Prologue

Prologue


The old man stood upon the mountain, confused by the scene laid out before him. An army unlike any ever assembled surrounded the once proud Kingdom of Varis Talenth. The army consisted of the usual mercenary groups, men, imps, gnolls, kobolds, goblins, and orcs. These made sense, they were easily bought. The other humanoids, apebears, ogres, giants, and minotaurs normally stayed out of the affairs of their smaller kin. Even the more honorable races, dwarves, elves, and gnomes formed ranks with the army. Such a conglomeration of races had never been seen on the same battlefield, let alone the same army. Confusion swept over him. What could have united these many differing races and beliefs?
The Kingdom of Varis Talenth was one of the more noble and strong kingdoms in all the Northern Alliance. Its walls, constructed of solid marble blocks stacked to heights of twenty spans, had withstood many a siege, and more attacks. Would they be able to repel a force such as this? Could they possibly withstand an army that could easily overwhelm any other two allied kingdoms? The old man did not think so. Together, the combined kingdoms, with the ‘civilized’ elves and dwarves, may be able to hold them at bay. The only problems now are how to stop the war between the elves and dwarves, getting them to ally. Uniting the nobles of the Northern Alliance would take a miracle, but getting them to join with other races is nigh impossible. To the old man it seemed that the battle was mere formality this time.
He blinked away a tear, and below him the scene changed. He now stood on a small rise overlooking a village on one side, and a farm, fields laden with wheat, on the other. He eyed the wheat carefully. It was all white and pure, ready for harvesting, save one stalk. In the center of the field it stood, rotting and corrupt. He watched as the corruption began to spread, touching first one stalk then another. It turned them brown at first, then gray, and finally black. It started slowly, but was increasing progressively. The old man shouted, trying to attract the attention of the villagers.
Looking in their direction, he saw them congregated around the well. They were all eyeing something on the ground. He noticed a rash on a villager’s arm. It turned quickly from red, to brown, to black. Soon he lay on the ground breathing his last breath. The plague continued its wave of destruction. It worked its way to the edge of the circle, leaving the village devoid of life. A glance back at the wheat proved the field equally wasted and destroyed.
A young man entered the scene from the woods. He strolled across the desolate field as if nothing were amiss. Nearing the far edge, he knelt, and began to gently remove the soft soil. He pulled forth, amidst the destruction, a small, yet strong and pure blade of wheat. The old man stared at the happenings, confused. He was unable to decipher the message he knew was in this vision. His pondering was interrupted by the wail of a baby emanating from the village.
He turned to look, and found himself poised at the edge of an ocean cliff. Below, the waves were crashing noisily upon the rocky shore. His gaze drifted to a pair of large rocks away from the beach. One stood tall and proud, the other smaller, being nearly half the size of the first. Sunlight glistened off the moisture on both rocks, showing clean, pure surfaces. The water pounded relentlessly against the rocks. He stared amazed as the barrage of waves stripped away layer upon layer of rock. The tall, proud rock was slowly being torn down by the treacherous waves, while the smaller rock became smoother, more polished, and beautiful. Once again, confusion ruled his thoughts. This too has a message; yet again I fail to understand. What am I being told? Where am I to look?
Again the view before him changed without warning. A ring of tall evergreens now surrounded him. The branches intertwined overhead, forming an almost perfect circle around the top of the clearing. Moonlight bathed the tall grass through a break in the trees. Manzanita bushes lay near the ground, their reddish limbs splayed across the gaps between the trunks, barring anyone or anything from entering, or exiting the clearing. The old man circled the clearing, searching for some means of leaving. The grass brushed against his calves, tickling his bare legs. After his third pass, fatigue overtook him. He walked towards the center of the clearing to sit upon a large rock. Resting upon the rock, he spied a peculiarity in the stone; telltale paths of a chisel were carved around the near perfect cube. Perhaps it is the stone, not the clearing that I have been sent to examine, the old man thought aloud. He bent close to feel the smooth surface of this, his chosen seat.
His hand never found its mark. Instead, it fell upon a dry mountain path. He stood upright and looked around, trying to gain his bearings. Soon he recognized the area as the foothills of the northeastern regions of Umbreria. His feet lay upon a small winding footpath with high grass surrounding it. Large boulders lay strewn in the grass, partially blocking the path in some areas. Near the crest of the hill, the grass overtook the path, making it little more than a small animal path. Before long, it was nothing more than a line of grass laying down where something had passed. Confusion swept over him. If the others had troubled him, this had him truly befuddled. What kind of conclusion am I to draw from only a footpath? A noise behind him drew his attention away from his thoughts, and turned them in the direction of the noise.
He now stood upon a mighty peak, the wind blowing wildly through his hair. He looked over the whole of the land. His eyes were drawn to the massive army far below. Yet despite the distance, he was able to see each soldier individually. He looked at all the leaders, each having advisors at either side. The right hand side of a seemingly important leader was vacant, implying the absence of someone of importance.
He turned, looking over the decimated wheat field, the whole of it black. Planted a short distance away was a pure blade of wheat standing tall and strong. He looked toward the shore, the rocks nearly the same size now, the waves continuing their assault. He glanced toward the clearing, the stone now standing out as if it were a mountain. His thoughts then drifted to the footpath. Of all his visions, this one still confused him the most. He looked at it intensely. At the far end a small cloud of dust blew upward, as though something had just hurried off.
A loud clap drew his attention back towards the army below. A large figure separated itself from the left side of the leader he had noticed earlier. The figure, shrouded in darkness, floated slowly to the mountaintop. “The game continues, Eldekkar,” a deep, gravelly voice broke from the darkness. “This time the tiles are stacked in my favor.”
“Shiloh-Tabor, victory is not yet achieved,” the old man replied. “‘Tis not the first time I need pull victory through inferior tiles.” He wished he felt as confident as he attempted to project. “I shall do so again.”
Shiloh-Tabor turned toward his army. His laugh resonated throughout the land. “You cannot win old man! You grow weary! Rest! Rest for eternity!” His laughter once again echoed, but this time it was in Eldekkar’s heart.
Eldekkar slumped to the ground, as Shiloh-Tabor returned to his armies. He was beaten, and he knew it. He had but a handful of hope, swiftly slipping through his fingers. His visions were beyond his comprehension this time. He did not know where to turn; his champions were not evident. Never before had he experienced this; despair was foreign to him. He looked to the sky, tears streaming down his aged cheeks. Defeat was sure, and this he could not change. He could not hold it anymore. He threw his head back, and in anguish, he screamed.
A deep, menacing howl joined his scream. Eldekkar turned and looked upon the most magnificent wolf he had ever seen. It stood five hands high, full of muscle, with a pure white pelt. Staring at him with deep blue eyes, filled with understanding, it cocked its head to the right, listening, and turned its upper lip to a snarl. With a low growl undulating from within, it padded up to the old man and rubbed its massive head against his leg. Again, it cocked its head, looked toward the army, and growled threateningly. With a quick glance at the old man, it bolted down the mountainside, toward the army. The wind rushed after it, aiding its flight.