora theorized instead, that they most likely sought to test their

faith in the Maker by fleeing into space.

She thought to join their gathering and chastise them for their cowardice, but then she

sensed something else . . . a large swell of the Oneness. It was otherworldly, lacking a detectable

source, and it was tearing a hole into the Sanctuary.

Better hurry, Ome, she thought, changing her direction and enhancing her speed to reach

the power’s source. I hope you’ve made the right decision, and find your Maker out there in

space.

Her anger towards the being dwindled. In all honesty, she had always respected him. It

should have come as no surprise that he didn’t agree with Dona’Cora, in over two hundred years

he had rarely done so before. Truthfully, she desired him no ill will (nor Mila and the rest of

them). If anything, her anger fell to Anon, he was the ruin of them all. If his acolyte, Alana had

never set foot on Ki'minsyllessil none of this would be happening. In only a short time,

Dona’Cora could have led her army of Chosen and Elders into a battle with the Makii (a battle

that they could actually win).

Besides, no matter what Ome and the others decided at this point was meaningless, either

way they would die.

She would have much rather preferred that their final moments were spent as

companions, fighting side-by-side in battle against the Dark Army. But perhaps it was better this

way; even if she stood with an army at her side, in the end she would stand alone just the same.

At least this way she wouldn’t have to watch her army die.

No, not again.

As for Dona’Cora, she was still going to get what she wanted – a final battle with the

Dark Army.

She knew it was a battle she could not win, but she would yet try. Long ago she made a

promise to the Makii, and she still meant to see it fulfilled. Let them come to her home . . . let

them die in the tunnels she personally wrought. As long as her powers hold, she will hunt them .

. .

. . . and if her efforts give Ome and the others a chance to flee, then all the better.

The tunnels of the Sanctuary were a blur of black glass as Dona’Cora sped to the

burgeoning Rift, and her final battle with the Dark Army.

SANCTUARY’S FALL

The body of the shadowy being disintegrated before them, ripped apart as he stepped

into the nothingness of the swelling Black Door.

They waited in silence, long after every last remnant of shadow was no more.

“Can we trust him?” one of them spoke, his voice more of a fading echo than the real

thing. He pulled back a burgundy hood, revealing a face covered in a maze of swelling black

veins – many of which had burst, the thick, black blood dripping from his chin.

“Could we ever?” another spoke, her voice was lighter but equally distant. All of her

body was hidden in tightly wound strips of black fabric.

“Do we have a choice?”

“We should have killed him . . .”

“No, he is our last link to salvation.”

Others voiced their opinions, but none had a true solution to their problem.

“What does The Master think?” came a piping voice, a sound far different from the

others’ hollow tones. The speaker was a diminutive black-winged beast who was perched on the

shoulder of one of the taller beings present.

“I think you may have to find a new master, Galimoto,” the man whispered in reply. “I

have a sinking feeling that no matter my decision, my time is coming to an end.”

With a sympathetic look on its wicked little face, the tiny, red beast patted the man on his

shoulder.

“The Master has grown more stinky than usual . . . much uglier too,” the being callously

said in his musical voice. “If possible, could Galimoto’s new master be alive?”

The creature’s little yellow eyes lit up with excitement.

“Yes, Galimoto would definitely prefer a master who is not dead.”

The man shook his head, doing his best to ignore the comments of the creature. The

being was but one of his curses. The other one was the Plague – and infection that ended cellular

growth while filling him with a constant need to feed on warm blood. Because of it, his skin was

ashen and lifeless, his eyes orbs of black. Then there was the new “evolved” infection, which

caused his veins to thicken and grow to grotesque proportions – often bursting as they did so. In

addition, now pustules sprouted from his skin on a daily basis, erupting in a spray of black blood

only a short time after they appeared. Even after the pustules are spent and the swelling

dissolves, a permanent wound remained where the growth once was. The wounds then festered,

causing his skin to crack open -- like parched soil in a drought.

The Plague not only corrupted his body, but his mind too; and not merely with the

urgings of the Hunger. With the new Plague, even more heinous thoughts filled his

consciousness. The thirst for blood was no longer sufficient, now he wanted to bath in it.

Slowly, these desires were threatening to drive him mad and the only way to silence them was to

desecrate all he beheld – and for no other reason than that it existed.

Still though, given a choice to be free of but one of his curses, Mastecus wasn’t sure

which he would choose; Galimoto, or the Plague. Either one was certain to eventually make him

insane.

Hopefully soon he would be free of one of them, both if he was lucky.

“I suppose it’s possible. Where we’re going, there are many powerful, living beings who

could claim you, Galimoto.”

Doubtful though, that they would do so willingly, he thought, knowing that the only way

to complete the bond with the imp was by mutual acceptance. Mastecus never had that choice.

In order to create the imp, he tied the Oneness to his own life-force. After the deed was done,

Mastecus realized he and the imp were one. Short of death, the bond could never be severed.

“However, Galimoto, I wouldn’t get too excited, just yet. I think it unlikely any of these

Elders will survive this encounter. Perhaps neither will the Makii.”

“Humph . . .” Galimoto’s little red face scrunched in anger. “If only The Master listened

to Galimoto long ago. He knew that one was trouble, he knew so the moment he first caught his

scent.”

For the first time in over a thousand years, Mastecus agreed with his familiar. Yes, he

most certainly should have killed Servron at the first opportunity he had.

But now . . . Sevron was growing inside him, he was becoming him. Could such a being

even die?

Imorbis thought it possible. He even claimed he could do so – with the help of Anon, of

course.

If it was true, and there was one more chance to put an end to The Servant of Death, he

was going to take it.

“We all saw it . . .” Mastecus said, loud enough for all of the gathered Makii to hear,

disrupting their fruitless arguing. “No longer can there be any doubt. Anon is blessed of the

Maker. Imorbis has been freed of the Dead Tree. How can we refuse him, when what he offers

is hope for us all?”

“Hope?” the woman covered with the shroud of black cloth questioned. “The attack is

coming, these Elders cannot hope to win. You hear his summons as well as I, Mastecus. Sevron

desires the Sanctuary, and he will have it. Nothing we do can change that. We have always

laughed at the Elders, never once did they pose a true threat to our conquest. What makes you

think they can succeed now, when under Sevron’s control the Dark Army is stronger than ever?”

“Thus far we have resisted Sevron’s pull. We should maintain our distance, let Sevron

and the Elders fight it out.” another Makii argued.

“Yes, we can resist him, but for how long?” Mastecus said.

“Let’s not forget those who denied him? Do you wish to end as they? Remember too,

that in the end he claimed them none-the-less,” the woman replied.

Mastecus did remember . . . and shuddered involuntarily at their fate.

“I understand your fears,” Mastecus replied. “Sevron has taken much from us. He

controls our armies. Soon he will take our bodies . . . but I for one, will not let him have my

soul,” Mastecus proclaimed. “It seems there is a decision we, the Makii must make, and but two

choices left to us; either we give ourselves to the Maker, or to Sevron. Either way we most

certainly are damned,”

. . . or we finally get what we deserve. The best we can ask for is to send Sevron to hell

with us, Mastecus thought.

“It’s time we obey the urgings of Sevron and once more join the Dark Army. When the

battle begins, let us, one and all make our final choice. For when the battle ends . . . so too ends

the Makii . . .

Through the Rift they poured – a host of rotting forms that more resembled puke gushing

from the mouth of the Rift than they did an army.

Dona’Cora made herself invisible, and from a distance she watched as the army

continued to spill out of the new-formed Rift.

Just as she suspected, whoever commanded the Dark Army was well familiar with the

Sanctuary.

Anon . . .

They had chosen the Grand Lecture Hall, the ideal location to commence their assault. If

her ‘allies’ hadn’t abandoned her, she would have gathered them here in anticipation for such an

attack.

The room was not only one of the Sanctuary’s largest, but it was also directly connected

to dozens of other vital passageways -- each of which branched off into several other tunnels.

All of the Sanctuary was interconnected in some fashion or another, but the Grand Hall was a

hub, central to all tunnels. From there, the Dark Army could spread through the Sanctuary in a

matter of hours, and there would be no way to stop them.

Too many open tunnels and no one to stand in their way.

Dona’Cora waited for the Grand Hall to fill. She stood still and patient, even as the

fleshless monstrosities piled around her, nearly tripping over her invisible form. She would have

waited, she knew what this was – in the ancient times they called this first wave cannon fodder.

These were the weakest, most inconsequential forces of the Dark Army. Their sole purpose was

to drain the Elders’ power, weaken them for the eventual coming of the Makii.

Dona’Cora was content to let the fodder pass her by, she sought the Makii. Whatever

power she had left she wished to devote solely to them.

But then something else came through the Rift . . . actually, it was someone. The last

being she would ever have suspected to see. The one she had struggled so hard to bring to the

Sanctuary had finally come there on his own – and he even brought his weapon with him.

Adros dove from the Rift, immediately rolling into a somersault. He ended the

somersault on his feet and running, in front of him, his spinning staff of King’s Wood carved a

path through the throng of undead. He didn’t wait to see if his companions were behind him, he

trusted them, and knew they would come. No matter what, he was moving forward. If at some

point he found himself surrounded, he would fight his way out – it wouldn’t be the first time.

The power of his staff was incredible – all that it touched simply collapsed, their tainted

souls devoured. And his staff touched many, for Adros’ reach was incredible as well. His long,

limber arms combined with the eight foot staff made a substantial path through the undead army.

There were many exits to choose from in the large room of black glass, but Anon had

shown him the path to take – the quickest, most direct course to the Hangar. To succeed, they

had to get ahead of the undead, then, if all went according to plan, they would meet with the rest

of the Elders and Chosen, hopefully delivering them from this world.

He saw the correct exit, and began carving a path toward it. For the most part, the

undead (the type known among his people as Assun’kul, or ‘Dead Brains’) hardly had time to

Wood was already on its way to take their soul.

As he continued plowing through the horde, the walls of black glass began to glow blue,

reflecting the flames of the Magi like water rippling on their black surface.

Brontes is through, Adros thought. But what about the Mithri . . .

With an earth-shaking roar, the Mithrlnites made their presence known. There was only

ten of them, but their thundering charge was enough to vibrate the entire room.

War-cries and explosions sounded at his back as Adros continued to fight on, his efforts

spurred to greater heights knowing he wasn’t alone.

By the time he made it to the exit, his staff had grown warm to the touch, and blackened

at its core. But otherwise, Adros suffered not a scratch.

“What took so long, Father?”

Adros wasn’t the least bit surprised to see his adopted son, X’ander casually leaning

against the obsidian opening, twirling one of his silver daggers on the tip of his index finger.

He cast X’ander a look of disapproval.

“This is not a game, X’ander. Not some individual race to achieve personal glory.

We’ve been charged with clearing a path for those who follow. It is essential we succeed, for in

the end, we only move as fast as our slowest member.”

X’ander returned his look of disapproval with a cold, dead stare.

“Don’t worry, Father,” he whispered in reply. “I ended plenty dead ones to get here.”

Adros didn’t doubt the truth of his claim for a moment.

Like Adros, X’ander was covered head to toe in the blue-steel suit the dwarves had

provided them. Typically, X’ander’s most distinguishable feature (or lack thereof) was his bald

head. Unlike the rest of the elves, who had golden manes of curls, X’ander was utterly hairless;

a result of his imprisonment in the Dead Tree. Adros had never been able to escape the feeling

that he was responsible for what X’ander had become. He freed him from the Dead Tree, but too

late. The young elf’s hair wasn’t the only thing the Dead Tree took from him. One look at his

cold, compassionless grey and white eyes and it was plain to see who, and what, X’ander was.

“I was so hoping the dead had finally made a snack of you, brother,” came a sultry and

sweet voice from behind Adros. He instantly recognized the speaker as S’ilindsa, and caught

himself before he breathed a sigh of relief at the knowledge of her safety.

He struggled to bury the thought. He had to accept their deaths. All fifty-two of the

remaining elves had already made peace with their role in the universe. They pledged their lives

to Adros and his cause. Because of him, they were freed from the horrors of the Dead Tree, and

the desolation of their home-world.

Still though, he felt responsible for them. The children of Ki'minsyllessil had always

been his responsibility. Any time one of them died, he couldn’t help but take the loss personally, like he failed them somehow. With each death, another part of Adros was lost – another part of

his fallen home-world Ki’minsyllessil gone. It was his duty to not only ensure the continuation

of his people, but to preserve their history and culture as well. His ‘children’ were young when

Ki’minsyllessil fell. For them, the purity and beauty his planet once stood for was only a fading

memory. They perceived their home-world as a horror. A place full of pain and suffering, of

which they had barely escaped.

They may not have known it, but the true spirit of Ki’minsyllessil survived within them.

Adros saw it in their courage, kindness, and strength – even in the face of the most unimaginable

horrors. When he looked upon his children, he saw the hope and love that had been the

foundation for the utopian world, Ki’minsyllessil.

As long as the foundation remained, Adros believe the universe could find peace once

more. Perhaps they could start again on Anon’s new world, this ‘Seventh World’. But first, they

had one more mission, one more world to save. Anon was tasked to continue his race, but he had

made another promise as well. He made a vow before the Maker that he would leave no living

beings behind.

By saving the Elders and their Chosen, he would see that promise fulfilled.

“The day is young, S’ilindsa. You may yet have your wish granted,” X’ander replied.

“But when I fall, I assure you it won’t be by some rotting Assun’kul.”

S’ilindsa sauntered past Adros, her shapely hips swaying back and forth in an almost

hypnotic fashion. Any other male in the universe would have taken note of the way her tight-

fitting suit of steel hugged her curves, but Adros was her adopted father, not to mention, he had

already given the full breadth of his heart to another – the goddess, Alana.

X’ander failed to notice her feminine charms because his heart was devoid of passion.

In truth, Adros’ grey and white gaze did glance at her hips, though it was only to note that

her blades were sheathed. It was obvious to Adros that the slender short-swords had seen a deal

of recent activity, for the scabbards were dripping with gore.

Contrary to the ways of their ancestors, these young elves preferred weapons of steel to

wood. In their hands, these weapons were more deadly than their human and dwarven creators

ever dreamed. In only a short time, the young elves gained a proficiency with their blades that

rivaled the highly skilled and experienced humans who they helped save from the Rift. The truth

of it was, the humans lacked the keen muscle-memory, agility, and speed that was inherent to all

elves.

X’ander’s blade of choice was the dagger. He seemed obsessed with the weapon and had

acquired quite a collection of them. When utilized as a ballistic weapon, his innate, elven speed

and accuracy meant certain and instant death for anything closer than thirty feet. Anything

within arm’s reach fell in a blur of silver.

S’ilindsa preferred her thin blades of blue-steel. They were custom made by the dwarves

to accommodate her elven speed, and though extremely thin, the special blue-steel, combined

with the slight curve to their edge, greatly strengthened the blades. Also, a flowing, line of silver

had been imbedded in their edges, thus ensuring any wound she inflicted on the undead would

prove a permanent one.

“I have feeling we will all be tested to our outmost with this mission,” Adros said, to both

of his children. “We’ve fought battles before, but never for such a prize. Today, our enemies

will hold nothing back.”

“I welcome the test,” X’ander coldly stated.

“As do I,” S’linda said, bursting with youthful bravado.

Had he trained them well enough?

“I truly hope you both shall pass.”

Adros turned back to the chamber, checking the status of the rest of his party.

I hope we all do . . .

A quick head-count determined the rest of his children remained; they had rapidly carved

a defensible position in the room and then fanned out, decimating the Assun’kul to make room

for the other races. The army of undead that once filled the chamber from wall to wall now

wandered the room, broken and scattered. In a blaze of silver-fire, the line of elves pressed them

back to the glass, walking forward almost effortlessly as they cut the mindless beings down.

A few large groups of undead remained, but the collective power of the Magi quickly

burnt them to dust. Brontes took control of his people, directing their attacks in a calculated and

efficient manner. In his life-time, Brontes had faced many battles with the undead, and over the

years had grown to become highly skilled when it came to killing them with the Oneness.

Then there was the Mithrlnites, only ten, but they were enough to hold the Rift. Their

massive bodies formed a wall in front of it. The moment anything came out, it was immediately

blown back in or hacked down. It was evident the Magi no longer controlled the Gate, for once

more the Assun’kul were gushing out. The giants seemed almost happy to see them, their war-

cries sounded more like howls of joy as they obliterated whatever had the misfortune to step out

of the Rift.

So far the undead had yet to gain a foothold in the Sanctuary, but Rag’nerack and his men

were old and would eventually wear out. And soon, the Makii would catch on to their plan and

send heavier forces – possibly even themselves – then the wall of Mithrlnites would truly be put

to the test.

The giants’ role in this battle was to buy the others time, it was never their intention to

leave the Sanctuary. That was the deal they had made with Anon. They were old, veteran

warriors. They had spent their entire existences fighting the Dark Army. Only recently had the

word ‘safety’ entered their vocabulary. They had never known peace, nor fathomed its existence

until Brontes and the Magi brought them to Anon’s ‘Seventh World’.

They knew their days were numbered because of their age -- but their days had always

been numbered. As they have done since the moment of their births, they would face death

head-on, grinning as they hammered away at it. The Maker willing, they would take many with

them when they died.

Adros watched as the giants turned the pile of smashed bodies in front of the Rift into a

mountain, and knew that the Maker would bless them this day.

He regretted not being able to see that mountain rise up and fill the mouth of the Rift, but

they had to move. The chamber was virtually clear, so he signaled for a trio of elves to stay and

eliminate any stragglers while he ordered the rest of his people to take to the hallways.

Their white pupils glowing, Adros, X’ander and S’ilindsa led the way into the smooth,

black tunnels of the Sanctuary . . .

It was time to go to the Hangar.

Covered in halos of burning blue flames, Brontes and the Magi flew out of the Rift. They

hovered upwards, immediately adjusting their position to ten feet off the ground – safely beyond

the reach of the dead. Then, they proceeded to burn anything with dead flesh.

As Brontes expected, Adros and the elves did a tremendous job dividing, and routing the

enemy. Where groups of the undead suddenly gathered and surged, Brontes and his Magi

directed their flames. Converting the Oneness to actual fire had always proven the quickest and

most effective method to kill the undead. Thus, any group of dead numbering more than a

handful suddenly became a bonfire of burning dead flesh. The smoke, and accompanying stench

threatened to fill the chamber, but several strands of Oneness became wind, and sucked it into

the Rift.

Not far behind, the Mithrlnites lumbered through the Black Door. The last to leave the

Rift; they burst out roaring, angered and disappointed to see that the chamber was all but clear.

They weren’t disappointed for long. The moment the last of them touched ground, Brontes sent

a telepathic message to his companions, ‘Relinquish the Gate, focus all efforts on moving

forward . . .’

He also sent a message to Rag’nerack, leader of the Mithrlnites, ‘The Gate is yours . . .

good luck, guard it well . . .’

This mission had many difficulties, leaving the giants to their deaths would be the first of

them.

‘. . . and die well, Rag’nerack,’ he finished.

He noticed Adros and the elves were already cleaning up and gathering at the tunnels.

Brontes remained only long enough to acknowledge Rag’nerack, who raised his giant glowing

hammer in salute, then he turned to join the elves.

Behind him, the chamber filled once more with the giants’ roars. This time, the sound

seemed filled with a certain amount of joy.

Brontes floated down the chamber, his blue flames occasionally leaping out to aid the

remaining elves, hastening their job of finishing off the undead. He was halfway down the

chamber when he felt it . . . felt her.

The presence was faint, impossibly so. He had always known she was powerful, but she

wasn’t just invisible, she had made herself virtually non-existent. No doubt Brontes’ own

powers had grown a great deal stronger since last they met, but even so, if he hadn’t practically

ran into her, he doubted he would have felt her at all.

Dona’Cora . . . what are you up to? He wondered. Discovering her presence had caused

him to pause – albeit momentarily – he truly hoped she missed it and yet thought herself hidden.

If anyone could ruin this mission it would be her.

Not that he considered her an enemy, but it was certain that she had her own agenda.

And more often than not, those who failed to heed her agenda suffered because of it. He had

enough to deal with at the moment without worrying about getting on the wrong side of

Dona’Cora.

He continued on, enhancing his speed to catch up with the elves, all the while doing his

best to pretend he hadn’t almost crashed into the Elder Goddess, Dona’Cora.

‘The Gate is yours . . . good luck, guard it well . . .’ the wizard said, speaking in his mind.

Rag’nerack prepared himself, flexing his mighty arms. His wide, gaping nostrils sucked

in a deep breath of air . . .

‘. . . and die well, Rag’nerack.’

Oh the scent! So familiar to him. The aroma of battle . . .

He raised M’jllner high.

The foul stench of infected, rotting flesh. He both despised and loved it. A mere whiff of

the undead was enough to send him into a frenzy . . .

The little wizards all left . . . good. Now the slaughter belonged to the brothers.

The Stone Sense flowed through him. Born of his thundering heart, it flooded his blood-

veins with the power of steel and earth. It surged through his arms; thick, corded muscles tough

as stone. It filled his meaty fist, then traveled up the six foot column of steel, igniting M’jllner in

a blaze of white light.

He shifted his massive girth toward the Rift, swinging the glowing block of crystal

downward as he did so.

A dozen rot-skins were blown back; their bloated bodies erupting into bits and pieces of

burning flesh.

Alongside him, his stone-brothers stood – a wall. A wall of giants.

In front of them, Hell’s Gate writhed in fury. Wailing with bloodlust, the dead poured

out in a raging flood.

Rag’nerack raised his hammer to the Door, howling back at it.

Again and again his hammer fell – and where it landed, the undead were obliterated.

With every passing arc of M’jllner a dozen fell, their bodies exploding on contact. But almost

instantaneously, a dozen more walking corpses were there to take their place. Back and forth his

hammer swept, sundering anything that got in its way.

Their charred remains covered him, still smoldering as they landed on his thick, leathery

skin.

The rot-skins fell in innumerable amounts. His stone-brothers took nearly as much as he;

their axes and hammers filled the spacious chamber with enough blazing silver-fire to nearly

match M’jllner’s glow.

And oh how his stone-brothers roared . . . Hell’s Gate quaked in fear.

The Dark Lords sent greater foes; larger, smarter rot-skins, but they fell the same. Like

all rot-skins, their minds were slow and weak – as were their bodies.

Then came the bitten. The hell-spawn of the Dark Lords. They were strong, fast, and

often filled with the essence of death.

But none of that mattered.

The moment they left the Hell’s Gate they hit the wall. The only difference between the

bitten and the rot-skins, was that they saw their end coming. The war-cries of his brothers turned

their dead blood into ice. M’jllner turned their bodies into ash and dust.

The stone-brothers stood fast and held the Gate, even when injured. Some were bitten,

several clawed. A few suffered even worse; broken bones, deep internal wounds. But the wall

remained solid and strong. The pile of fallen bitten nearly clogged Hell’s Gate.

Then there was a pause . . .

His body was blackened with soot. His sweat turned to steam under the layer of hot ash.

His chest heaved in and out from exhaustion.

Keeping a wary eye on Hell’s Gate, Rag’nerack turned to assess his brothers.

Stokimere was full of their blood; his body was covered in bites, many of which were

quite deep. He leaned wearily on his axe for a moment, then toppled over. With a swift drop of

his hammer, Brokheim was there to send him away. But Brokheim had the blood as well; bite

marks marred his hairy chest and arms. His own blood spilled from the wounds, signifying

penetration – infection. He would fight for a time longer, but then no more.

He looked at his brothers, for what would probably be the last time. Seven had the blood

in them – at varying degrees, and one was dead. Of the ten giants who journeyed to the

Sanctuary, only two of them remained whole – Rag’nerack and the crafty old warrior, Oldem.

They all knew what this was. They were born with battle in their blood-veins, and had spilt

much of it fighting against the Demon Horde. The tactics of the Dark Lords were well known to

them. The Horde had paused, not out of fear, but because they awaited the birth of infection.

They thought to turn their enemies into their allies . . .

Rag’nerack would give them none.

His infected brothers came to him . . . to be blessed with M’jllner.

Only two stone-brothers remained.

They were the last ones left in the chamber when the Dark Lords came . . .

Dona’Cora was more than impressed – she couldn’t believe her eyes.

Only ten . . . they decimated an army!

If only such beings had joined her in her war to save the planet Kandor . . . what would

have become of Thane then? With her God-king at her side, the Dark Army would never have

spread so far.

What would she have become?

There was little time to ponder the past, she knew what this meant – what was sure to

come. With their armies decimated so, the Makii would be forced to make an appearance.

Come damn you . . . you cowards, see how your armies fall to only a handful.

She knew their arrogance wouldn’t accept this; beings devoid of the Oneness standing

before them as gods.

How easily these giants felled even the Makii’s Soulless; those they ‘blessed’ with their

tainted blood, thus endowing them with their own dark powers.

No matter what came through the Gate, it didn’t stand a chance. The giants fought in a

berserk rage, crushing and hacking anything with dead flesh.

And their leader . . . rarely had Dona’Cora seen such a mighty warrior. The giant’s sheer

power was more than a match for an Elder, even in their hottest halo. Had he wanted, he could

have easily picked up his enemies and simply crushed them in his fists. But instead he

obliterated them. His massive hammer held a power that even Dona’Cora had never seen. Like

the majority of non-humanoid beings, he was devoid of the Oneness. However, he possessed a

raw elemental energy that he somehow enhanced by channeling it into his crystalline hammer.

In a manner of minutes, a legion of dead fell. For what seemed like eternity, the minutes

continued to pass . . . and the dead continued to fall.

Surely the giants wouldn’t last forever, but Dona’Cora was certain they had already done

their job. It was obvious they were buying time for the others; the elves, Brontes and his troupe of Chosen. But what were they hoping to gain? There was no escaping the Sanctuary. By

coming here, they had sentenced themselves to death.

Dona’Cora should have been gladdened by the knowledge; Brontes was an ally of Anon.

His loyalty had always been questionable in the past, but his recent actions proved he was an

enemy. And the Elf Prince . . . what she wanted was his power – the secret of his immunity to

the Plague, and his staff with its strange but devastating abilities. If only he had come to her

before – willingly, this might all have been avoided. It could have been her army launching an

assault on the worlds of the Makii.

Yes, with an army of Chosen, Elves and Giants she could have sent the Dark Army into

the Rift for all time.

She held no love for either Adros or Brontes, but deep down, she couldn’t help but pray

they somehow succeed. If they truly had the power of the Maker on their side, then anything

was . . . No. She wouldn’t buy into Anon’s belief. There was no Maker. All the gods were in

the Sanctuary, and were soon to be dead – or Dead Gods. If indeed, by some miracle, he saved

them all, then perhaps she would change her religion. But shy of that . . . Dona’Cora couldn’t

iMagine what he hoped to achieve.

What are you up to, Anon?

She continued to ponder his plans, when the battle at the Rift entered a sudden lull . . .

Anon had been many things in his life, but never a fool. Whatever miracle he had in

store, Dona’Cora would never witness it. This was to be her end . . . her final battle.

Dona’Cora prepared herself, filling every cell of her body with the Oneness.

Even her cold, compassionless heart stirred when their leader ‘cleansed’ his companions.

They went willingly, every single one of them ended their lives with a face-splitting grin.

The leader completed his duty, then once more turned to face the Rift.

What once was a wall of giants guarding the Gate, had been reduced to a shield; only two

of them now remained.

The leader had barely squared his bulky frame to the Rift, when the Makii finally came.

“Is The Master sure about this?” the little red fiend piped.

Together they stared at the pulsating gate. Walls surrounded them; stone walls over four

feet thick. They were all cracked, crumbling, and for the most part, toppled. They stood on the

altar of some long dead planet – its altar to the Darkbridge. The structure must have once been a

magnificent temple dedicated to the powers of the Gate . . .

. . . the Gate . . . the bridge between worlds . . . the union of the universe.

. . . The pathway of the Plague.

Above them the night sky was dancing with stars . . . so many of them. And how many

worlds were out there, hidden in the darkness? Even Mastecus hadn’t come to grips with what

the Makii had truly lost. Was it even possible to comprehend?

Despite Imorbis’ apparent freedom from the ‘new’ Plague, Mastecus continued to

struggle with what should have been an obvious conclusion.

Is the Maker real?

Perhaps his reasoning was clouded by the ‘other’ voices in his head, those of Sevron, the

Servant of Death. He couldn’t deny it any longer, his mind was not his own. He was being

erased, overwritten by the entity Sevron.

Is this what the universe has in store for us? Madness and death?

Or was that its core . . . ? Was that all it ever really was? And the struggle for life and

order had always and forever been just a futile endeavor.

He almost dared not to think it, lest he suddenly lose his soul . . . but, was Sevron right?

Were they the mad ones to assume it was otherwise?

With great sorrow, he accepted the fact that he could no longer refuse Sevron’s call.

Mastecus entered the Rift . . .

Ome floated down the glassy hall, the single, circular orifice on his face hissing as it

sucked in air. Only one familiar with Glokeen anatomy would be able to see that Ome was

disturbed, worried. They would see it in his bulbous eyes; the spider-web of red veins flaring

from his black pupils. Or find it apparent by the nervous vibrating of the filter-feeding intake

flaps found in the mouth of his kochlar. Even his flesh gave him away, shining with the greasy

coat of gel that secreted from his pores in a similar fashion to human sweat – but was far more

viscous, the secretion more closely resembling mucus than actual perspiration.

Ome had always lacked the ability to veil his emotions. On his home-world, he could be

read like an open book -- but he was a long way from Q’ptin Major. In the Sanctuary, Ome was

an enigma.

Not only was it rare for a non-human to develop the Oneness (only a handful had ever

risen to the rank of Elder) but from what he had learned, the Elders had never even invested their

genetics into his home-world. Seemingly, Ome developed the power entirely on his own – a feat

so rare, it had happened only one other time in all of known history.

The first to do so was the forerunner of the Makii -- the one who started it all. His blood

passed to his ancestors, the Makii, who eventually used the power to create the Gate, thus

beginning the second conquest of the universe. Those they conquered, they infused with their

blood and the gift of the Oneness, though only those with pure-blood retained the name, Makii.

The others became viewed as half-bloods -- experiments. Some developed surprising abilities,

while others birthed nothing at all.

Ome, on-the-other-hand, lacked the genetic lineage entirely. He had no ancestral tie to

the original Makii. Yet, somehow the Oneness still flowed through his veins.

As with the original Makii, Ome was a miracle . . . the truth of which, was known to only

one man, Anon. Anon hadn’t saved him from Q’ptin Major so much as he had stumbled upon

him. Anon fought for the Glokeen because none other would. The rest of the universe left them

discarded, abandoned them to the pathway of the Plague. All Anon wished, was to see Ome’s

people die with honor and not alone. For his efforts, he was rewarded with even more -- he

found a miracle. He found Ome.

Ome trusted Anon since the first day he met him, as he trusts him still. He believed Anon

when he told him help was coming . . . but so too was the Dark Army. The worrisome part was

wondering who would arrive first.

Yes, Ome was worried . . . and rightly so; he sensed a distant surge of power building in

the Sanctuary.

The gathering of so much Oneness could mean only one thing; a Rift was forming. He

had to get to the Hangar. That was where they had been told to gather should this occur. There

they would wait, and hope that Anon arrived to save them before the Dark Army found and

slaughtered them all. He sped through the halls as fast as he was able, his halo a fiery blue blaze

shimmering on the walls.

Not long ago, Anon had spoken to Ome and a select few. He had warned him this was

coming, that the Makii had their sights set on taking the Sanctuary and ending the battle once and

for all. Some refused to believe him, others even dared to condemn him a liar and a traitor. But

then he informed them of the truth of Ki'minsyllessil, and how the Plague had evolved to an even

more infectious and vile form. After his tale, many of their doubts were put to rest, only a few

left the meeting feeling Anon’s loyalty remained in question.

It wasn’t long before all of their suspicions came to an end. The sudden silence from the

outer-worlds was the first confirmation. The second (and final) confirmation was the failed

mission to investigate the Gate in the planet below. Ome should have never let that mission

commence. However, he was the only member of the Conclave who didn’t require further proof

(Anon’s tale had been enough). The Elder Corrisan and the dozen Chosen should have never left

the Sanctuary. Ome should have been strong enough, stood up to Dona’Cora sooner. He saw

her clearly now. For Dona’Cora, Corrisan was a casualty of war – her war. Corrisan was a

proud, thoughtful, and intelligent Elder – he had been so for over a hundred standard years.

Because of Dona’Cora, the value of the man’s life had been used as currency to solve a single

question (to which they already knew the answer).

In Ome’s mind, there was no longer any doubt that Dona’Cora cared nothing for them.

The Conclave, the Elders and the Chosen – one and all – were merely pawns in Dona’Cora’s

quest for personal vengeance. She no longer walked the Maker’s path – if ever she had.

The Treaty was over, but not because a single Chosen had dared to stand her ground.

Whether Dona’Cora knew it or not, Alana was the only one among them who had done the right

thing. She gave everything to defend Ki'minsyllessil. Every Elder and Chosen should have

joined her. If they had, maybe the God-tree of the elves would have escaped infection. By all

accounts, the tree was a vast and powerful life-force; its roots were said to span the

circumference of the planet, while its canopy of leaves and branches filled the sky like a never-

ending cloud.

The entire breadth of if had succumbed to infection. According to Anon, the

consolidation of such a large amount of dark energy had somehow awakened the Void itself.

Almost as if it had become another sort of Gate, one that didn’t span worlds, but realities.

Anon claimed to have stood against this evil force . . . stood and died.

If what he said was true (and Ome was one who never doubted Anon) then Anon was

truly blessed by the Maker. Perhaps had even become him. He could very well be the only

being in the entire universe who could save them from the Plague – and Dona’Cora cast him out,

banished him from the Sanctuary, only to return under penalty of death.

Hopefully, Anon understood that in the current situation that penalty no longer applied.

All they could do now was wait and see. Hopefully Anon returned to the Sanctuary . . .

and soon.

Ome arrived at the Hangar, was heartened to see a sizeable gathering of Chosen and

Elders had beat him there. He looked over the gathering, the many familiar faces milling around

in nervous anticipation.

Beyond them, the cavernous barreled chamber opened directly to the outside. A thin

shield of blame flames covered the opening, preventing the deadly external environment from

entering the Sanctuary. Beyond the veil of blue, waves of black writhed under the moon’s

powerful winds, their clear glass tops coiling across the land like serpents.

He also noted that among the gathering, twenty of the shiny, egg-shaped vessels known

as ‘pods’ were parked in a pair of lines – ten to each side of the chamber. Were the pods to be

their pathway to freedom? Anon never revealed what would happen next. At full capacity, it

would be possible to load the entire inhabitants of the Sanctuary, but what then? Even with the

Maker at his side, would Anon risk delivering them to deep space? Or was he planning on

bringing them to the Rift-world below? It seemed certain that the planet was likely swarming

with the dead, but if by some chance it wasn’t, even if the Elders and Chosen made it to the Gate,

no matter where they went, the Dark Army could easily follow.

Once they entered the Rift, there would be nowhere to hide. The Makii would hunt them

till the end of time.

Anon said to wait, so that’s what they would do.

Ome floated down to the gathering, depositing his round form amidst a group of fearful

Elders.

The first to approach him was the goddess, Mila Dosanti, her bright, friendly smile

somewhat warming the cold grip of doom clutching his heart. Thankfully, at the moment, the

majority of her body was concealed in a suit of armor made of blue flames. The sight of her

naked flesh sent his kochlar vibrating uncontrollably in disgust. Males tended to have the

opposite reaction, while most females grew angry at her near-naked body. But Ome was neither.

Nor was he even remotely human. The mere thought of sex made his flesh ooze -- and Mila was

the epitome of human lust.

Copulation was unknown to his people, their reproductive organs were all internally

located, and were asexual in nature. If, at some point in life, Ome chose to become a life-parent,

his body would enter a yearlong period of hibernation and gestation. After which, he would

produce a genetically similar copy of himself – birthed through his kochlar.

But given the state of the universe, not to mention their current plight, birthing a

simulacrum would be a bad decision – for both Ome, and the child as well.

The sad truth of their age was that it was a horrible time to be a child of any race.

Mila Dosanti walked over to him. Her flesh may have been hidden, but her sexuality was

still more than apparent in the sensual swagger to her step.

“We were beginning to wonder if you’d come,” she whispered in her half-moaning voice.

She was a kindhearted woman, but -- as it usually was when in her presence -- Ome

resisted the urge to regurgitate his recent air-sifted particles through his kochlar. In his mind,

projecting them upon her would greatly improve her appearance. Undoubtedly, she would not

appreciate the gesture.

‘I had one more matter to attend . . . I sought out Dona’Cora. Despite her anger, and

attitude toward this war, I felt it necessary to inform her of our exodus,’ Ome stated, bluntly and

without any apparent emotion.

“Tell me, Ome . . . what has become of our great goddess?” She asked in a breathy

murmur.

Many of the other Elders closed in on their conversation, a few were even fellow

members of the Conclave. He noticed his friend, Jakkar was among them. Jakkar was human,

but it was nearly impossible to tell. Jakkar was more familiar with ‘plague’ and infection than

anyone present. When he was but an infant, Jakkar suffered a malady that twisted his body into

wicked, unhuman proportions. His home-world was a poor, mineral drained planet that lacked

sufficient Healers. On a world where poverty was the norm, Jakkar’s family was considered to

be among the lowest class. By the time his Savior arrived, Jakkar was horribly and irrevocably

disfigured.

He was the mirror-opposite of Mila Dosanti: she was a sexual goddess that embodied

perfection of the human form. She not only flaunted her perfection, but enhanced it with the

Oneness, ensuring that it was impossible for all who neared her to ignore her stunning beauty.

She draped the Oneness around her body like a second skin, an even more sensual and alluring

flesh than what the Maker had blessed her with. Jakkar’s body was broken and bent. His bones

were twisted at impossible angles. His spine was shaped into an S, one leg failed to grow since

infancy, while the other thickened and stretched beyond human proportions every passing year.

His arms were disjointed at some locations, while possessed with multiple malfunctioning joints

in other locations. Dosanti had graceful, nearly symmetrical features (other than the strangely

endearing black dot slightly above her lip), and a head of smoky dark curls that danced with her

every step. Jakkar’s head was grotesquely huge, it would be ill-fitting even on a giant. Nor was

it symmetrical – not in the least. It resembled more of a misshapen lump of tumorous flesh than

a human head. The half-closed eye, bowed nose and row of jagged, sloped teeth were the only

indication it was otherwise.

Mila was never seen without a radiant halo around her – Jakkar could’ve easily hidden

his appearance with but a simple thought, but never once did he hide who, or what he was.

When Jakkar summoned his Oneness, it wasn’t to hide his appearance, or even battle the undead;

Jakkar chose to use his gift to heal – and only to heal. Without ever having killed a single

undead, he had risen high among the Elders because he was the greatest Healer the universe had

ever known.

‘I went to find Dona’Cora, and indeed I did,’ Ome continued. ‘But, as one would expect,

she had her mind fixed on hate and vengeance. I didn’t have to read her mind to see it . . . she

was heading to the source of power, to the coming Rift. She wants her final battle, and she

wants to face, and be done with the demons that have plagued her all these years.’

“Poor woman,” Mila sighed, and for once, her voice filled only with sympathy and not

sensuality.

‘Perhaps in her final moments, she may yet find peace,’ Jakkar said. Much like Ome, his

verbal communication was limited.

Ome nodded his head-body at the notion – he did wish Dona’Cora well. Mostly he

wished she remembered what she had lost, and that when she fought, it was out of love for her

God-king and fallen companions, and not purely out of hate.

‘What if he doesn’t come?’ the grey-skinned Elder Atomin asked. The same question

was on everyone’s mind, but only Atomin lacked sufficient faith in Anon to ask it.

‘We have to have faith that he will come,’ Ome replied.

The Elders grew silent at the notion – no doubt, they wished to keep the struggle with

their faith an internal one.

Faith . . . that was all that was left to them now. Faith in Anon and the Maker. Ome

didn’t care to debate the foundations of his faith with Atomin at the moment, nothing he could

say would matter, not now. All they really could do was hope and wait.

The Elders waited in silence, all of them fully aware of the burgeoning source of power

in the Sanctuary. All of them aware that with every passing moment, their home was being

overrun.

Meanwhile, at the Hangar, the empty moments stretched eternal and nothing happened.

Beyond the shield-wall the wind continued to reshape, and polish the landscape. Ome

envisioned what must be occurring at the site of the Rift – he saw a swarm of bloodthirsty

monstrosities filling the Sanctuary’s halls. He imagined their rage when they found the halls

empty – and their fear when they ran into Dona’Cora.

How long could she stand against them? A single Elder against the entire Dark Army.

He pictured her alone, surrounded by death, her power fading and her life ending as a

feast for the dead.

Faith . . .

Did they make the wrong decision? Should they be there, fighting at Dona’Cora’s side?

Despite his growing doubt for Anon, the decision had already been made – and

Dona’Cora left to her fate. If Anon didn’t come to save them, then they would have to make

their last stand here, at the Hangar.

Perhaps it’s past time we prepare for the worst . . .

Ome was on the verge of directing the Elders and Chosen into defensive formations,

maybe barricade themselves within the Hangar before the Dark Army found them, when

suddenly a Chosen shouted out in warning.

“Incoming pod!” the young man yelled.

Several Chosen and Elders rushed to the shield-wall.

Ome waddled after them to get a better look. Sure enough, drifting over the glassy black

mountains on the horizon, a metallic gleam could be seen. As it neared, the blue sheen of

Oneness driving the vessel was also apparent. The blue flames were a welcome sight to Ome

and many others who initially wondered if the craft had peaceful intentions.

But some weren’t convinced, nervous murmurs arose (so too did flaming halos) as the

ship decelerated and prepared to enter the shield wall. It slowly merged through the blue wall,

coming to a land just beyond the edge of the cavern.

There it sat.

The nervous murmurs turned to loud, fearful conversations the longer the vessel

remained inactive. Burning blue halos flared up all around him. Ome even enacted his own.

With Dona’Cora gone, he knew the others looked to him for a decision. But truth-be-told, he

had no greater knowledge of the pod’s contents than any other. There was nothing left to do but

find out.

Hesitantly, Ome approached it. He shuffled forward, his kochlar flaps nearly humming

from vibrating so fast.

He was within arm’s reach (his arms) of the vessel when a circle of blue flames appeared

on the silver surface, opening a door into the ship. Ome paused, waiting, enhancing his halo

after nothing happened . . . then something happened.

A figure appeared, skeletal, faceless, his head an opened, bloody wound. The humanoid

figure stumbled from the door, reaching out to Ome, moaning. Flesh sloughed from his face, as

did the remnants of his eyes.

“The Plague! Someone screamed at his back.”

Ome hesitated, he sensed something in the figure . . . life. And a familiar life-force at

that.

Unbelievably, this man was alive – and he was a friend.

If he could have shouted for them to wait, he would have, but either way it would have

been too late.

Blue flames dove from the crowd, setting the figure on fire.

Ome wobbled forward, his own flames shooting out to heal him. He reached out to the

sunken figure with his stubby, three-fingered hand. There were too many working against him.

They had acted out of fear, never fully comprehending what they saw. As his healing flames

entered the man’s flesh, Ome found the truth.

‘Davidian . . . what happened to you?’

Before he had his answer, Davidian’s life-force faded away.

Then Ome sensed another presence, this one also familiar – sort of. Unlike Davidian, this

one was tainted virtually beyond recognition.

‘Ostedes?’

‘OME . . .’

Even as well versed in telepathy as he was, Ome was no match for the giant Elder’s own

ability.

Ome’s halo disintegrated. What little support his legs provided, vanished. Ome

collapsed into a helpless ball. Even his senses were abandoning him. The darkness was coming

to claim him, but before it did, he saw a flurry of black tendrils spilling from the door to the pod.

He was unable to stop them as several tendrils crept toward him and then sunk into his flesh . . .

Adros dashed through the tunnels. To his left, X’ander kept pace; a knife at the ready in

each hand, a gleam in his white eyes. For a being that was incapable of emotion, he seemed

almost excited for what laid ahead. On Adros’ right was S’ilindsa, her body graceful and

flowing as she sped on. Her blades remained sheathed, but S’ilindsa looked onward in

determination; ready to draw her blades at a moment’s notice. Adros knew from experience it

would truly take but a moment, then S’ilindsa’s blades would be out and slicing through her

enemies in a whirlwind of silver-fire.

That moment was coming; Adros could tell by the look in her eyes, she knew it as well.

Not far behind the trio, the rest of Adros’ children followed – a small, but highly skilled

army of elves. And among them, the Magi came as well, enhancing their speed with the Oneness

just to keep up with Adros and the others.

In front of them, the black walls glowed with mage-fire. One after another, massive

eruptions shook the Sanctuary, flooding the tunnels with thunderous booms. Between the blasts,

screams of terror could be heard, echoing throughout the Sanctuary.

“What is this?” S’ilindsa asked, mid-sprint. Even though she was pushing her body to its

utmost, she wasn’t the least bit winded.

“It’s the Plauge,” X’ander replied, giving the most obvious answer.

Another blast rocked the Sanctuary, more powerful than all the rest. Even the agile elves

nearly stumbled under the ensuing shockwave. Never pausing, they continued on, faster than

ever.

“It’s a massacre . . .” Adros said. “We have failed.”

What went wrong? He wondered, and not for the first time. A part of him didn’t actually

want to know what had happened at the Hangar – another part of him already knew. They had

failed. The gods were dying – possibly all dead. Instead of fleeing with the Chosen and Elders,

they would be fighting them to reach the pods.

A massacre . . .

He had seen it all before . . . far too many times. He should have known better; there was

no victory in this war, only heartache. Why had he ever thought this would be any different?

Either way, the plan remained the same; find the living and leave. The only difference

was that the ‘leaving’ part just became a lot more difficult.

The trio came upon a sharp turn in the tunnel, without slowing, they took the turn;

running halfway up the wall of black glass before changing direction. After they took the corner,

they immediately stopped – S’ilindsa’s thin, silver blades flowed from their scabbards.

They saw a group of Magi speeding down the hallway in a mad dash. Behind them,

waves of blue flames rippled along the walls.

“Stop,” Adros yelled, his command intended for the children and Magi behind him, as

well as for the Magi in front of him.

The fleeing Magi had been focused on the terror behind them, but because of Adros’

shout, they finally took note of the elven trio. Considering the elves were entirely clad in black,

not to mention incredibly tall and lanky, the Magi failed to recognize them as allies.

Without further consideration, waves of blue energy shot from their fingertips. The

flames roared down the hallway, becoming a flood of fire by the time it barreled into Adros and

the others.

“GET BACK!” Adros screamed, stepping forward, thrusting out the staff of King’s

Wood.

Before him, the flames formed a vortex, funneling into the twisted staff. Adros stood fast

as the waves continued to crash against him, the dark staff taking on a bluish hue the more power

it devoured. The combined Oneness of over a dozen Magi washed over him, but the staff

absorbed it all. The bluish hue grew bright azure. Coils of smoke arose from the staff’s blood-

red tip – and from Adros’ hands as well. His skin blistered and peeled as the energy mounted

within the King’s Wood. Blood dripped from his fingers, but despite the pain, he only tightened

his gripped.

Somewhere in the inferno’s roar he dimly recognized the voice of S’ilindsa as she

screamed, “Brontes! Help him!”

Little by little, the fires dwindled – but the burning heat within his staff remained. Even

so, with his hands split open and blackened, Adros didn’t release his grip on the King’s Wood –

not even when the fires of the Magi were extinguished altogether.

Gently, S’ilindsa took his wrists.

“Someone, heal him,” she demanded, and shortly after her words were spoken, blue

flames caressed his bloodied hands. But the King’s Wood remained ripe with power, his hands

blistered anew the moment the Oneness left him. Adros gritted his teeth against the pain,

refusing to drop his staff.

Brontes put a hand on Adros’ shoulder, then strode past him, heading out to greet the new

Magi -- Ollius followed shortly behind. The Magi came forward to meet them, albeit hesitantly.

Neither party said a single word, but Adros didn’t doubt they were engaged in a furious

telepathic conversation. Eventually, Brontes was able to convince them their intentions were

benign, and ushered them towards the rest of the group. As the Magi came closer, they stared at

Adros in awe – some, in fear. Brontes guided the frightened and disheveled group to the

gathering, then turned to Adros and the others.

Ollius, however, continued down the hallway to find more survivors, accompanied by

two of their fellow Magi from the Seventh World. . .

Ollius left the main party and headed out into the halls.

He spoke with the survivors, they said more Magi were coming. Other Survivors . . .

perhaps. Or perhaps they were something else now. Ollius sent his telepathy outward and

picked through their minds as best he could. With humans it was easy, but with other Magi there

was often little to see. Nevertheless, he would take any advantage he could get. He didn’t seek

information, he heard the tale of the Hangar from the other survivors. What he sought was

infection – the building bloodlust. The one thought the undead couldn’t hide because it filled

their minds.

Kendal and Gabe followed him down the hallway. Both were veteran Guards who had

fought on several worlds – not to mention they were the lone survivors of their own fallen home-

worlds.

Gabe was a rather squat young man, standing no higher than five standard feet. Most

likely, he had reached the pinnacle of his height. His girth however, seemed to expand daily. In

the little time Ollius had known the man, his waist-line nearly doubled. When not battling the

Dark Army, Gabe indulged himself in all the bounty the Seventh World had to offer. For the

majority of his life, he had known only famine. Judging by his current, gluttonous behavior, the

young Mage seemed to be making up for lost time.

Kendal was also quite young. She was a shy and mousy waif of a girl. Her arms were

thin as twigs, hardly able to lift her own body-weight (which was approximate to an adolescent

child). Her brown eyes were forever sad, and far too often could be found studying the ground at

her feet. When in battle, she was transformed by the flames. She grew fierce, unafraid. More

than once, the other Guardians had to pull her away from the battle, keep her from charging into

the thick of things where she preferred to pound her enemies to death with nothing but her fists.

At the moment, Kendal wasn’t looking at the ground. She seemed fixed on the hallway

before her, a ferocious look in her eyes.

Anticipating the worst, the trio moved on down the hallways of black, obsidian glass. Up

ahead, explosions continued to resound – though with far less frequency than just moments

before.

They encountered two more Chosen; one nearly collided into them as he came flying

down the tunnel at top speed, the other came running full sprint – her Oneness completely

drained. The moment he sensed their presence, Ollius communicated telepathically with them.

Both seemed sound of mind, though incredibly frightened – and rightly so, in the minds of their companions he had glimpsed the monstrosity that sent them running. The image of it made him

wonder why he dared to walk on.

Ollius had been through many worlds, survived them all by what could only be called the

‘Maker’s Luck’. He had seen more horror and evil than he dared to remember. There were

many soldiers in the Legion of Death: the Dummies, the Soulless, and of course the Dead Gods.

They came in many shapes and sizes – during his exodus, he had faced them all. But never had

he seen anything like the demon that attacked the Hangar.

Not only was it invincible, but it was utterly evil.

You better get your ass out here, Anon. You wanted us to save these people, the least you

could do is give us a way out, Ollius fumed. He had never personally met Anon, but the rumors

of his greatness could be heard to the farthest ends of the universe. Even before he united with

Brontes and the others, Ollius was fully aware of Anon’s splendor. He was a Savior – maybe a

saint – perhaps even the Maker himself. But where in the dead was he now? Where had he been

when Ollius dragged his people through the Rift? When they were broken, starving . . . hunted?

If Anon wanted Ollius to believe in him, then he would have to prove himself worthy of

it . . . now seemed as good a time as any.

After a brief, telepathic conversation, Ollius sent the two fleeing Chosen to Brontes and

the others, informing them of who they were, and why they came. For a split second they

seemed hopeful, then they asked the question and he felt compelled to tell them the truth, ‘No.

Anon has not come.’

Their shoulders sank as they made their way to Brontes and Adros.

If you truly cared, Anon, you would come, Ollius said, before continuing on, sensing a

larger group farther down.

For some reason the group had stalled in their current location. Ollius sensed confusion,

shock, and a great deal of fear among the group. He sent a mental warning to his companions,

indicating they should proceed with caution.

Ollius, Kendal and Gabe moved on. They came to a bend in the hallway . . . with their

halos blazing hot, the three Magi took the turn . . .

“How bad is it?” Adros asked, seeing the grim look in Brontes’ eye.

“It’s far worse than even you can iMagine, my friend. They’ve taken the Hangar . . .

that’s the obvious part . . .”

Brontes hesitated to continue, as though his mind had suddenly just drifted off.

A pair of haggard looking Magi appeared down the hallway. Adros looked down at

Brontes, arching an eyebrow. Brontes nodded back at him, confirming the new-comers had

friendly intentions.

“Before I tell you what we face, you must promise me one thing . . .” Brontes continued

as the Magi drew nearer.

“For you, anything.”

He was about to continue, then abruptly froze. At first, Adros thought he was

communicating with more new arrivals. But after a closer look, it was plain to see his friend was

worried.

“Ollius . . .” Brontes whispered.

Requiring no further information, Adros was already in motion by the time the screaming

began . . .

They came around the bend. Their glowing blue halos flooded the area in light. In front

of them the glassy hallway opened into a large, tube shaped chamber. A row of black pillars

lined the room’s center. Identical in shape and design, the pillars were roughly three feet in

diameter, and rose from the room’s floor to the ceiling (which was over twenty standard feet

tall). Beyond that, the room was comprised of the same, smooth glass that was found in the

hallways.

Two pillars into the chamber, Ollius saw the group of Magi – what was left of them.

For the most part, they were only body parts now, strewn haphazardly throughout the

room. Blood covered the majority of the floors and walls – a surprising amount had even found

its way to the ceiling.

Only four figures remained standing. One was obviously dead – the other three, were

soon to be.

The dead one was female – Ollius could tell because every inch of her flesh was bare.

What would have been a sensuous and voluptuous figure, was not only corrupted by her ghostly

white skin, but also by her jet-black veins. Her veins swelled to such heights they almost seemed

external to her skin, as if her blood was flowing outside of her body. With every beat of her

heart the veins expanded, branching out further along the surface of her skin. Her eyes were

empty sockets, as if they had ruptured in her skull.

She held one Magi in her hand, her fingers clutching his throat. The other two stepped

back, throwing weak blasts of Oneness at her. Their attacks landed with little damage, her skin

charred black for a moment then immediately restore to its alabaster white.

“Mila . . . please,” her prisoner begged between haggard breaths. “You can fight it . . .”

She directed him a lusty smile.

“I don’t want to,” she replied, grinning.

Her lips parted . . . with an effortless jerk, she ripped out the man’s throat. Her lips dove

down into the spray of blood, suctioning onto the open wound.

The remaining two Magi had seen (and done) enough. With their halos little more than a

bluish mist, the pair turned and bolted – or tried to.

Mila released her victim. Her tongue fully protruded from her mouth, and was dripping

with blood, having recently been licking around the inside of the man’s throat. Before he even

hit the floor, she had another Mage by the arm. The man tried to keep running, but was lifted off

his feet instead. To the sound of crunching bones, Mila slammed him to the ground. His arm

was bent in the opposite direction to the rest of his body, while his legs were utterly motionless.

He screamed as Mila bent down and bit into his skull.

It all happened so fast, Ollius hardly had time to take it all in, let alone decide what to do.

But Kendal had made her decision. For her, there was only one thing to do in the

presence of the undead – fight.

Her fists glowing like blue stars, she sped towards Mila. She completely disregarded the

lone, surviving Mage who continued to flee their way. She flew past him, her fists punching out

at Mila who was moaning in ecstasy as she slurped up the man’s brains. Kendal’s fist landed squarely on Mila’s head, collapsing half her skull, snapping her neck and folding her head back

behind her shoulders. That should have done it, but Kendal didn’t stop there, she continued

pounding the woman, breaking more of her bones with every blow. Mila’s black blood sprayed

into the air . . .

Suddenly Kendal fell back, screaming in agony . . .

Where Mila’s blood fell upon her, her suit of blue-steel disintegrated, Kendal’s skin

melted.

Ollius and Gabe ran to her . . .

Mila rose to her feet . . . as did the other two Magi she had recently feasted upon . . .

Adros was the first to arrive. He leapt into the room, sprinting past a terrified Mage who

was fleeing the scene. He saw his friends forty feet away . . . their situation was dire indeed.

Gabe was on his knees, his innards spilling out of a giant tear in his mid-section. Despite

suffering what was an obvious mortal wound, he used what little power he had left to cover his

steaming pile of guts in a shield of Oneness, while simultaneously attempting to shove the

twisted pile of entrails back inside with his hands.

Kendal . . . a fiercer warrior Adros had never seen -- the harder the fight, the stronger her

power. She was ablaze in the Oneness. Her steel armor was riddled with holes, through which,

raw pinkish flesh could be seen. She moved with impossible speed, her glowing blue fists

striking out with incredible destructive power.

She landed many blows, broke many bones, but her opponent seemed oblivious to them.

And her opponent was just as quick, if not quicker. A tall, sensual Dead God. Her body was

completely bare, and completely riddled with a spider web of pulsating black veins. As Kendal

hammered away at her, she landed her own vicious blow to Kendal’s chest, throwing the waifish

girl back twenty feet. The Dead God flew after her, continuing to land more blows before

Kendal finally crumpled to the ground in a beaten lump of blue flames.

She licked the black blood from her cracked lips, grinning as she prepared to fell her with

a killing blow. Suddenly, the ground below her feet liquefied. Before she knew what happened,

the Dead God was knee deep in molten obsidian. She wailed in pain as the liquid glass burned

her legs. Ollius levitated past her, scooping up the child-like body of Kendal. He hurled a wisp

of Oneness as he passed, returning the obsidian glass to its solid state, leaving the Dead God

temporarily trapped.

He tried to flee the area, but Ollius was forced to stop as a pair of Dead Gods came at

him; one virtually lacked a head, while the other had a gaping hole in his throat. Thick, black

blood poured freely form both of their wounds. He set Kendal down and prepared to face

them . . .

It took only a couple quick strides of his long legs and Adros was in striking range. The

King’s Wood shot out, taking off the remainder of the one Dead God’s head. The staff was

blistering to the touch to begin with, but once it took the Dead God’s life, it was smoldering.

Adros felt the staff slipping his grasp, his hands too crippled with pain to hold onto it. None the

less, he held on, and shoved its blood-red tip into the hole of the other Dead God’s throat.

Adros screamed out in pain, against his will, the staff fell. His fingers had burnt into

charred black digits that he could no longer control.

The undead woman was freed from the floor – and coming at them fast. Ollius

simultaneously sent blue flames at her and Adros. He meant to burn the bitch down before she

reached them, or failing that, heal Adros so he could fight her. Indeed she burned. Smoke rose

from her bleached, white flesh, while the blood within her large veins boiled and burst. But she

didn’t stop.

Enough blue fire sank into Adros’ hands that he was now able to move them, but the

woman was upon them, and he didn’t have time to reach for his staff. He kicked out at her

instead. His foot landed flat upon her face, but she completely ignored the attack. She willingly

accepted the blow to get her purple fingernails on Adros. There was a loud snap as her neck bent

back, her nails latched onto Adros’ leg, sinking through the blue-steel like it was paper and

burrowing into his flesh.

He felt the infection spreading through his limb like fire. The pain was so intense his

crippled hands were forgotten. Adros dropped to the ground, letting the woman take the brunt of

his weight. As he did so, he reached for his fallen staff. It was just inches out of his reach. He

struggled to kick his leg free; her nails dug deeper. He stretched out, his burnt fingers latching

onto his staff’s blood red tip. He turned over, preparing to slam it onto her head when he saw

Ollius appear from behind the woman, blowing a flaming hole through her chest.

The woman let Adros go and spun around, her dagger-sharp nails going straight for

Ollius’ throat . . . they found a hair-thin blade of silver instead. Her fingers went flying through

the air – as did her blood. The silver blade melted in half. The black blood sprayed out, hitting

Ollius’ halo of flame. Neither his halo, nor suit of blue-steel offered him much protection. The

acid-like blood sank through both, and continued on into Ollius’ flesh . . .

Wave after wave of blue flames entered him, kept him whole and unharmed. Another

blade appeared to sever her other arm at the shoulder. A pair of daggers sunk into her empty eye

sockets. Ten more daggers followed, each one coming to rest in one of the woman’s vitals.

She screeched in agony and defeat, then was silenced as another dagger stuck into her

throat.

A child-like form stepped forward, stopping right in front of the woman. The pyre of

Oneness surrounding the lithe figure broiled to the ceiling. The fire continued to rise,

threatening to melt the roof of the chamber. Before it did so, the flow of energy reverted,

focusing entirely on the small figure’s fists. Kendal’s fists – too bright to behold -- struck out,

exploding the upper half of the Dead God’s body.

Lacking a head and heart, the woman’s lower half continued to stumble around, spurting

black blood wherever it went.

Adros finished it off, his King’s Wood staff rained down on her waist.

“What in the dead do we do now?” Ollius asked. “It took all of us to take down but one

of these, if the rest of the Elders shared a similar fate, we will be hard pressed to near the

Hangar.”

“Hard pressed indeed,” S’ilindsa said, a confused look on her face as she studied her

melted blades. She flung them to the ground before continuing on, “The steel of the dwarves is

the hardest I have seen, yet it melts like butter when it touches their blood.”

“Mage-fire is little better,” Ollius said. He looked to Kendal, who was half naked

beneath her disintegrated suit, then continued, “Unless employed in vast amounts. But even

then, nothing we can do proves fatal. It would seem, only Prince Adros has that power.”

Nearby, a dozen Magi were fervently pouring their Oneness into Gabe’s ‘now external’

organs. Brontes had to intervene and halt their efforts. The young Mage was on the verge of

death, and nothing they could do would keep him from crossing the brink. He convinced the

Magi to let him go. It was even more difficult to convince them to burn him to dust, lest they

risk battling another powerful undead foe.

“So it seems,” Adros said. The Magi had healed his hands, but he still walked with a

limp due to his injured leg. The Oneness had no effect on the infection -- fortunately, elven

blood did. Within his cells, another battle was being waged. Due to the slow recession of pain,

Adros judged his body to be winning.

“We have to complete this mission,” Brontes said, returning from the charred lump of

Gabe. “Stick to the plan. It was never our intention to come here to fight. We came to save

these people, if any yet live we should find them and get the dead out of here.”

“Agreed,” the others said, echoing one another.

Then Brontes took Adros aside.

“Now for that promise, Adros,” he said, grabbing his arm and guiding him away from the

others.

The elf allowed himself to be led, and nodded his head.

“You have to know what we’re up against before we proceed. But I worry, that once you

know the truth, you’ll act rashly. I want you to promise me, that no matter what, we hold fast to

Anon’s plan.”

“Of course,” Adros replied, though his white eyes betrayed his uncertainty.

Brontes accepted his word, without exception.

“When I spoke with the survivors, they say a single, powerful entity took the Hangar.”

From the survivors’ minds he gleamed scattered images of what had happened. When

taken together, the many images formed a pretty solid picture of the desolation . . .

Ome fell to the ground, his halo dissipating . . .

Darkness swept from the pod, spreading outward and into the Hangar . . . the darkness

took Ome . . . it filled him, possessed him and bound him to its cause . . .

The Oneness of over four hundred gods filled the chamber . . . the blue flames struck out

against the tendrils of darkness . . .

The tendrils moved on . . . one after another it fell upon the gods . . . one after another

they were claimed . . .

The living fled . . . the dead walked . . . and they fed . . .

“He turned their forces against them and scattered over four hundred Chosen and Elders

into the Sanctuary,” Brontes continued. “They said they knew the creature, and that at one time

he stood among them as a brother. They say his name is Ostedes, and that he has returned to the

Sanctuary, a monster.”

There came a soft hiss as Adros’ grip tightened on his gnarled staff. The wood yet

burned, blood trickled from his fingers, winding down the length of it.

“Impossible . . .” he said through gritted teeth. “That fiend was slain by Anon. I saw it

with my own eyes.”

“I don’t doubt what you saw. But by some ungodly miracle, he has survived . . . and now

it appears he is stronger than ever. By the Maker, he alone scattered the entire might of the

Elders!”

Some said X’ander wasn’t the only elf to have suffered permanent, emotional loss at the

hands of the Dead Tree. Some said that Adros also left a part of himself high upon the branches

of the Graelic.

They say that when he first stepped foot upon the soil of his home-world, the Elf Prince,

Adros abandoned his fear high atop the branches of his God-tree, the Graelic.

“I’m going to the Hangar,” Adros said, side-stepping Brontes. The Mage reached out to

him, but this time, the elf gracefully avoided his hands.

“You made a promise,” Brontes pleaded, knowing the Elf Prince would surely be heading

to his doom.

“I made a promise to Ostedes as well,” he replied, continuing down the chamber. “The

Maker willing, I will be able to keep them both. The plan remains. Gather the survivors then

meet me at the Hangar. Someone has to secure our transport out of this deathtrap . . . like Ollius

said, nothing you can do will destroy them. Therefore, I’m making it my responsibility . . .”

S’ilindsa strode forward, cutting him off.

“What are you going to do, Father?” She questioned.

“I’m getting us out of here,” he bluntly stated.

“Not alone you aren’t. I’m coming with you,” She demanded.

X’ander was already at Adros’ side, as though his companionship was expected.

“No,” Adros commanded. “We’ve already seen what becomes of your weapons. You

cannot stand against these demons.”

“Father . . . please, we can find another way to defeat them,” S’ilindsa pleaded.

“No. I’m ordering you to stay. That’s not the command of a father, but of your Prince,”

Adros harshly replied. “And I expect you both to obey it.”

“And what about me, Elf Prince?” Brontes asked.

“You know I cannot order you to stay, Brontes. But you would be a fool to come.”

“Then we’ll be a pair of fools against the Dark Army,” Brontes said with a warm smile.

“A pair of dead fools,” S’ilindsa cried out. She took Brontes hands, tears forming at the

corners of her white eyes.

“Pray we are not,” Adros replied. “Or none of us will be going home.”

Home . . .

Did it even exist any longer?

Adros raised his voice, directing it at the others, “Our sole means of escape, the Hangar,

has fallen. Brontes and I must go to reclaim it. The mission continues, though I fear we haven't

much time before these hallways become flooded with the Dark Army. Even the mighty

Rag’nerack must have fallen by now. You must move quickly, spread out, search the Sanctuary

in threes; two elves to a Mage. Recover survivors, and at all costs, avoid confrontation . . . I do

not doubt the bravery or skill of any one of you, but this foe you cannot kill. If they find you,

run . . . and run fast. Don’t stop running until you get to the Hangar. If all goes well, we will be

waiting for you when you arrive. If things go badly, do your best to fight your way to a pod and

flee.”

He put a hand on X’ander and S’ilindsa.

“X’ander . . .” he said. “I know what you’ve faced better than any. And I know one day

you will see beyond your suffering, one day you will change. If I’ve learned anything in my own life of suffering, it is that the only constant in the universe is change. Accept the path of the

Maker and free yourself from pain.”

X’ander said not a word, merely sent his father a blank, white-eyed stare.

“S’ilindsa . . .” Adros said.

She left Brontes and wrapped her arms around him.

“Fight on . . .” he whispered into her ear as he returned her hug. “Never stop.”

X’ander took her hand as Adros turned and walked away.

“I’ll never stop . . .” she replied. “Not ever.”

She held on tightly to X’ander’s hand as Adros and Brontes headed out to the Hangar.

Rag’nerack lifted his hammer from Brokheim’s crushed skull. Brokheim was the last of

them; the last of his infected brothers. Once more he caught that oh so familiar scent . . . the

reek of death and decay. This time it not only filled his nostrils but his every pore. His teeth

gnashing, his hands twisting and tightening on M’jillner, Rag’nerack slowly turned to Hell’s

Gate.

It was time . . . time for his vengeance to be fulfilled.

At his side, the wise old Oldem clanged a pair of massive silver axes together, howling at

the Hell’s Gate in the old tongue – shouting out ancient profanities, cursing the very wombs of

the Dark Lords’ mothers.

Rag’nerack squared his shoulders to the Gate, taking up Oldem’s howl . . .

The first Lord was stunned by the sound . . . It was the last sound he ever heard. Oldem

cleaved his head in half and then some. From the top of his skull down to his chest, the Dark

Lord’s body was split like a log. He was damaged, but not quite dead. With the axe stuck in his

torso, the Dark Lord flailed around; even attempted to escape by running away. Oldem’s other

axe swept off his legs. Oldem slammed his foot upon the body, spewing out the Lord’s guts

around his toes. He pried his axe free, seeking his next victim.

Rag’nerack took down the second Lord, and the third as well. The pair came out of the

Gate together, more wary and prepared than their fallen companion. Immediately, they split up,

attempting to take Rag’nerack on either side . . . They were fast, and thought they could outrun

the sluggish giant, outflank him and take the fight beyond the range of his devastating weapon.

Rag’nerack defied the stereotypes of his race, he was neither slow, nor stupid. His left

hand shot out, wrapping around the one Lord’s head and neck. Aided by the moon’s gravity, his

right hand bore the weight of M’jillner, swinging the hammer downward to crash into the other

Lord’s back. There was a brief scream from the Lord before he was blown to bits. Rag’nerack

watched the Lord’s remnants rain down, then suddenly remembered the other Dark Lord trapped

in his left hand. His hand was wet with mush. In his excitement, he had unknowingly squished

the being’s head.

To Rag’nerack’s left, Oldem was engrossed in another battle. He fought two – and then

three, Dark Lords simultaneously. One was heavily injured, her spine severed from the axe

sticking out of her back. She collapsed to the ground, desperately trying to pull the axe free.

Rag’nerack squashed her skull with his boot, then slammed M’jillner on top of another

Dark Lord’s head. Oldem got the other with an axe straight between its eyes.

Oldem screamed a warning, wrenching the axe free.

Rag’nerack didn’t even bother to question the warning, but took a huge step, rotating his

body while swinging M’jillner around in a circular arc. One Dark Lord managed to dip below

the hammer – two didn’t. His allies exploded behind him as he rolled into the room. The Dark

Lord turned his hands into blades and arose to his feet – Oldem’s axe took off his head.

That was it . . . the end of the Dark Lords’ attempted assault (that is to say, their first

attempt). After that, the Dark Lords came slowly. During the course of the battle, Rag’nerack

and Oldem had been pushed far enough from the Gate that now the Dark Lords were able to

enter the room without being immediately cut down. They came through the Gate in threes –

nine had already made their way into the chamber.

The Dark Lords had a better sense of their foe now. Instead of rushing the giants, they

waited, building their forces and pressing the giants further and further away from Hell’s Gate.

“No point waiting for it,” Oldem grumbled.

“Apparently not,” Rag’nerack agreed, tossing M’jillner back and forth, from one hand to

another, preparing for an attack at any angle. “Well, old friend . . . Let’s be on with it then . . .”

Thirty Dark Lords barricaded Hell’s Gate by the time the Giants came thundering at them

. . . and still the Dark Lords came, now shoulder to shoulder, ten at a time.

Fascinating, Dona’Cora thought, rather enjoying the spectacle. These mighty giants

slaughtered the Makii as easily as sheep.

Even so, it would be over for them soon . . . just how soon, had yet to be determined.

Time after time, she was on the verge of stepping in – fearful the spectacle was coming to

an end, and eager to play her own part in the slaughter. It wasn’t until the Dead Gods gained a

foothold that she finally saw her opportunity.

It is time . . . She thought, watching as the Dead Gods flooded her Sanctuary.

She also noted how the giants were no longer content to wait, and were on the verge of

charging headlong into the growing gathering of Makii.

What a perfect distraction the giants would provide her as they rampaged into the Makii’s

ranks. The Dead Gods would never see her coming. The blaze of glory would be her own when

she fell upon the unsuspecting Makii.

As expected, the Giants filled the chamber with their roars, and then fearlessly charged

forward to their deaths.

She almost let them . . . It didn’t feel right to her, abusing their courage so she could

have her revenge. They too deserved a glorious death. They too deserved revenge.

Perhaps they could share it together – and by joining forces, let their glory rise ten-fold.

Before Dona’Cora rushed out to their aid, she even offered up her own version of a

prayer, damn you, Maker. If you refuse to let my life have meaning, at least let my death count

for something.

A living inferno, Dona’Cora joined the giants’ charge . . .

Mastecus stepped out of the Darkbridge – Galimoto hovering fearfully behind him. In

front of them, a pair of grim, battle-scarred, giants towered over them. One was far more

fearsome than the other. He was over a head taller than his companion, and wielded a hammer

of unimaginable power. He cast such a look of shear, bloodthirsty hatred toward the Makii that

he sent even Mastecus’ dead heart fluttering with fear.

Without a doubt they should be feared. Thus far, everything they faced they destroyed.

Mastecus wasn’t surprised it took his brethren this long to form a logical response to their

resistance. The Dead Tree commanded many of their minds now, Sevron cared little for the

value of their lives. It was his will that this be the final battle. He possessed armies upon armies

which he could virtually throw upon the giants until the end of time. As for the Makii, with the

battle won, they would no longer be of value to him.

Madness and death . . . that is all Sevron really wanted . . . and he would have more than

his fill of it today.

Over a dozen Makii were aligned around Mastecus. He felt free will in many of them,

the others were of weaker blood and had been fully taken by Death’s Servant. Nevertheless, for

the moment, their goals were aligned. Sevron seemed to be coming to his senses. Since the

beginning of the Plague, the strategy of the Makii had been three-fold; test, tire, then take their

enemies. Why kill a powerful enemy when you can make him an ally? That simple strategy was

the secret to their rise to power. Perhaps a part of Sevron yet remembered that.

Now, they were gathering power and forces to enact the third phase of the assault – they

would combine their demon wind, then take the Giants.

Mastecus had to admit, they would make fierce additions to the Dark Army. Sevron must

have finally seen the value in them as well. No doubt, he had already conceived a hundred

horrors for them to enact.

The group of Makii grew to eighteen . . . they summoned their power, joined it as one.

Mastecus felt the surge of power building, and knew it would take only of few more, then the

Giants would be easily overwhelmed . . .

‘Is The Master ready yet?’ his familiar, Galimoto asked. For once, Galimoto would serve

a purpose in battle.

‘Yes, Galimoto. The time has come. Tell the others it is time to stand before the

Maker . . .’

Past time, Mastecus thought to himself. Death is long overdue . . .

M’jillner was raised over his head, glowing like a star as Rag’nerack rushed forward.

The Makii remained motionless in front of him, an ever-growing line of pasty, despondent faces.

He hoped to obliterate more than a few of those faces before he died.

At his side charged his trusted brother, Oldem, a silver axe in each of his thick, wrinkled

hands. His axes had bathed in the black-blood, yet seemed eager to spill more.

Rag’nerack focused all his hatred and rage into the steel column of M’jillner, determined

to make his final blow a costly one. The crystal shone brighter, as though it sought to burn the

very eyes from the Dark Lords’ skulls . . . Then came another light – equally bright, though

burning blue with the signature wizard-flare.

Brontes? He wondered, unable to give the matter too much thought as he focused on the

enemy ahead. Instead of a man, he saw a flaming woman suddenly appear at his side. It was

only a single, quick look out of the corner of his eye, but the brief glimpse was enough for

Rag’nerack to recognize a kindred soul – an ancient warrior who hated the Dark Lords as much

as he.

And what a display of wizard-flare, nearly as impressive as M’jillner’s glow . . . nearly.

He was looking forward to seeing whose power proved greater.

Only a few more steps remained before they were upon the Dark Lords, their numbers

had greatly multiplied in only a matter of moments. It would take far more time than Rag’nerack

had left in life to count them all. And with every moment that passed, ten more Dark Lords

arrived.

Despite the pair of Giants and flaming goddess barreling at them, oddly, the Dark Lords

remained motionless.

Rag’nerack was within striking range when the scene turned to utter chaos, and not at all

the type he had expected.

. . . a white hand burst through a Dark Lord’s throat, clenched into a fist, then snapped its

spine . . . hands turned to black blades, one entered the belly of a nearby companion, the

attacker’s powers went out, exploding its victim’s torso skyward . . . limbs and black-blood flew

through the air . . . heads came off . . . heads were cut in half . . . the rain of blood and body parts

was everywhere.

The Dark Lords continued to come through Hell’s Gate, enacting their own private war.

To Rag’nerack, it was impossible to tell who was who, or what side to join. Nor did he care. He

joined in, killing whatever he saw . . . and there was a lot to see.

The carnage spread out through the Grand Hall. Dona’Cora thought she had seen it all,

but she was baffled by the chaos. The Dead Gods fought amongst themselves, and in such a

reckless abandon that their actions seemed akin to suicidal.

They wish to die? She wondered. Then die!

Gladly, she joined in the chaos . . . any chance to kill Dead Gods was a good one, and this

one seemed a miracle. Some fought back, some didn’t. It was obvious one party welcomed

death, perhaps even sought remittance for their sins, while the other Dead Gods clearly desired

no such thing. The only way to tell them apart was by killing them. One group maintained a

blank empty stare, even as she burnt their bodies to cinders. The others screamed, begged for

forgiveness, or even prayed to the Maker as they died.

That empty stare . . . looking into those emotionless black orbs seemed vaguely familiar

to Dona’Cora. She had seen such a vacant being once before, back in Castle Kandor.

Despite the ‘aid’ of the one faction of Makii, the only ones she truly trusted in this battle

were the Giants, the rest she put down without hesitation.

The Giants . . . they had fought well together in the opening moments. For a while it

almost seemed they could hold the Gate, but the Makii were too numerous and were ceaselessly

vomited up by the Rift. Eventually, they had to separate, spread out into the Grand Hall along

with the Makii, who continued to engage in their own personal vendetta.

The Giants were easy to find in the melee, especially the larger one with his blazing

crystal hammer. Few approached him any longer. The dead-eyed Makii were more concerned

with putting an end to their treacherous brethren, and besides, they knew any attempt to stop the

giant meant certain death.

The other giant fared much worse. He was surrounded, wounded, and tiring. The pair of

huge axes were the only thing keeping him from being overcome, and they were slowing.

Dona’Cora fought her way to him.

Covered in flames, she danced through the chaos . . . her fists burning, smashing, and

exploding her foes. The Oneness leapt from her body as if alive – alive and leaving death in its

wake.

It was like a dream come true.

For the first time in over a thousand years, Dona’Cora was smiling.

When she made it to the grey-haired giant, she wasn’t smiling anymore. The giant was

on his knees, his axes lying flat upon the ground. His legs were marred with vicious gashes.

Red blood dripped down his legs, black blood filled his veins. Already, his veins had blackened

up to his hips, and with every beat of his heart it continued to spread. The blank-faced Makii no

longer fought him, they just gathered around him, regarding him with that vacant stare.

She had to set him free – he deserved as much. Besides, if she didn’t, she doubted she

could defeat him once fully infected.

Dona’Cora carved a path to him. Her flames went out, wrapping three of the Makii in

burning blue tendrils. With a thought, she slammed the three Makii against the obsidian wall.

Bones popped and snapped as they hit the black glass, black blood poured from their orifices.

The Makii took the beating in silence, their faces blank and impassive. She enhanced her flames,

igniting them to a brilliant azure. Sizzling, smoke rose from the Dead Gods’ flesh. Wherever

her flames bound them, they melted straight through, leaving the Makii in smoldering pieces.

She made it to the giant just as he was rising to his feet. Once more, his axes were in his

hands, though now those hairy hands were riddled with swelling black veins.

A group of Makii barred her way. She did her best to smash and burn her way through

them but they were too many. She hated to admit it, but her own power was dwindling.

Initially, a single blow was enough to blast a hole through one of their pale bodies, but now, she

had to land several just to disable them. A great deal of Oneness went to enhancing her speed, a

great deal to her protective halo, and a great deal to her strikes. In her prime she could have

maintained them simultaneously for near eternity. Unfortunately now, the greatest amount of her

Oneness went to slowing the rate of metabolic aging. If she let any area of power slip, she was

doomed.

She found herself on the retreat as the giant continued to rise, towering over her.

Certainly, she no longer had enough power to face him. With some clever, well-timed blows,

she could still take down many Makii before she was entirely spent, but to face the giant would

result in her immediate death.

She was about to meld back into the chaotic battle, hunting weaker foes when a blinding

ball of light slammed into the giant’s head, showering the area in burning brain matter.

She felt the ground shake beneath her, heard the rhythmic boom of the giant’s feet as they

pounded the earth. The larger giant came storming toward them, charging the scene. He ignored

the gathering of Makii – they should have ignored him as well. They stood strong and blank-

faced as he plowed into their ranks, his massive feet sending them flying, or grinding them into the black glass. His crystal war-hammer rested on the ground alongside his ally, who was now a

headless corpse. The infected blood pooled around both as it drained from the giant.

His wide, brown eyes looked down at his fallen companion and then he howled . . .

He didn’t even bother with his hammer, he dove into the gathering of Makii, his club-like

fists smashing and crushing anything he saw.

So it ends . . . Dona’Cora thought, looking upon his rampage in awe and admiration. A

glorious death . . . one surely befitting a goddess.

She abandoned immortality – was instantly crippled. In a single heartbeat she aged a

millennium. Her legs could no longer support her, her arms were too weak to move. She would

have crumpled to the ground, a pile of brittle bones, if not for her halo.

Her halo flared – brighter than ever. She drifted upwards, a gleaming ball of flame. A

dozen blinding, blue coils leapt out as she went to join the giant and together fulfill their glorious

end.

“Master, look out!”

Mastecus saw it coming – how could he miss it – but he knew that even with the demon

wind he couldn’t avoid the oncoming glowing hammer.

His legs came out from under him. His face slammed to the floor as the hammer passed

him over. The ashes of his allies and enemies rained down on him after the hammer continued

on, the others not as fortunate to avoid its arc.

A barbed tail uncoiled around his ankles.

‘Galimoto . . . thanks,’ he said, more than a little confused, wondering why the imp had

cared enough to save him. He had expected the fiend would be pushing him into the servants of

Sevron by now, being all too eager to possess a new master.

Perhaps the Elder Dona’Cora was not what the imp had in mind.

The Giants moved on as more and more Makii continued to pile out of the Darkbridge.

Dona’Cora followed, equally as dangerous as the pair of behemoths. Mastecus was wise enough

to avoid that trio, besides, he had made his choice – they were his enemies no longer.

Instead of sticking around by the Darkbridge, Mastecus took the fight into the chamber,

trying his luck with his own kind – the Makii.

He got to his feet, and in a ripple of dark energy he moved out. The hosts of Sevron were

everywhere. He snuck up on a pair of them who were engrossed in tearing apart one of his allies

with their bare hands. Four rapid bursts of energy stunned them, his blade-shaped hands cut

them down. Nearby, Galimoto had entwined his tail around another’s neck, his claws buried

deep in its dark eyes. Mastecus sunk his hands into the Makii’s body and sent his energy out –

rupturing his every last internal organ.

From there the battle continued to rage, much the same. The upper-hand passed from one

faction to another. Mastecus and those who sought atonement were clearly outnumbered, but

they had the advantage of possessing free-will. The servants of Sevron had a slow response

time, and responded to attacks in an equal, and predictable fashion. When the servants came at

them, they attacked head-on. They focused the demon wind on speed and strength, preferring to

get up close to their opponents and rend them to pieces with their hands.

Meanwhile, the free Makii operated independently, and unpredictably. Each of them

employed the demon wind in uniquely destructive ways, making it hard for the servants to

anticipate, and defend. Galimoto was the most unpredictable force of all. His tail could bind

limbs, while his claws could leave his foes blind. His ‘antics’ left many a Dead God defenseless,

allowing Mastecus to finish them quickly and easily.

The battle raged on, and the Makii died in droves. It almost seemed as if the battle would

bring them to the brink of extinction . . . then they simply stopped coming.

Mastecus’ first thought was that something happened on the other end of the Bridge.

Perhaps another battle was being waged in that world, or perhaps Sevron somehow managed to

redirect the Darkbridge, closing it off to this Sanctuary. Either way it really didn’t matter, for,

win or lose, this place was death for Mastecus. Even if they managed to overwhelm the

servants, in the end, either the giant, or Dona’Cora would take their lives without hesitation.

They would never view him as an ally, nor should they, death was all he really wanted – death

and redemption.

Judging by the dwindling number of servants, he would soon have both things.

The majority of the servants had focused their efforts on the weaker of the two giants – a

wise move. To infect him would be a tremendous boon to their forces, they would no longer

need superior numbers to win. Mastecus thought to aid him, but saw a blaze of blue flames

heading his way and changed his mind. Dona’Cora was on a killing spree, and Mastecus didn’t

intend to become a part of it.

As he assumed, the servants had a lot of their hopes invested in possessing the giant.

When Dona’Cora came at them, they threw everything they had at her, desperate to repel her.

Many fell in the effort, but they managed to keep her away – long enough for the fallen giant to

arise.

But the larger giant they simply could not stop. His glowing hammer flew through the

air, taking off his former ally’s head. The Makii came at him, but he trampled right over them.

At the sight of his fallen companion, the mighty giant entered such a rage that even the blank

faces of the servants seemed afraid.

And then Dona’Cora returned to the fray – her body suddenly frail and weak, but

surrounded in a halo of flames greater than anything Mastecus had ever seen. He even saw

wisps of white fire dancing in the inferno, a power he thought belonged to only one man . . .

The sight filled his dead heart with hope. Perhaps Sevron could be stopped, the universe

restored to order once more.

Then they came from the tunnels . . .

His allies, the free Makii stood against them, independent and unpredictable . . . despite it

all the newcomers annihilated them.

Galimoto dropped to his shoulder, pinching his nose.

“What are those stinky beasts?” he asked in his musical voice.

Mastecus watched his former allies arise from what should have been their deaths – their

bodies more vile and corrupt than ever before. Before heading out to face them, he replied to his

creation, “Good bye, Galimoto” . . .

Hands of blue light wrapped around the Dead God’s waist and neck – burning as they

pulled, the Dead God was ripped in half. Next to Dona’Cora, the mighty Rag’nerack finished his

last foe by slamming his boot upon its skull.

They stood in a heap of burnt, squished, sundered pieces of Makii.

She did it . . . no, they did it together. Victory. Over fifty Makii met their deaths, and yet

they stood.

It was a miracle.

Rag’nerack leaned wearily on his huge hammer, panting, his chest heaving . . . grinning.

His smile broadened as he looked down on Dona’Cora. He likely would have slapped her back

in congratulations, had such a blow not broken her frail body.

She made the gesture instead, her thin fingers patting his thick, hairy leg.

“A glorious end, my giant friend,” she said, her voice a scratchy whisper.

“Well fought, little wizard. A glorious end, indeed.”

She was utterly spent. Only enough Oneness remained to keep her frail body upright.

For some unknown reason, the Makii no longer poured through the World Door. She liked to

believe it was because they feared the great Dona’Cora and her mighty giant ally. But she knew

that was too much to wish for. If they returned, they would kill her. If so, she would die content.

She had done enough -- more than she could have hoped for. She spilt enough Makii blood

today that she could now go to the Maker content.

The Maker . . .

Had this miracle victory made her a believer? Perhaps . . . or perhaps she had learned to

believe in others. The giant for instance; so fierce, brave and caring. As powerful as he was, he

never would have made it this long without the loyalty and love of his companions – including

his most recent one, Dona’Cora.

Even the Makii had a change of heart in the end. Though far too late, they finally saw the

evil they had wrought, and realized their victory and glory came at the price of their souls.

For so long she believed evil ruled the universe, and the best she could do was defy it.

But now she knew the war had yet to be won. Goodness remained. It would always remain . . .

and it would fight the evil for all eternity.

Dona’Cora stood with her new ally, content to watch the Dead Gods put an end to each

other. There remained only a handful of Makii left in the Grand Hall. The minority of which

were blank faced. The rebels made short work of their emotionless enemies, gaining the final

upper hand. Provided the Rift remained silent, the outcome of their battle would soon be

decided. She was a little more than curious to speak with these ‘good’ Makii once their battle

was won. After all the years, and all the atrocities, why the sudden change of heart? Why now,

when they could have won their war for all time?

Unfortunately, she would never have the answer . . .

Suddenly, she felt the giant tense up, his muscles turning hard as steel. He raised his

hammer.

“It would seem our fight is not yet done,” the giant growled.

She had to focus more of the Oneness to her ancient eyes before she understood what the

giant meant. When she abandoned immortality, her age almost instantaneously caught up to her.

Her muscles were weak, her bones frail. All of her senses were incredibly dull. Unless she filled

her eyes with the Oneness, the world was a murky blur.

When, at last, she was able to see the distant figures creeping from the tunnels, her first

instinct was to tell the giant he was mistaken, that the beings coming out of the tunnels were allies; her Chosen, and Elders. But after enhancing her vision even further, the blackened veins

and bleached flesh became all too apparent.

“Our fight is never over,” Dona’Cora whispered

The infected Elders took a moment to survey the battle, then, wasting no time they struck

out against the ‘good’ Makii. The Makii fought back, often scoring viscous, fatal blows, but

nothing stopped the undead Chosen and Elders. They healed almost instantly, and were faster,

more powerful than their counterparts.

“Are you able to fight on, wizard?” Rag’nerack asked, tightening his grip as the battle

drew near.

She recognized many faces in the crowd. One in particular posed a horrifying sight.

With his body spewing black slime, Ome wobbled out of the tunnels. He briefly paused, then his

body was suddenly wracked with spasms. Something emerged from the sole orifice in his belly

that handled all his body functions, from breathing to defecating. A veiny black ball, covered in

pus and bile, spewed out of the slit in his stomach. It plopped to the floor. A high-pitched

squeal emitted from the object as it started wobbling around. Ome abandoned it, and continued

to waddled forward, meanwhile, the ball grew, and sprouted limbs. Soon, it too was waddling

forward, a perfect clone of Ome.

After witnessing the foul birth, Dona’Cora wasn’t the least bit surprised to see another

Ome emerge from a different tunnel . . . and then another . . . and another . . .

So much for victory . . .

“Until they kill me, I will fight,” she said, knowing full well she had nothing left to give.

“Promise me one thing though, my giant friend. When I finally do fall, make my death a

permanent one.”

Dona’Cora was startled when the giant suddenly roared with laughter.

“Don’t worry, fierce, little Wizard,” Rag’nerack said, wrapping both hands on the hilt of

his hammer and stepping in front of Dona’Cora. “Soon, we shall both stand before the Maker.”

All of the Makii were defeated, dead. They arose, more loathsome and foul than ever

before. The corrupt Chosen and Elders set their sights on Rag’nerack and Dona’Cora. Onward

they came, walking beneath M’jillner’s glow . . .

X’ander was the first to arrive, he darted into the chamber, his daggers ready to fly from

his fingers. He was thankful to find an empty room – less so, when he realized it was a dead end.

Inwardly, he cursed. Outwardly, he maintained the cold exterior of a killer.

They had been fleeing through the tunnels for some time now. And though every

member of their small party was familiar with the general lay-out of the Sanctuary, after being

continually blocked from their chosen path, they eventually grew disorientated and found

themselves lost. The task was increasingly annoying due to the fact that every damned tunnel

looked identical to the last.

But there was another element to the situation, one which X’ander, the experienced

hunter and killer, was well familiar with.

We’re being corralled . . .

The actions of the undead were proving to be highly intelligent. Despite all of X’ander’s

attempts to avoid a trap, the undead had finally caught him.

He heard the others drawing near. Without turning to them he said, “Prepare to make a

stand.”

He scanned the room with his grey and white eyes, seeking anything that could give them

a tactical advantage. There was little. The room was roughly two elves tall, maybe eight wide as

well as long. The only objects in the room were several toppled, stone tables and block-like

chairs of the same material. Books of leather, and rolls of aged, yellow parchment were

scattered upon the floor.

“Magi, pile the blocks of stone in the entry and fuse them together,” he commanded, his

deadpan voice assuming their obedience. “Doshain, A’rhie, grab the others and get to the tables.

Stand them upright. Fight two elves to a table, keep the high ground as long as you can. If they

want us so badly, then let them come.”

The pair of young elves dashed past him, moving to obey. Another elf entered the room;

a cautious, white eye on the hallway behind her and a caring eye on the Magi and elves, assuring

they were all safely deposited into the room. She continued on, approaching X’ander. On each

of her swaying hips was a worn leather scabbard, but only one held a sword.

“When they find us, they’ll kill us all. There must be another way, brother,” S’ilindsa

said as she stood beside him.

“Unless you see an exit that I do not, then it seems our options are pretty limited at the

moment.”

“Maybe I do . . .” she replied, spinning away then heading to the entry where the Magi

were piling the stone chairs with their Oneness.

He nearly smiled as she walked away. It was second nature for her to disagree with him,

even when there was obviously no other options. But, much to his chagrin, it wouldn’t be the

first time she proved him wrong, or saw a possibility he couldn’t even comprehend. Curious to

find out if this was such a moment, X’ander joined her as she talked to the Magi.

She was an amusing one, that S’ilindsa – his supposed sister. For her, the epitome of life

was to bask in her father’s light. Objects such as X’ander often turned such light to shadow. Her

need to compete for Adros’ approval and love had become the highlight of X’ander’s life. He

found this ‘struggle’ equally as challenging and complex as having to save a handful of people

from a world full of undead. Gladly, he played her game; not because he cared a wit what Adros

felt, but because he enjoyed the challenge, and even more so, he enjoyed challenging his sister,

S’ilindsa.

She was a talented, intelligent warrior. And X’ander was proud to note, that the more he

challenged her, the greater her talents became.

But would her many talents be enough to free them from their current plight? Was it

even possible to rise to this challenge, and defeat a foe that was seemingly invincible? It seemed

unlikely, but it wouldn’t be the first time his sister had surprised him.

X’ander sidled up next to the group, doing his best to appear inconspicuous as he listened

in on their conversation.

“Not I, good elf. The creation of these halls was done long before my time,” a young,

chubby-faced Chosen said to S’ilindsa.

After they split up from the rest of the Guardians, their search through the halls led them

to five such Magi. Four of them were young Chosen. Though they had survived their own

home-worlds, they were relatively inexperienced in battle. Their previous encounters with the

Dark Army had been conducted under the Treaty, making their journey to the Sanctuary a safely

guided exodus. Only one of the new Magi was an Elder – and a very strange one at that. If S’ilindsa hadn’t stayed his hand in their initial encounter, X’ander would have sent a flock of

knives his way. Somehow his sister saw the man’s true nature, even though his exterior form

screamed ‘demon’. X’ander wasn’t even certain he was human, perhaps what a human would

look like if shaped by an infant’s hands. His limbs were more twisted and bent than Adros’ staff.

His head was a pummeled glob of senseless flesh. He communicated little through the flap in his

head, nor did he attempt to connect with them telepathically. The little they knew of him, they

learned from the Chosen. They had but two pieces of information; his name was Jakkar, and he

was an Elder.

That being the case, he must have had great power, but he never utilized a lick of it.

Never once did Jakkar even bother to summon a halo.

Other than those five Magi, shortly after they found them, they were forced to abandon

their quest as the undead began hounding them in. X’ander wasn’t sure what became of the

other groups of elves and Magi, they only found two other groups as they sought to reach the

Hangar. They combined forces and continued on, a total of six elves and ten Magi.

All of which were now currently trapped.

“Aye, the Sanctuary was built before my time as well,” another young Magi said. “We’re

only Chosen, perhaps if we were Elders we could do what you ask. But even so, we’re near

drained. Should we manage to make a tunnel, we will be unable to fight when we get to the

other side. And if we attempt it and fail, we’re surely dead.”

“If we fight this foe, we die,” S’ilindsa bluntly declared. “Adros commanded it himself,

we flee, not fight. Do it. Make a tunnel. As best you can, get it done. We’ll hold them back to

buy you time, but do it, and do it quickly. Drain yourselves if necessary, but we need that

tunnel.”

She danced through the crowd of Magi, then pointed at a section of wall at the back of

the room.

“Do it there,” she commanded. “If memory serves me, there’s another passage fifty feet

beyond that wall. If we can get to it, we’ll have a clear path to the Hangar.”

Looking doubtful and defeated, the Magi headed to the indicated area.

Leave it to S’ilindsa to find an exit where none existed . . . Perhaps she will free us from

this hell after all.

She walked over to Jakkar, who seemed oblivious to the entire conversation, his lumpy

body resting against the wall in order to avoid tipping over.

S’ilindsa rested her hand on his . . . shoulder?

They shared a moment of silence, then, for no apparent reason, she nodded her head.

“I wouldn’t call myself an Elder, but I’ll do my best to get it done,” Ollius said,

approaching the pair. “And if Kendal’s fists are as good at smashing stone as they are bone, then

we may have a shot.”

“No, as much as they need your help, you have to conserve your power,” S’ilindsa

replied, shifted her focus to Ollius. “If we somehow survive this, someone has to take us off this

world. Ollius, you may not be an Elder, but you were once a Gatekeeper. I doubt any of these

Chosen can tune a Gate, let alone create one. And Kendal . . . ,” she said, nodding to the waifish

girl. “We need you in the fight, you may be the only one who can actually kill these things.”

Kendal’s eyes immediately perked up at the suggestion.

“Jakkar . . .” S’ilindsa addressed the odd Elder, though he gave no indication he heard a

word she said. “Get ready. Time to do what you do best.”

X’ander was actually excited to find out what that could possibly be. He had a feeling he

would find out soon enough.

“They’re near, Sister,” X’ander said, breaking in on the conversation as he picked up

their enemies’ familiar putrid scent.

Her sword seemed to jump into her hand by its own will. S’ilindsa’s new blade was a

thicker, shorter, double-edged weapon. The technique and weight of the weapon were quite

different than what she was use to with her thin blades. Non the less, X’ander was quite

confident she would adapt to its use effortlessly. But even so, would it matter when their

enemies’ blood was like acid? He decided he would have to keep a close eye on her when the

battle began, lest she mistakenly over-step her abilities. Kendal was to be the killer in this fight,

the rest of them (X’ander included) were meant to serve as distractions. Every last one one them

knew they stood no chance against this foe, in this, X’ander was in total agreement with Adros –

a rare occurrence of late. As long as they could keep them from overwhelming Kendal, the thin

goddess might actually have a chance to eradicate a few of them.

X’ander signaled the other elves to join them at the entrance, meanwhile, the group of

young Magi had begun the laborious task of boring a fifty foot long hole through a wall of solid

obsidian. Ollius stepped back to the center of the room, despite S’ilindsa’s command, he

covered himself in a flaming blue halo. Jakkar remained nearby, as seemingly unhuman and

oblivious as ever.

Past the half-constructed wall of melted block-like chairs, X’ander saw the dead creeping

down the hallway. There was over a dozen of them; their flesh covered in festering wounds and

winding black veins -- their empty, black eyes drinking in their enemies. They moved slowly,

cautiously, confident that they had finally cornered their victims, but fully aware how dangerous

trapped prey could be.

Her eyes filled with fire, Kendal raised her head. Her typically timid features twisted in

rage. As the twelve infected Chosen and Elders charged forward, Kendal ran out to great them

with a pair of flaming fists.

One hand held M’jllner, the other, Dona’Cora. Her power was gone – her life nearly so.

Like a baby, her shrunken and shriveled body was nestled in the crook of Rag’nerack’s hairy

arm. He glanced down at his leg, cursing the old gods after noticing the black-blood had spread

from the bite in his calf to his knee and ankle. In his frenzied escape, one of the foul, ball-shaped

creatures managed to suction onto his leg with its grotesque, slit of a mouth. It fed for but a

second before Rag’nerack squashed it with his foot -- that second was enough to spread the

infection.

His next string of curses he directed towards himself, for letting his weariness blur his

senses and allowing a simple blob of a creature to be his end.

As a boy, Rag’nerack learned that even the strongest of stone could be changed, and that

the only thing permanent in the universe was the past.

That being the case, Rag’nerack found no sense in dwelling on it.

Grunting from the pain, he trudged on.

He was a Mithrlnite, born of the stone-blood. The infection would spread, but his blood

was strong and he yet had time.

Time enough to deliver the little goddess to the Hangar. If Brontes and the others still

remained, she could find sanctuary with them.

His legs pumped on. His broad chest heaved in and out. With every breath his nostrils

filled with the scent.

Rot . . . decay . . . death . . .

He caught wind of it behind him, but he knew the most pungent scent came from him –

his infected leg.

He was so near now.

. . . so were they . . . so too was death.

Chaos . . . the being basked in it. In front of him a young Chosen crawled away, his

entrails dragging behind him.

Ostedes’ new limbs went out, a flurry of black tentacles. They latched onto the Chosen,

searing her flesh as they dragged her towards his tree-like body. All the while, the young woman

screamed, begging the Dead God for mercy, pleading with him to remember that he once was an

Elder. It was her final hope; to find some remnant of goodness within his twisted soul.

She found none.

Ostedes reclaimed her. Her flesh dissolved as he pulled her into him. Every cell of her

body ruptured, spilling forth her genetic material to become food for his Plague infested cells.

He devoured her whole. The woman struggled inside him during the reclamation, his torso

flexing as she fought to escape. For a moment, her muffled scream continued to sound, then it

became a moan, then there was only silence from inside his trunk-like body.

They became as one. All her thoughts and fears became his own, strengthening him,

fueling his dark power.

The Oneness . . .

The true Oneness . . .

There was another voice inside him, another will. It spoke to him of true power,

something the Elders never dreamed. It was his Oneness. His truth.

It was chaos . . . all of it.

When he had reclaimed the Elders, one by one, he showed them the truth of it. They too

sought mercy, sought goodness. Some wept as he consumed them, others begged for infection.

Most of them he reclaimed, a small few he sent out to ensure the chaos spread. And oh how his

power has grown. With each feast, new memories, new powers.

Nothing can stop him now . . . he is the Servant of Death.

Let chaos reign . . .

Ostedes was preparing to move on, to further his power, further the chaos, when suddenly

he sensed new arrivals to the Hangar – both of their minds oh so familiar. And their flesh . . .

His chortled laughter filled the chamber.

. . . yes, the flesh. Time to finish what he started so long ago.

‘YOU STILL OWE ME SOMETHING, BOY. FROM YOU I REQUIRE FLESH . . . IT’S

TIME TO PAY UP.’

He stood on the highest peak. He let his halo fall, welcoming the bitter cold and

pounding wind against his flesh.

Serrated cliffs of red granite surrounded him for as far as his unaided eyes could see.

Encircled in stone, a sole, solitary field filled the valley below, at its center, a pulsating black

heart – the Rift.

Around the Rift, small sections of granite had been worn smooth, forming walls and

walkways. A low parapet wall lined the walkways. Yet unfinished, it required another tier of

brick to create the crenellation, thus providing the defenders narrow gaps to fire upon their

enemies far below. To the north, the lower half of what would become a great tower was on the

rise. Tiers of wooden planks and scaffolding encased the structure like an exoskeleton.

Normally, the scaffolding would be swarming with workers, but now the lifts were all

still, the plank walkways empty. Since their arrival to the Seventh World, the races had been

furiously working to transform the mountain range into a massive, insurmountable fortification.

Thus far they had done well, Anon was most impressed. Given time, the barrier would be

formidable indeed. But their time was limited. To complete the task on schedule it would take

an army, an army of gods.

It was Anon’s hope to provide that army . . . but as he was all too painfully aware, the

Plague corrupted all things, especially hope. Lately, too often even the Maker’s path was

shadowed by the corruption. What once was clear and true, became doubt. He walked the path

blindly now, his faith the only compass by which to guide his way.

For now, he would wait, and continue to hope. No matter what occurred, he would trust

in the Maker, and believe this was the path.

Anon wasn’t the only one who waited, far below him, the inhabitants of the Seventh

World had changed themselves from workers to warriors, and now stood in formation around the

Rift. Most were humans, two thousand of them donned in sparkling, polished full plate mail

armor. The second largest group were the dwarves; fierce fighters and brilliant craftsmen.

Shimmering axes of blue-tinged steel rested on their stocky shoulders. Then there was the

giants, only a hundred strong, but their bodies were so massive their line was as wide as the

human’s and covered their ranks in shadow. Only a handful of Magi speckled the gathering, thin

blue halos burning around their bodies.

One race was noticeably absent from the congregation. The elves had all entered the

Rift, embarking on a most perilous journey to save a people that were neither kin, nor even

friend. They went because he asked them to go, and because they understood the value of life

and knew that it was to be cherished no matter what its form.

They knew the only enemy was death, and they would fight it, wherever it went.

But had he delivered them into their enemy’s hands? Was that where their path came to

an end, the Sanctuary?

He sensed a failure of catastrophic proportions. What was most puzzling was that he

only sensed it, but couldn’t see it. His power – the power of the Maker – was barred from the

Sanctuary. The temptation to storm the Elders’ home with the army of races was nearly

irresistible. But Anon knew that if he did so, he would likely be sending them all to their deaths.

Nor could he even make the journey. It was the Maker’s will that those he sent must face this evil on their own. Either they would return, stronger than ever before, or storm the Gate with an

army of undead at their side.

He trusted in his friends and their abilities, as he trusted the Maker’s will as well. But,

whatever force held the Sanctuary was powerful beyond knowing. An evil even Anon had been

unable to fully destroy.

Ostedes!

The army of races sensed the potential failure as well. They were arrayed around the

pulsating Black Door, fully expecting death to come storming through at any moment.

Anon still hoped the elves and Magi would be coming through, turning the gathering into

a celebration – but they were long overdue.

So much was at stake here. Had he been a fool to trust Imorbis . . . again. The last time,

the price he paid had been his own life. What would be the cost for following the Dead God this

time?

There was only one certainty at this point – if indeed Imorbis betrayed him, he would

make sure the Dead God burned in the Maker’s flame until the end of time.

They entered the Hangar. Adros strode in, his body poised and collected, the Graelic

clenched in his hands and ready to strike. The white eyes of the Prince held no fear, only anger

and hate for the being who had betrayed him so long ago.

His halo burning bright, Brontes walked at his side; fearful and wary. He had seen first-

hand how powerful the evolved Plague was, and through the minds of the Chosen he had seen

how powerful it had made the former Elder, Ostedes. Also, he was well aware that this wasn’t

the first time Adros had faced the being; there had been two such encounters in the past, and

each battle had ended in Adros’ defeat.

If it was at all possible, Brontes would have avoided this confrontation. They had never

faced such evil before, nor so powerful a foe. But he knew his friend, the Elf Prince would not

be denied this confrontation. He had a score to settle with the fiend that was long overdue.

From their previous journeys into the Rift, Adros had grown stronger than ever – yet so

too had Ostedes. Still though, none of their past experiences prepared them in the least for the

enigmatic powers the giant now possessed.

Nevertheless, Brontes knew this was a fight they had to partake in . . . and had to win. If

they failed, every living being in the Sanctuary would die.

Side by side, they stepped into the room, then paused. The floor of black glass

shimmered under Brontes’ flames, reflecting back at him in a crimson hue through the thick

coating of blood covering the floor. To either side of them, sanctuary awaited; twin rows of

glistening metallic pods. In front of them, the giant reared up, his limbs uncoiling and thrashing

in the air, his body a blackened trunk of putrid, rotting wood. Beyond him, the Hangar opened to

the harsh wind-torn landscape, the cruel environment suddenly so appealing to Brontes.

He had heard that in his last battle with the being, Adros had severed one of his arms

(Anon had removed the other). Miraculously, both arms had regrown, but now, instead of the

previous, flexible branch-like limbs, they more resembled an angry nest of black snakes.

Long before the giant attacked, they knew what was coming . . .

‘YOU STILL OWE ME SOMETHING, BOY,’ the giant said, he voice threatening to tear

apart their minds. ‘FROM YOU, I REQUIRE FLESH . . . IT’S TIME TO PAY UP.’

Impossible, Brontes thought, falling to his knees. Amidst the pain burning through his

mind, he somehow managed to recall the last time he heard those words. It can’t be, Anon

destroyed you . . .

A strange, clucking sound filled the room.

‘ANON . . . THE FOOL. THE FALSE GOD. EVEN HE CANNOT KILL ME. I

CANNOT DIE.’

‘We shall see,’ Adros replied, his rage-filled mind shaking off the giant’s mental barrage.

On their journey to the Hangar, they shared a theory; if Adros’ staff of King’s Wood

could control the Dead Tree, could its power extend to those the Dead Tree possessed as well?

It seemed Adros was in the midst of testing that theory, for Brontes felt the waves of

mental pain fading. Alongside him, Adros gripped his staff tightly, his white eyes locked in deep

focus on the distant giant.

The theory proved true, the giant’s telepathic hold over them vanished. But how long

could he Adros hold him, and how deep did the control extend? The giant stepped forward, his

eyes glowing bright in rage. He continued on, obviously slipping further and further from

Adros’ control.

If they wished to stand a chance against the demon, they had to break his focus before he

was fully freed and once more assaulted their minds. Brontes sent a stream of Oneness into

Adros. The moment he felt the flames enter him, he knew what they meant, and what he should

do – Adros was off. He became a blur, moving so fast his feet never seemed to touch the floor.

Being an elf, he was naturally fast, but after Brontes enhanced his speed he was nearly invisible.

Before Ostedes knew what was happening, Adros was on him, a deadly hurricane of black wood.

With his staff twirling in front of him, Ostedes’ branch-hands were obliterated. His limbs flew

through the air as Adros severed them, falling to the ground where they shriveled up and

withered to ash.

The giant stepped back, his eyes white hot and glaring down at the elf. He arched his

back, stretching his body until he was well beyond twice Adros’ height.

A swarm of tentacle limbs came at Adros, though none of them came anywhere near the

elf. His staff intercepted anything that got close, incinerating it on contact. Adros fought on,

pruning his way through the giant’s limbs.

Brontes sensed pain in his friend -- his hands burning as the staff absorbed Ostedes’

power -- so he amplified the stream of Oneness, focusing more on healing than enhancing his

abilities.

Brontes’ role in this battle was predetermined, as was Adros’. By all accounts the

Oneness was useless against Ostedes. Therefore they decided Brontes should take a back seat to

the battle, lending his power to the Elf Prince so he can do what he does best.

Adros ducked low as the giant tried knock him aside with his arm. In a loud ‘swoosh’ of

air, the arm continued on. Adros was back on his feet and in his fighting stance, striking out at

the giant’s unguarded body. He thrust his staff forward like a spear, shoving the weapon all the

way through Ostedes’ midsection. With his arms flailing like mad, the giant reared up.

Meanwhile, the staff of King’s Wood caught fire, igniting in flames of black as it continued

searing the giant’s midsection.

The pain in Adros’ mind was unbearable, even for Brontes who merely felt it second-

hand. Brontes increased his healing, sending the full might of his Oneness into Adros. But even

with the steady stream of healing power pouring into the Elf Prince, the pain only mounted.

The elf had to abandon his staff, smoldering as it stuck out of Ostedes’ body. Adros

dropped back to avoid the monster’s flailing arms. Grimacing in pain, he held his hands in front

of him, their flesh charred like overcooked meat. Brontes spent a moment to heal them, then

flew at the giant; fully aware of his role but not wanting to squander the opportunity to attack

him while he was yet in a vulnerable state. He blasted out, one barrage of flames after another,

obliterating large chunks of the giant.

Fully aware of how dangerous the giant’s acidic blood could be, he kept his distance. His

fear fading, Brontes blasted away, now focusing all his power to tear the fiend apart. Adros

continued to step away from the fight, his hands contorting into burnt and useless, half-clenched

fists. Meanwhile, his staff continued burning in the giant’s body.

Even if Adros could reach the staff through the barrage of acidic blood, it would be

impossible to wield. The staff was blacker than Brontes had ever seen it before, and burned

hotter as well. If his hands were charred now, they would be ash the moment they touched it.

Skewered by the staff, the beast continued to thrash about in pain -- Brontes continued to

rain down blows, carving the creature with his Oneness. But it wasn’t long before Brontes

realized the futility of his attacks. Every chunk he sent flying, regrew by the time his next blow

fell. Even the tentacle limbs Adros severed with the staff of King’s Wood had sprouted anew.

Only Adros’ staff sticking out of its torso had a lasting effect. The giant understood this as well,

and was completely ignoring Brontes, desperately attempting to pull the burning staff out. His

tendrils sizzled as they wrapped around it, dissolving only moments later . . . but more were

always there to take their place.

Brontes knew what would happen if he managed to free the weapon; not only would he

assault them physically, but mentally as well. Even with all his recent training, and experience

battling the Dark Army, Brontes would be helpless to defend against Ostedes’ telepathic assault.

Seeking another way to stop him, he borrowed an attack from Ollius. The ground below

the giant became a pool of molten glass. His root-like feet slowly sank into the pool, igniting in

flames as they did so. Unfortunately, the attack only increased Ostedes’ fury. With his tentacles

disintegrating around the King’s Wood staff, he ripped it free.

The King’s Wood clattered as he tossed it to the floor. Creaking, the wood curled up and

twisted in upon itself, black flames still rising from its surface. The gaping hole in the giant’s

belly fused shut, his limbs all regrew. With the molten glass still burning his feet, he slowly

pushed himself up.

Why won’t you die?

Brontes only had a moment before the darkness took him. In that moment, he solidified

the ground, trapping the giant’s feet.

Then, the giant filled his mind with pain.

‘I TOLD YOU, BOY . . . I CANNOT DIE . . .’

The giant’s words echoed like thunder in his mind. Adros tucked away the pain coming

from his hands and in his head. He let rage fill his mind instead. The sight of his fallen friend fueled his anger to incredible heights. Brontes collapsed, a flurry of black tentacles reaching out

to him. Adros hurtled forward, his foot leading the way to Ostedes’ head . . . it never found its

mark. Several tendrils darted out, snagging him out of the air.

Burning their way through his blue-steel suit, they slammed him to the ground. His staff

sat smoldering, just beyond his reach. Even if he could get to it, he didn’t think he could hold it,

not even long enough for a single strike. Then he caught a glimpse of his friend . . . and knew he

had to at least try. He stretched his body to the max to get the weapon.

Brontes was nearly buried beneath the tentacles. The blue-steel had disintegrated, so too

had his flesh. Clearly, there was a method to the monster’s madness; by strategically placing his

limbs on Brontes’ body, he was able to carve out large areas of the Mage’s skin. He then began

extracting them from his body. Ostedes started by peeling the skin from Brontes’ face. The pain

revived him, his friend awoke screaming as he was flayed alive.

Adros’ fingers burned as they touch the King’s Wood. His legs burned as well, the layer

of blue-steel was long gone, the tentacles now melting their way through flesh.

Adros wrapped his hand around the King’s Wood staff, instantly it burned him to the

bone. Screaming in rage and pain, he swung it at the arm holding his friend. Like a hot poker

through butter, it sank through the giant’s arm. He felt a tinge of hope at the sight of Brontes

falling free, then, almost immediately, the severed limb grew back.

The King’s Wood staff fell from his crippled hand.

He had nothing left to give . . .

Once, long ago, he swore to end this monstrosity. But the feat had proven to be beyond

him, not once, but three times. Three times he had failed . . . this would be his last.

‘AHH . . . ELF PRINCE. HIS SUFFERING IS NOTHING COMPARED TO WHAT I

HOLD IN STORE FOR YOU. TOGETHER, YOU AND I WILL HAVE EONS TO EXPLORE

YOUR PAIN . . .’

He could no longer resist his telepathic attacks, his anger was all spent in futility. The

last sight Adros saw was the giant’s wicked eyes as they glowed down upon him . . .

“Wake up, Father,” a gentle voice softly insisted.

He opened his eyes to see an angel. Glowing curls danced upon his face as she looked

down at him, the shimmer in her grey and white eyes mesmerizing. A pair of pointed ears

peeked through her golden head of hair.

“S’ilindsa . . . Is this the afterlife?” Adros whispered, fully expecting the Maker to

suddenly appear to great them.

“No, Father,” X’ander coldly replied from somewhere close by. “This is hell.”

As Adros slowly regained his senses he looked around, realizing he was still at the

Hangar, and quite alive. He hoped he could still say the same for his friend, Brontes, who was

trapped beneath one of the giant’s massive feet. He was severely damaged, but the constant

moan coming from his lip-less mouth indicated he still had a shred or life left.

With the a little help from S’ilindsa, Adros got to his feet. He flexed his fingers in

amazement, seeing pinkish flesh where before had been exposed bone. Miraculously, he was

virtually healed.

He also noted there were many others in the room now. Several of which, were familiar

faces: Ollius, and Kendal were there, as were around two dozen of his kin. Those he didn’t

recognize were mostly young faces full of fear, their bodies covered in thin layers of blue flame.

Then, he noticed another being at his side. A man of twisted flesh, his halo filled with more

Oneness than all the others combined – including Kendal. And all that power he poured into

Adros.

“Save your power for him,” Adros gently commanded to the deformed human, while

nodding to Brontes.

Everyone turned to Ostedes, who was patiently awaiting them, his arms writhing in

excitement. He was using what was left of Brontes as bait, goading the group to come at him.

“Can you save him, Jakkar?” S’ilindsa asked, though no response was forthcoming.

Adros did, however, see a fire suddenly ignite in the young elf’s eyes.

“Wait,” Adros called, reaching out to grab her.

But she was already gone.

Not even bothering to grab a weapon, she ran toward Ostedes . . . X’ander was right

behind her, and Kendal – burning hotter than ever – was flying out as well.

Fully healed, Adros ran after them to once more face Ostedes . . .

“Can you save him, Jakkar?” the beautiful, young elf-ling asked.

‘Yes. Brontes yet lives . . . but if you go to him, Ostedes will destroy you both. I see it in

his mind, he wishes you to come.’

Jakkar felt her heart fill with fire, saw it mirrored in her eyes.

The telepathic power of Ostedes was incredible. But Jakkar had incredible powers as

well. His ability to heal was unprecedented in the known history of the universe. Not only was

it a healing gift for others, but himself as well. It was how he survived the initial assault. He had

been bitten, cut, pummeled . . . and even infected, but he had healed all his wounds. The Dark

Army moved on, spreading through the tunnels and leaving him for dead. A short time later he

arose, completely restored. And not much time after that, he encounter the group of elves and

joined them as they sought to return to the Hangar. They were chased by evil, but Jakkar knew

that an even greater evil awaited them at the Hangar. But despite his best efforts, he couldn’t

convince the young elf-ling that she was heading to her death.

As he did in his initial encounter with Ostedes, Jakkar absorbed the full brunt of the

monster’s telepathic assault, allowing it to tear apart his mind. For now, as quickly as the

damage was done, it was undone. But he had played this game before. Eventually his cellular

regeneration would slow, and the power of Ostedes would overwhelm him. If they elves were

unable to kill him by that time, then their battle would become another massacre.

He had already informed the elf-ling of this. But Jakkar knew the knowledge wouldn’t

keep her from the fight, but only make her fight harder.

‘Save us all, Jakkar. You must . . .’

S’ilindsa bolted out.

“Wait,” her father cried. The Elf Prince tried to grab her, his arm whipping out

impossibly quick.

This time his daughter proved quicker, and was already well beyond his reach.

Practically flying over the glassy black floor, she came upon Ostedes. The giant sent a swarm of

slithering tendrils her way. Before they engulfed her, she tucked her body into a ball and

rolled . . . away from the giant, to where the burning staff lay.

‘Heal me, Jakkar!’ she pleaded, her mind filling with pain as she came out of her roll –

staff in hand.

A flood of blue fire flowed her way. Jakkar drenched her in the Oneness.

She turned, facing the giant and his oncoming barrage of limbs. S’ilindsa didn’t even

bother to dodge them. For all her grace and skill, there was no elegance to her attack, only rage.

She slammed the staff downward against the giant, then repeated the motion, over and over . . .

His limbs came at her, but she ignored them, as though she anticipated her allies’ aid and

the limbs’ certain destruction. Her instincts proved true. With a couple quick flicks of his

wrists, X’ander let fly his daggers, slicing through several of the black threads. Kendal was

more aggressive. She flew through the air, a ball of fire. Her flaming fist led the way, blasting a

hole through the Dead God’s chest. The Elf Prince dove into the fray, ignoring all thoughts of

pain and personal safety to grab two handfuls of the burning black tentacles. The remainder of

the elves also joined in as well, shredding the giant’s limbs nearly as quickly as they could grow.

Nearly . . .

Jakkar had already watched this fight. The last time it had been two score of Elders and

countless Chosen facing the beast. One by one Ostedes took them all. Jakkar had to admit,

lacking the Oneness, the elves fought incredibly well – more so than even the Elders had. But

they wouldn’t hold out, not when the combined power of the entire Sanctuary had failed to stop

Ostedes. Sadly, as he expected, eventually a tendril took hold of an elf. Almost instantaneously,

it drew him in, absorbing him into the body of Ostedes. The rest of the elves were aghast at the

sight . . . the slight pause was enough for Ostedes to take two more. To their credit, the elves

adapted – fighting more cautiously, facing off against the tendrils as if they were individual foes,

ignoring Ostedes trunk-like body -- except for Kendal and S’ilindsa. S’ilindsa continued to

pound away at the giant, every strike cleaving large chunks off his body. X’ander and Adros

continued to keep the tendrils from taking her, meanwhile, Kendal hovered around the being,

raining down vicious blows wherever she went – until a tendril took hold of her leg . . . It wound

around her, and began pulling her in.

Suddenly Ollius appeared, incinerating it moments before she was taken. More black

vines took her arms, but Ollius grabbed her legs and sent his fire to burn them away . . . then the

vines came at Ollius as well.

The battle raged on . . . the defeat of the elves an apparent inevitability.

As if the situation couldn’t be any worse, a new threat arrived. The group of frightened,

young Chosen at the entryway, turned as one to the tunnels. Jakkar sensed it as well . . . evil. A

whole lot more of it. He spared a quick glance in their direction, and saw the Chosen throwing

weak blasts of Oneness against a horde of oncoming demons. The demons didn’t even flinch,

they stared down the Chosen with their blank, dead eyes then overwhelmed them.

Jakkar had a choice, continue to dump power into S’ilindsa to prolong her futile attack, or

send his power to aid the Chosen. Jakkar was a healer. Never once had he used his power to

harm anything, even an undead being. It was his gift – his blessing from the Maker.

But what good had it done him when his home-world was taken? When his entire

community was slaughtered?

He wouldn’t allow that to happen again . . . No, this time he would fight . . .

He diverted his power from S’ilindsa and for the first time in his life, he altered his power

to a killing blaze.

He directed it toward the oncoming horde . . .

The hallway was blocked . . .

“Fa’en tat deg!” Rag’nerack roared, hammering out one-handed with M’jllner. He

swatted aside the undead, filling the hallway with burning chunks of flesh. He saw more of the

strange, ball-shaped dead ones and clubbed them into the crowd in a spray of ash. He thundered

on, cursing, annihilating . . . limping.

The infection had spread to his body . . . very soon, he too would be a dead one.

But not yet, there was much cleansing to be done.

He burst into the Hangar covered in steaming ash. At the entry, he saw the living

fighting the dead, M’jllner came to the living’s aid, rapidly slamming down on one rotten skull

after another. Beyond the skirmish, screams erupted. He turned his wide brow forward, and saw

the sweet, kind S’ilindsa caught in a web of black vines. They not only burned her, but were

trying to tear her apart. Nearby, her father knelt on the ground, a vine wrapped around his neck,

decapitating him as it burned his flesh. Brontes . . . his face lacked flesh, his body severely

burned . . . Ollius, entwined and airborne . . . Kendal, pulled by the vines and swallowed into the

body of the sizable, tree-shaped monstrosity . . .

The evil fiend dared to stare Rag’nerack down with his glowing white eyes.

Delicately, he set Dona’Cora down on the obsidian floor.

“Guard her with your lives,” he grumbled at the frightened looking group of young

wizards.

Both of his meaty – black-veined – hands wrapped around M’jllner, he hurled it out. End

over end it sailed through the Hangar. As it neared, the crystal’s glow overwhelmed the light

shining from the tree-man’s eyes, then with a loud “thunk” it slammed into the tree-man’s chest.

The creature’s entire upper half exploded.

Rag’nerack smiled at the sight, then turned to the nearest blue-glowing being he could

find and said, “Kill me . . .”

The man with twisted flesh stood up from tending to Dona’Cora, and humbly complied,

sending massive waves of flames his way.

Her entire body burnt as if dipped in acid, Kendal crawled out of Ostedes’ torso . . .

Ollius helped her out, sending healing flames her way . . .

The surviving elves, now less than twenty, scurried about freeing their allies with

whatever remaining blades they could find . . .

X’ander sliced S’ilindsa free . . . who in turn immediately went to tend her father . . .

Adros was choking to death on his own blood by the time he was finally healed . . .

Jakkar was the one who healed him, but only after he saw to the – even more grievously

wounded Brontes . . .

Brontes stood up . . . his face a complete scar that now matched his missing eye . . .

Dona’Cora stood up as well . . . her decrepit body covered in a brilliant golden halo . . .

Rag’nerack . . . Dona’ Cora approached his lifeless body and whispered a prayer to the

Maker in his ear . . . in one frail, bony hand, she held M’jllner – the massive hammer over twice

her size. With her prayer complete, she swung the hammer down, ensuring Rag’nerack’s

journey in the afterlife would lead him straight to the Maker . . .

In the center of the room, Ostedes once more regrew . . .

And once more, the hallways were flooded with the dead . . . but now they seemed less

than eager to face the group of heroes . . .

Nor were the survivors eager to stay, before the room was swarmed and Ostedes regrew,

they gathered together and entered the pods . . .

Mastecus lifted his bloated, purple lips off the young Chosen’s opened head . . . a sudden

thought entered his mind – one that was his own. To no one in particular, he mumbled,

“Braaaaaains . . .”

Hovering nearby, Galimoto pinched his nose and looking on in disgust, piped, “so much

for a new master . . .”

WHERE WILL YOU GO? The demon wondered as he watched the three pods take to the

sky. They continued on, disappearing from his sight as they left the moon’s atmosphere.

THERE’S ONLY DEATH FOR YOU OUT THERE. DEATH, NO MATTER WHERE

YOU GO . . . I ALONE CAN ESCAPE IT. FOR I ALONE AM ITS SERVANT . . .

Far beyond his sight, and his ability to detect it, a Rift formed in the nothingness of deep

space . . . it swallowed the three pods whole, delivering them to their new home . . . to sanctuary.

To a place where they would at last find peace . . .

. . . for a time anyways. . .

The Rift hovered over the stairway of stacked circular stones, its jet-black outline

swelling and contracting like the ungodly heart of hell. An army of humans, dwarves, giants and

Magi surrounded it, watching as it continued to pulsate, its rhythmic throbbing a steady measure

of the passing of time. The sun blazed through the sky, baking the army of races as they stood

vigil in the bowl-shaped valley. Eventually, the sun sank into the jagged peaks of the Gorian

Range, allowing the stars to appear, poking through the dim, red light of the dying sun.

And still the races stood, watching the black heart beat. Even the Brother Moons stood

sentry over the Gate; first Harbos arose in the eastern sky, the massive crater on its face like a

watchful eye, followed shortly by his little brother, Minos, timidly peeking over the Gorian

Range to the north . . .

Then, the Rift stirred . . . the pulsating waves of black spiraled inward, becoming a never-

ending vortex that appeared to swallow the night. The little moon, Minos, hid away behind the

Gorian. As if giving birth, a metallic, egg-shaped vessel breached the vortex. The army of races

broke formation and fell back as a metallic egg floated through. They eyed it warily, arcs of blue

flame dancing upon its surface.

Anon walked among the apprehensive soldiers, invisible to them, but as eager to uncover

the contents of the pod as any.

The craft settled to the earth, and the flames dissipated. No sooner had it settled, then

another pod emerged . . . and then another. But that was the end of them. Once the third and

final pod came to a rest, so too did the Black Door, at last the pulsating ceased. The gathering of

Magi banded their power together then sealed the Rift – and so it would remain, silent and dark,

for many years to come.

The commanders barked orders to their soldiers, splitting them into three groups to better

guard each individual pod. Anon sensed something within the pods, and knew the soldiers’

efforts and apprehension were wasted – only their allies were within, and they were uninfected.

‘Dona’Cora,’ Anon thought, a grin spreading across his face as he sensed her familiar

presence. ‘After all these years, you finally see . . .’

There were many other familiar beings within the pods, the thought of each one

strengthened his grin. But then he realized how many were missing, and his smile vanished.

What happened out there? What ruin have I led you to?

One after another, a glowing blue door appeared on the pods, then slowly, out came the

survivors, a beaten, motley and morose crew. Whatever happened to them in the Sanctuary, they

were all worse for the wear. Instead of bursting into celebration at the home-coming of their

allies, the gathering watched their grim debarment in silence.

The Elf Prince Adros was there, his grey and white eyes nearly as dark and full of

emptiness as his son, X’ander, who, for the first time since Anon had known him, was absent

from his father’s side. The bald-headed, young elf kept far to the back of the group, even

managed to slink away altogether once the greetings began. Anon’s own son, Brontes was there

as well – though now he was unrecognizable; his face a fleshless mask.

By the Maker, Brontes . . .

The lovely, young S’ilindsa helped escort him out of the pod, her thin elven fingers

affectionately wrapped around his own.

As expected, no giants returned. But rather unexpectedly, the powerful hammer of

Rag’nerack did – though it was held in the frail hands of a now shrunken, and ancient looking

Dona’Cora. It was evident to Anon, that despite her sudden aging, the power of the Maker kept

her alive, for a halo of glowing white light now surrounded the woman. The Maker’s power also

greatly increased her strength, allowing her to wield the mighty weapon which was well over

twice her size. Her flesh was shriveled and hairless, her eyes covered in a blurry layer of grey.

With the power of the Maker guiding her way, she went straight to the army of giants, delivering

the massive hammer back into their hands.

Though he was far removed from the conversation, Anon used his power to

eavesdrop . . .

“A more honorable warrior I have never seen,” Dona’Cora said, looking up at the giants.

“I promise you he died well . . . very well. And that he now rests with the Maker.”

The gathering of giants nodded their heads, then, lifting their weapons to the sky, they

took up the chant, “Rag’nerack, Rag’nerack, Rag’nerack . . .!”

“Rag’nerack . . .” Dona’Cora whispered, before turning her shadow covered eyes toward

Anon. There would be no hiding from Dona’Cora now, she could see clearly, even through his

greatest illusion. As the giants continued their chant, she drifted to him.

“I owe you an apology, Anon,” she said as she drew near. “All this time . . . I doubted in

you, in the Maker. My every action as leader of the Elders only served to add fuel to the Dark

Army’s flames.”

“I fear I owe you an apology as well,” Anon replied, grim faced. “Only three pods

returned when there should have been twenty. This gathering, those who stand in the valley of

Lock Core. We are all that remain to stand against the Plague. It was my hope to free your

people . . . keep your army intact so that when the final battle came, we would be ready. I failed

them all. It appears that against the enemy you faced, even the power of the Maker is

insufficient. As is our trust in the Maker to see us through.”

“Keep faith, Anon,” she replied, a slight grin on her taught lips – an unheard of

expression on her eternally harsh face. “Our suffering was destined – our survival was not.

Make no mistake, the battle for the Sanctuary was a victory.”

Looking at Brontes and the other wretched looking survivors, it was hard for Anon to

believe it was so.

“I had my final battle, and it was more than I could have ever hoped it would be,”

Done’Cora continued. “I will fight no longer,” she paused, deep in thought. “As for the enemy

we faced . . . in that regard you are correct. The Maker may very well be no match for that one.

In this matter, you must speak with your child, Brontes. I once faced the demon and in my

arrogance thought I left him for dead . . . a mistake, I have learned, we both have made. We

failed to kill him once before, but now his power has grown beyond limits.”

“I will personally see to Ostedes’ death,” Anon said, knowing the former Elder played a

major role in the assault on the Sanctuary.

“If only it were that simple, but Ostedes no longer exists. There is but one evil now. He

is neither Makii, nor Dead God, but has become one with the Void. Talk with your child and

know the true nature of our enemy, and the depths of evil we must somehow destroy if we wish

to survive.”

S’ilindsa was leading Brontes from the gathering, taking him to the half-constructed keep

in the northern section of the wall. Anon was afraid to go to him, Brontes had always maintained

his faith in him, and for the second time in his life, that faith has led to his physical ruin.

“When the time is right, I will go to him,” Anon said, his wide eyes misting over as he

watched him depart. “It would seem I failed them all, all of my children, my Chosen. Ostedes

was the first, Brontes second and lastly Alana . . .”

Or was Alana his last chance at success?

“Yes . . . Alana,” Dona’Cora said, very somber. “That error in judgment is mine alone. I

see that now. She not only acted out of love for her Prince, but for love of all life. She was the

only one of us to stand against this evil . . . if only I stood beside her, perhaps this war would be

already won.”

Anon withheld his reply. In many ways the failure to stop the Plague was as much his

fault as her own. He trusted so deeply in the Maker, he assumed the Maker’s path would lead

him to victory. He never wanted to believe there could exist another power greater than the

Maker. For so long he focused solely on walking the Maker’s path, ignoring all else. That

which existed beyond the path remained in darkness, his vision remained fixed on the end goal,

which was a beautiful glowing light at the end of the otherwise dark tunnel

Perhaps he should have wondered what happens when that light goes out, and only

darkness remains.

He would forever walk with the Maker at his side, but it was clear now, he would have to

forge his own path.

“Of course, I will ensure her retrieval from the Dead Worlds with the utmost haste,”

Dona’Cora continued.

“No. As much as I long for her to live among them, in peace, and as much as she

deserves it to be so, she must remain on the Dead Worlds -- and there she must suffer. You were

right when you said I was too soft on her, nor am I strong enough to see to her suffering

personally. If any can do so, it is you – one who knows what it means to have lost everything,

and was yet able to emerge from the nothingness, stronger than ever. If you can no longer fight,

I beg of you to train one who can. Make her days in the Dead Worlds a constant trial. Make her

stronger than any Elder god that has gone before her – yourself included. Let her power grow, so

that when the final battle comes she will have the strength to stand against it.”

“I will do as you ask, Anon. But I cannot guarantee she will ever be strong enough . . .”

“She may not have to be . . . not all is lost to us,” Anon said, looking directly at the

misshapen Elder Jakkar, and then the scrawny, little scrapper Kendal. “In time, more Chosen

will come. And with the help of Imorbis, I am creating one who will be stronger than us all . . .”

Imorbis!

Anon turned from Brontes, his anger was concealed – for now. As he left, he placed a

tender hand on S’ilindsa, who was patiently waiting outside the chamber. Within the room,

Brontes rested on a mattress covered in silken red sheets. He wore a black mask on his face, and

a robe of black on his body. There was a shred of comfort in the knowledge that he would heal

spiritually, and mentally in time. The love of S’ilindsa would take him there, to a sense of happiness. But the physical wounds would stay till the end of his days. Thankfully, for the pair

of lovers their battle was over, the time for rebuilding had begun . . .

Anon left the Keep and the lovers behind to begin their new life. He had spoken with

Brontes and heard his tale of the monstrosity they had faced and the suffering they had all

endured -- now there was another ‘ally’ he had desperate need to speak with . . .

His body shimmered with white light . . .

The red walls of the keep flickered and faded . . .

. . . He stood in the ruins of a once colossal structure. Slabs of rubble etched by the

elements closed him in. They rose to the sky; giant grey monoliths hundreds of feet tall.

Shadows were all around him . . .

Anon’s flesh became flame, stretching towards the tops of the pillars . . . with a hand of

flame he reached out, taking hold of one shadow in particular . . .

“You betrayed me, Imorbis. This will be the last time . . .” Anon said, his voice echoing

like thunder through the fallen structure. “This whole time you knew . . . The new Plague . . .

The Dead Tree . . . The Dark Army, and your Brethren . . . The Void . . . it’s him. It’s all him

now. Sevron . . . he not only lives, he has become it all.”

“Yes,” Imorbis humbly replied as his body burned in Anon’s flames. “It’s true, all of it is

true.”

Anon had expected more lies, half-truths and schemes from the mouth of the Dead God,

certainly not truth.

“That’s all you have to say? You’ve deceived me for long enough, before I destroy you I

demand to know why? How is it even possible that Sevron yet lives?”

He lessened his grip on the Dead God, desiring at least some answers before his death.

“Sevron cannot die, Anon. You know nothing of him, other than his great evil. Allow

me to live, if only to tell his tale. If you remain intent on my destruction when I finish, then so

be it. But you must believe me, if only on one thing. What I desire most in this life is Sevron’s

destruction. I made him what he is – first a Dead God, then the incarnation of chaos and death

that he has now become. I am responsible for it all. I know what it means for me to meet the

Maker, my suffering will be beyond iMagination, and shall last eternal. But I beg of you, before

my justice is dealt, grant me the chance to set things right. I know Sevron better than any . . . If

one being exists in this universe who has a chance to destroy him it is me. At her greatest,

Dona’Cora failed. With the power of the Maker at your disposal, even you were unable to see

him fully destroyed. After possessing the God Tree of the Elfin, he has become more . . . much

more. The Void itself is truly awoken through him. Only by destroying his every last particle

will our victory be complete. The being I wish to create can perform such a feat.”

Anon wanted so badly to burn the Dead God to cinder, to see him sent to the Maker

where his long overdue penitence may begin. . . but first, he wanted to hear the ‘truth’ of Sevron

the Servant of Death . . .

EPILOGUE

Imorbis looked up – high up. He couldn’t take his gaze away. The Great Tree towered

high above him, its canopy swallowed by a mass of rapid moving dark clouds. The Plague

moved quickly up the massive trunk; the infection blackening the bark as if it had been scorched

by fire.

He was still up there, the Elf Prince. The being had fought bravely but his world had

fallen. His Great Tree, the Graelic was dying. Imorbis watched as the leaves withered and fell,

raining down from the sky.

He was unable to shake the feeling that he was the one who had lost.

“So, are you satisfied, Imorbis? Was the victory worth the price?” came a voice at his

back.

Imorbis changed his focus, looking at the remnants of his body -- he had no hands. He

could manipulate the demon wind to recreate them, but to do so was taxing and drained energy

from other, now vital, resources. To simply maintain his shape was nearly impossible. He could

mold himself into a humanoid form, but only by covering himself in a constant cloak of demon

wind. If he failed to do so, his body would simply dissipate; drift off with the planet’s wind.

This victory has no meaning . . .

The price to defeat the Elfin was indeed high, and Imorbis had gained nothing. Even

though he was victorious, he had fed little. The victory feast of his dreams was non-existent.

The Elfin blood proved vile and somewhat toxic to the Dark Army. Likewise, what he thought

was a highly coveted prize, their God Tree, was utterly inedible – at least for Imorbis. He had

learned that somehow Sevron found a way to consume its life-force.

It appeared Sevron would be the only true victor. And with the power he claimed he

would fulfill his darkest desires – he would turn the universe into hell.

“If we failed to take this world . . . If we fail to take any world, the Elders win. I admit I

was beaten. I had failed. With all my powers and resources set to the task, I yet failed,” Imorbis

said, turning to the grey-bearded Mastecus and the yellow-eyed imp squatting on his shoulder.

Usually, Imorbis couldn’t keep the little red devil quiet, but the creature said not a word; he eyes

were half-closed, his head downcast.

“Still . . . to bring him here, Imorbis. Have you even seen what he has become?”

Imorbis turned back to the God Tree, watching as the Dark Army swarmed up the trunk.

Anything with warm blood in its veins became prey, species were extinct in minutes. The multicolored canopy blackened. Everything died. Never once slowing, the black infection

continued to creep upwards.

“No.”

He couldn’t bear to see him. Sevron’s capacity for evil was limitless. He believed in

only one thing – chaos. The man was a horror before Imorbis had resurrected him . . . he

couldn’t imagine what he had now become.

This is all my fault.

He couldn’t bear to see him – but he would have to face him, kill him if possible.

“To be free . . . that is all I really wanted. An end to the Hunger.”

“There is only one end to the Hunger.”

“Yes, death. I know it well. Over the years I’ve grown all too accustomed to the

concept. But for the chance to truly live again . . . our losses would have been worth it.”

“Humph, just as I thought, you still don’t have a clue what you have done . . . what we

have truly lost. Sevron controls the Army now. He’s as mad as ever – perhaps more so – and is

determined to plunge the entire universe into his madness. He cares nothing for life, nor for this

‘immortality’ we possess. He will put an end to it all, starting with the Elfin. We’re leaving this

place, I suggest you do the same . . . while you can.”

“I’m not leaving. Not until he is truly dead.”

“You already had your chance to rid us of Sevron. You’re no match for him now . . .

especially now. He will be the death of you. Maybe it’s for the best, finally you get the freedom

you so longed for. Farewell, Imorbis, I doubt we shall meet again.”

“We shall see . . .” Imorbis whispered as the Dead God turned to leave.

The imp, Galimoto, remained perched on his shoulder, tucking himself away in his

leathery black wings.

Why had he brought Sevron here? He knew what he was, what he was capable of. Was

any victory worth the price for Sevron’s aid?

With the power of the Graelic I could have ended Sevron for all time.

In the beginning they had been companions. Along with a handful of other ‘talented’

Makii, they had been selected to embark on a mission to find the origin of life. They found their

answer deep in the violent heart of the universe. But what they discovered became a bigger

mystery than the question they started with. They tracked the origin to one planet, and there they

found a myth, a giant black pillar whose presence defied logic. ‘The Pillar of Life’, ‘Heaven’s

Door’, ‘Alpha’; they gave the mysterious black monolith many names, and put forth many

theories to its own origins and purpose.

Where did it come from? Why was it there? How did it create life, and why? Why . . . ?

Always why . . .

The Makii had so many questions and only one answer. The one thing they knew for

certain was that they had found the planet where life began.

But the Makii demanded more . . . they demanded an end to all of life’s mysteries. For so

long they thought of themselves as gods (convinced those they conquered of it as well) but they

longed to be gods in truth. Death was the one enemy they could not defeat, and it was coming

for them. As it claimed them, the illusion they created would crumble, and the order they had

brought to the universe would return to the discord found in the Age of War.

Imorbis, Sevron, and their companions were charged with solving it all; an end to death,

and learning the mysteries of creation. The obelisk held the answer to every secret.

Among the race of gods known as the Makii, Imorbis and the others were the best and

brightest, their gifts of the Oneness were unique and powerful. In their mission, each one of

them was in their own way remarkably successful – but there was one who surpassed them

all . . . Sevron.

He actually communicated with the pillar.

At first, Imorbis thought he was slipping into madness . . . but madness was what the

pillar required – madness and pain. Sevron sacrificed both to have his answers. But what he

found was nothingness. According to Sevron, the exchange revealed to him that there was no

life, no reality, no answers (nor even questions to be asked). It was all an illusion. There was

but one reality, one truth . . . the Void.

Sevron nearly died communicating with the pillar. Only one thing kept him alive, it was

Imorbis’ gift, his special talent. To create a high-functioning, multi-cellular life-form with the

Oneness had proven impossible to even the Makii, but something small . . . Imorbis knew it

could be done. He set about creating a virus, one that would slow cellular growth and death. He

fought the battle for immortality on a small, but sophisticated scale.

Unfortunately, his ‘gift’ had yet to be perfected when he gave it to his dying friend.

Sevron survived, but he had changed physically and mentally. Yet . . . he was immortal.

Imorbis had succeeded in cheating death. But oh how the universe would suffer the cost . . .

As Imorbis made his way to the dying tree, he tried to remember Sevron as he was before

their mission to the obelisk, as a friend. He realized so much time had passed, that he could no

longer remember the man’s true face, nor his expression as he smiled. To commune with the

pillar, Sevron had sacrificed his flesh – part of his offering of pain.

His friend died that day . . . no . . . he should have died that day, Imorbis should have

simply let him go.

It was but one of his many failures.

How many times had he let the man live? Had he been withholding death, hoping that he

would one day see his friend again? No longer, this time he would make certain Sevron was

truly dead.

He paused, once more looking over his broken and frail form.

But what could he possibly do, so weak and weary was he.

Another virus perhaps?

The chaos around him dissipated as he went into a daydream, the foundations of his new

‘perfect’ virus coming together in his mind.

Maybe I have been looking at it all wrong. To keep life from death is one thing . . . but to

create life where there is only death . . . that would be something to behold . . .

He was lost in the notion, fantasizing about the possibilities when suddenly the ground

below him became alive. The roots of the Graelic had been stoic arches rising like hills (and

often mountains) throughout the land. But now they were moving, writhing, ripping out of the

earth. Imorbis was transfixed at the sight of a massive root swaying in front of him when out of

nowhere, a vine wrapped around his foot. It pulled his leg out from under him, landing him flat

on his back. He laid there for a moment, stunned. Far above him, he saw a battle raging in the

branches. Similar vines swarmed the Dark Army, bounding them as they did Imorbis. But that

wasn’t all, the vines pierced their bodies, then began throbbing, pumping forth a viscous black

fluid into their victims.

Sevron, no!

He felt the vine tighten, creeping higher up his leg. Then, he felt pain as it pierced his

thigh. The vine swelled, filling with the black fluid . . .

Imorbis’ arm became a sword. He swung downward, severing the vine in a spray of thick

blood. The remnant of the vine withered away . . . ten more took its place. He hacked and

slashed as they came on, but there were too many, and he didn’t have the strength to fight back.

Perhaps in his former state he could have resisted, but Imorbis had nothing left. Eventually one

took hold, and then another, and another . . .

They wrapped up his limbs and dug into his body. The vines filled with the black blood,

and began pumping it into him.

His entire body was wracked with pain. Surely, even his soul was on fire. Along with

the pain, there was a thought, pounding his mind – “kill everything”.

The vines finished secreting their liquid then left him, moving on to seek other prey.

Somehow, Imorbis found the strength to stand, and the will to resist the urgings of his

new – even more – tainted blood. He wrapped himself as completely as possible in his cloak of

black energy, all the while fighting the desire to burn the universe to a cinder.

Within his mind a power was growing, threatening to overcome him entirely. It was an

all too familiar presence, one he knew well.

Sevron . . .

Deep inside him the fledgling entity grew, overwriting all that formed the core of who

and what Imorbis was with one thing – chaos.

ComicsRequiem

Sanctuary Part 3 - The Sanctuary

PART III – THE SANCTUARY

DAVIDIAN

ANON

BRONTES

DONA’CORA

SANCTUARY’S FALL

EPILOGUE

THE END

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ComicsRequiem

Sanctuary Part 3 - The Sanctuary

PART III – THE SANCTUARY

DAVIDIAN

ANON

BRONTES

DONA’CORA

SANCTUARY’S FALL

EPILOGUE

THE END

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