Brothers of Darkness and Light

PROLOGUE

Hearken, my friends, to a tale of ancient days. It is a tale that comes from the dark and misty past; the Age of Magic, and concerns the end of an age, and also the beginning of one, for as one age draws to a close, another more vital one begins.

Long ago, there was a great conflict between the powerful forces of Good and Evil. Many were the victims of this struggle, as it lasted almost one hundred years, and the carnage that was witnessed by all of the races of Erathyn was terrible indeed to behold.

In a fastness of the frozen north of the land, far beyond the pitiless Kharden Mountains, there lay the Tower of Malkaar. This sorcerer was the living embodiment of Darkness. It was he who had destroyed the many protectors of Erathyn in the pursuit of the forbidden knowledge of the Black Arts.

Down in the valley below the tower, immobilized in grotesque postures, were two armies, those of Darkness and of Light. The one of Light had been gathered from all of the Kingdoms of Erathyn. There were true Men, doughty Dwarves from the mountains, and tall, slim Elven warriors in their silver armour.

The Army of Darkness, however, consisted of the lowest and the most base of humankind. The terrible creatures in its ranks were an unclean blending of Man and beast; the result of black sorcery, and though some strange forms could be identified, many were amorphous figures from nightmare. Among these were the Cobrans, that awful melding of snake and Man, the staunchest supporters of Malkaar. All of this evil host was clad in black, and hanging above it were pennants all blood red and venomous green.

The sorcerous struggle that had culminated in the valley had locked the two armies in stasis, mute testimony to the equilibrium of the contending forces that now could have no victor. Figures stood where they had been struck by the magic, soundless screams and wordless exclamations held in a terrible still moment that would last for eternity. Figures which only moments before had been caught up in mortal struggle, on horse or afoot, seemed to be carved out of stone. Held in the very act of violence, they presented a strange tableau in their statuesque rigidity. The ground beneath them had been churned by the force of their strife, mud and slush splashed all from head to foot and blood had pooled like the finest red wine, mingling with the poisonous green ichor of the evil progeny of the cobra.

Here four Cobrans beset a Man. Anger and fear was clearly seen on his blood-spattered face as he realized that he was about to die. There was an Elf down on one knee with a Cobran spitted on his spear, raised high above his head. The snake-man’s hands grasped the shaft as his mouth opened wide in a never-ending scream of pain. The crushing impacts and deep thrusts and hacking of weapons were expressed in the flower-like explosions of blood and splintering spears which hung in mid-air like some grotesque garden of death and destruction.

Warrior's arms, clutching raised or falling weapons, or flung wide as they had received a fatal blow, had become steel seedlings in that garden. Stiffened and blood-soaked rags, which had been proud banners and flags of battle, resembled twisted branches as they stood above the halted and silent warriors. Rearing horses and struggling combatants alike were caught as in a tapestry that adorns a castle wall. Hundreds of arrows hung high and shot from a thousand slings hovered in the air in an impossible cloud. A company of Elven bowmays stood with their bows drawn back to their cheeks in a volley that had not been released. But it was clear that Men and Elves had pushed the host of Malkaar back and Dwarven axes had smashed through the press. The battle line of the Dark One’s forces was collapsing. It was obvious that at the moment when stasis had enthralled both armies, the Army of Darkness was on the verge of defeat.

Above this grim and fantastic scene the Tower of Malkaar loomed in the mist like some forbidding sentinel on the shores of dream and nightmare. An imposing edifice it was, made of a dark stone, gleaming with a reddish glow reminiscent of a smouldering coal in darkness.

Within the tower, Malkaar regained his strength slowly. He slumped in his ebon throne; itself made from the warped and twisted bones of enemies that his vile magic had slowly drained of life as he shaped them to form a mockery of a cleaner, more natural seat. Such was his bitter and twisted humour, and his contempt for all who opposed him in his quest for ultimate power. Malkaar was a very old Man approximately one hundred and eighty years of age, and this weighed heavily upon him, despite his sorcerous means of sustaining his vigour. His face was fearful to look upon, for he radiated evil in a dark and intense gaze, much in the same way a snake will hypnotize his prey. Malkaar's icy stare, however, was not so natural as this was, for his eyes seemed to leech the very life out of whomever he looked upon. He wore a robe black as midnight, covered in the symbols of Dark Magic, as befitted a master of the forbidden arts. The sorcerer's face was thin, drawn, one could say emaciated, with sunken cheeks and a pallor of skin only found in one who spends most of his life shunning the sunlight. His hands were two bony claws, with weirdly elongated, crooked fingers like the legs of great white bony spiders.