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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The devil beast gave a squeal of pain as the ironwood sword slipped under one of its dorsal armour plates and sank deep into its flesh. Its antennae, which resembled the horns of a devil and which gave the creature its name, flickered with the halo of magical power that could twist and reshape any metal object into a bewilderingly complex sculpture of branching, fernlike fronds. Other soldiers, armed with bronze swords and wearing slennhide breastplates, moved in to join the attack, being careful to stand clear of its wicked yellow claws and swinging, clublike tail. Soon the once fearsome monster was just a pile of armour plated dogmeat steaming gently in the morning sun and the soldiers stepped back, making way for the wizards who’d want to hack off various parts of its body for their potions and spells.
The Corporal in charge of the detail saluted smartly as the Major came over to join them. “Another one dispatched, Sir,” he said smugly, indicating the large corpse behind them. “That makes fourteen this week.”
“Well done,” replied the Major, casting an experienced eye over the corpse to make sure it really was dead. The last of its magical halo flickered and died and its lidless eyes, each the size of a tennis ball, were slowly clouding over a pale, smoky yellow. Just to make sure, though, he plunged his steel sword deep into its neck, almost decapitating it, and then withdrew it, looking with satisfaction at the blade, still smooth and straight.
“Good,” he said. “Keep searching. There’s another dozen of ‘em somewhere out there.” He waved a hand at the towering slopes of Bula Pass, rising like the walls of hell on either side of them.
The Corporal saluted and the Major left, heading back to the huge tent city housing the sixteenth, seventeenth and nineteenth divisions of the Imperial Beltharan army. The second usage of the Sceptre of Samnos had done a marvelous job of clearing the Shadowarmy from the mountain valley, but hundreds of monsters of every conceivable kind, brought in by the Shads to wear down the valley’s defenders, were still roaming free and had to be hunted down and destroyed before the next Shadowarmy arrived. The one that would force them to use the Sceptre’s third and final charge.
He sighed at the thought. That was when the fun would really start, he thought. There were an estimated one million Shadowsoldiers still waiting in the Shadow, being held in reserve, and as soon as they no longer had the Sceptre to fear they would pour into the valley and sweep away their defences like sandcastles. What they would do then, Major Sorrell had no idea, and he preferred not to think about it. Today's problems are enough for today, he always said. Let tomorrow look after itself.
Before he could return to his unit, though, he was stopped by a messenger. A young wizard, he was surprised to see, making himself useful until the next morning when he’d have regained his magic. “Captain Resalintas wants to see you,” he said, saluting clumsily. “In the command tent.”
He pointed, unnecessarily, to a tent larger than most of the others, as if the Major might not have known which tent it was. It was surrounded by Senn guardsmen and had the colours of the three divisions present fluttering proudly above it along with the oak tree standard of the Beltharan Empire itself.
