Thomas Gown and his companions have escaped from captivity, but only by fleeing deeper into the unknown, to face new dangers. They are carrying a secret that could save the world, though, and they have a duty to take it to those who can make use of...
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Ilandia all but belonged to the Shadowhosts.
Tatria was the only city still putting up any real resistance and it was an island under siege, surrounded by blasted wastelands on every side from which the Shadowhosts were hammering it mercilessly. East of Tatria, not a single city, town or village remained intact. Every building had been put to the torch, even the smallest, isolated farmhouse miles away from its neighbour. Every farm animal had been butchered to feed the living Shadowsoldiers and every man, woman and child who hadn’t had the sense to flee west had been murdered to swell the ranks of the zombie legions.
West and south of Tatria, the horror had not yet arrived. The Shadowarmies could take them any time they wanted, but even they, being held together in a state of barely controlled anarchy by the power of the Shadowlord, knew better than to move on and leave a powerful, unconquered fortress city behind them. When Tatria had fallen, though, the terrified inhabitants of south and west Ilandia fully expected the Shadowhosts to turn on them and tens of thousands had already fled overseas or down the coast to Antika, now groaning under the weight of refugees.
They needn’t have worried, though. When Tatria fell, the enemy would move neither west nor south but north, to Rahm, and then to Belthar itself. Bypassing the heavily defended passes through the Copper mountains and entering by the back door, as it were, to bring terror to the wealthy inhabitants of the empire’s heartland. Only then, when Belthar and Fu Nang had been destroyed, would the Shadowhosts return their attentions to all the lesser targets they'd bypassed along the way.
Unless they’re stopped first, thought Robert Drake as he looked down on the enemy encampment through a powerful field telescope. They’d built a strong picket fence from the beautiful orchards and forests that had once graced the Ilandian countryside, and inside it were hundreds of ugly wooden buildings containing half the Ilandian Shadowarmy. The half that wasn't currently attacking the city. It was a secure location, safe from Skulnya's harrying parties that still crept out of the city whenever they could to cause havoc and mayhem far beyond their numbers. A place where they could rest in shifts without having to worry about having their throats cut in their sleep and where they could indulge in various kinds of recreation. What form the Shadowsoldiers’ recreation took could only be guessed at, but Drake’s imagination was horribly fueled by the screams and sobbing that came at intervals, when the wind was right.
Eventually he couldn’t stand it any longer and crept back down the hill, crouching down so as not to be seen against the sky. At the bottom, Fletcher and half a dozen shologs were waiting to escort them back to their own camp. A bodyguard of shologs, thought the priest with a dizzying sense of unreality. The whole world's turned upside down!
The Skorvosian army was camped in the ruined and deserted city of Starch Green, where they could hide from the wyvern and hippogriff riders that flew overhead from time to time. Shragnaz, the sholog priest of Skorvos, came out to meet them, grinning toothily and almost bursting with excitement at the battle to come, and he walked back with them the rest of the way. “Well, human?” he asked impatiently when Drake said nothing. “Waddya think?”
