Arnathor the Great (Chap 1 Rough Draft) Fiction

Chapter 1: A Family Matter

 By: Ryan Beodeker

 Many years ago before magic left our world there lived a kingdom of five realms. To the north lay the barren ice lands of Frenden; a place filled with vicious mountain trolls, blizzards, and creatures of the frost wizards design. Right near the very edges of the Frenden ice plains stood the Crethian Academy; here in the academy the ancient order of the Mages of the North Circle trained among themselves behind their ever locked doors. The academy was a magnificent ice fortress that sat atop the impenetrable magic mountain of Jaggarum. The mountain had but one entrance, the stone of inquisition, which was under constant guard by the Mages of the North Circle; it was said that hidden in the dark recesses of the academy the mages guarded many dark magical artifacts from the beginning of time.  West of the Frenden tundra the landscape became speckled with green covered hills that eventually rolled into a set of gingerly placed snowcapped mountains. Many weary travelers had become lost in the mountain range that was home to the elusive Northern Dwarf tribes. The Northern Dwarves hid well in deeply mined cities; dug right into the heart of the Mingpen mountain range that the Dwarves call home. The five realms knew and saw little of the North Dwarves, a reclusive people whose mistrust of outsiders kept many would-be-allies from calling.  The forest Leatra crept across the direct middle of the continent; spreading down southward from the Mingpen Mountains, then due east to the outskirts of the Frenden ice plains, onward on parallel with the uncharted area to the far east. The wood’s far western portion was beaten back by the desert occupying much of the land to the west. The great wood of Leatra housed the Elf Kingdom who lived high up amongst the trees. The tree cities of the Elven people were a wonder for all to behold. Massive trees older than the five realms themselves rose hundreds of feet up into the air; the green tufts of tree tops reaching up to the sky. The great oaks of Leatra now housed the entire Elven people, who have burrowed in and built up around these mighty trees; great Elven cities that stretch on for miles. The Elven capital city of Treak shi Bey-an or City in the Sky took up a ten square mile section of the great wood; housing almost two hundred thousand Elves. The great city was a bustling metropolis of the Elven ingenuity. On a fine clear mid-summer day, adventurers who looked up could see the Elves swinging back and forth on vines from tree to tree. Sunset rushes were a common problem among the Elven populace who frequently used the massive and convenient tree vines. Just west of Leatra lay the only port city in the entire realm, the merchant city of Shendas. But to reach Shendas, the great port city, one must first cross the great desert of Kiran. The Kiran desert is filled with vagabonds, rogues, and the infamous Poison Dagger crime syndicate. Sandstorms and brutish thugs wait poised to quickly end any inexperienced travelers’ hopes of reaching Shendas. The lucky few who found safe passage into Shendas are gifted with the view of the tall ships. Massive wooden ships hundreds and hundreds of feet tall, long, and wide. Legend has it, that the forest of Leatra stretched originally from side to side of the realms and that the Kiran desert formed after war destroyed the lush green land and left nothing but the death-touch of sand behind. Finally, at the southern edge of the realm lay the Plains of Rahnn; the plains, known for the golden grass that grows wildly on the hills and valleys is also known as the Sun Lands. Fertile lush land and sunny breeze filled warm summer days are characteristic of the Sun Lands. The eastern portion of the Sun Land was under the rule of the Kingdom of Men, where House Shaqe, controls the throne. The plains, as they extended west, began to become more rocky and harsh landscape; the sun-kissed golden grass faded away to off-yellow wheat that transitioned into weeds. The ground turns hard and slowly the fertile plains become the Grundelstin valley. Grundelstin valley made up the most western section of the Plains of Rahnn, short slightly dead looking lowland; it was considered the badlands of the Kingdom of Men. As you progressed further westward the Grundelstin badlands began to bubble up with hills; festering up out of the ground. These peck mark hills after a few miles rose rather quickly into the Mountains of Grutis a harsh desolate landscape that has been home to strife and hardship for centuries. The mountain’s house the Southern Dwarf tribes’; these impoverished Dwarves, live in constant fear of the Grutis mountains power. The Southern Dwarves, a rash, fearful, generally useless bunch had been the punching bag of the realms for years. The mountains housed wolves, mountain trolls, and ice wraiths making it a suitable death trap to almost any who enters. The Southern Dwarves, unlike their northern counterparts, mostly lived in outdoor huts strewn throughout the many mountains harsh jagged land; though some still find shelter in the old Dwarven cave cities.

            The world of men was under the protection of the sun god Rahnn. By his command, the Kingdom of Men ruled over the five realms; each realm maintaining control over its land and its people. Ultimately, the decisions of ruling fell to the hands of men. The Kingdom of Men was ruled by House Shaqe whose line stemmed back to Rahel, the great King of the Sun God. Many years have passed since Rahel’s death; almost three decades have gone since he walked the halls of Castle Shaqe in the capital of Sundrous.  Rahel was married to the beautiful Therna, a noble lady of the Kingdom of Men. Together Rahel and Therna would have two sons: The eldest, Arnathor, would grow to be a cunning warrior, a tactical genius, great leader, and an honorable man. The second Thell was born eight years after Arnathor. Thell was a devious natured thing; he was a sadist that found no greater pleasure then that of torturing others. The monster loved suffering and prided himself on his own sick brand of crazy. Thell would go on to murder his father to assume the throne at age twenty-two. 

Arnathor, convinced by false reports of a threat in the far north, gathered up his most loyal soldiers, and set out for the Mingpen Mountains; leaving the old King unprotected. The two year stint, Arnathor led into the wilds of the North cost the lives of many good soldiers. Upon his return, Arnathor found instead of the celebration he had expected, a group of armed guards ordered with his arrest. He had been misled by Thell to leave the realm, only to return to banishment and his father, dead.

Barely escaping banishment or worse yet, death Arnathor fled into the Elf Kingdom. For twenty three years Arnathor built up his resistance; he trained with the Elven High Guard, garnered support from the enslaved populace of the Southern Dwarves. Arnathor sought out the last remnants of crushed rebellion fighters speckled across the realms, and lastly morphed the ragtag force into a full-fledged revolution. For two years a bloody civil war was waged for the throne. When the dust of  war had lifted, Arnathor’s wife lay dead and Thell’s reign of terror was ended. For high treason, Arnathor, the new king of the five realms should have sentenced Thell to death. But instead in an act of mercy towards his brother, Arnathor banished Thell; he was set loose in the uncharted zone with the hopes that he never would be seen again. The true villain now banished from the kingdom.

The Kingdom of Men now had the leader it would need to rebuild its kingdom, restore glory to its name and once again regain control of the five realms. That is where our story begins. You see, it was the dawning of the third age. The coronation of Arnathor, son of Rahel, as rightful Heir to the throne of Men is about to take place. The bloody civil war ended and Thell’s reign now the faint beginnings of a memory. But Arnathor was still slightly unsettled. He had not slept in two nights, and a fortnight since, dreams had haunted him. Visions, terrifying nightmares of a man long since dead crept slowly into his mind; the dreams were calling to Arnathor.

            “They’re nothing but dreams, Arnathor,” the forty five year old man muttered to himself, “forget them. They mean nothing.”

            Arnathor paced slowly around his chambers. Since not yet crowned he stayed in his childhood room; though doubtful that Arnathor would ever comfortably take his father’s old quarters. 

            “I’m quite content here.” He muttered quietly to himself..

  A large bear rug sat on the floor in front of a large bed, a fire place lay against the wall opposite the bed, and other assorted tables were strewn across the room. Yellow and red were streaked everywhere; the symbols of the royal line dating back to the Sun God Rahnn himself. Twirled up around his bed post, the linens of the softest silk in Sundrous; pillows of the finest duck and goose feathers that had ever been plucked. Though Arnathor sat in a large recliner near the fire place on this late evening; he was almost uncaring or unawares of the lavish creature comforts that had just been restored to him. Arnathor tended the fire and let out a sigh.

            “Today is the day I am to be crowned king,” he said to the brown dog that was almost indistinguishable from the bear skin rug on the floor. The pooch was sweet old thing that Arnathor had stumbled some odd number of years ago. The tattered old dog wasn’t good for anything much but some poor company at this point in his late life.

 The old dog lifted his head and let out a resounding bark as if to say that he had quite the fight left in him before returning to his former state of sleep. 

“Much help you are,” Arnathor said with a laugh.

 A cold breeze swept silently through the chamber. Arnathor shuddered. 

“There’s evil present in this night, to have such cold chills on this warm summer’s eve.”

Still unsettled by his dreams of late, but sure he could do nothing about them Arnathor resolved to sleep. After all, tomorrow was his coronation. Sleep came soon to the restless Arnathor, but once more was he haunted by mysterious dreams of people gone and of things that no mortal can understand.

Arnathor rose early, preparing himself for the coronation a few hours before dawn; though the ceremony was not to take place until noon. The middle aged man then left his chambers and went for a walk in the gardens behind the castle. The garden faced the east and Arnathor watched a lovely sunrise. It was spring time in the plains of Rahnn. Winter’s touch having just left and flowers were blooming. The garden’s hedges that had been barren for so long were now dotted with the faint beginnings of rose blossoms. It was a beautiful sight that Arnathor quietly kept to himself as the sun rose. Off in the distance the sun peaked out from behind the horizon of golden wheat grass that marked these plains. Light flashed up into the air as the grass waved in the wind; creating a search light-esque effect on the fresh morning sky. Arnathor smiled as the sunlight’s beams reflecting off the dew touched flower bulbs causing small rainbows to form in the light morning fog. Arnathor loved spring time in the plains of Rahnn; this being the first he experienced in quite some years. It felt wonderful he thought; and even as crude of a joke it was he was happy he’d beaten his brother so he could have his early morning walks around the castle gardens during springtime again. The soon to be king had always had a love for the beauty found in nature; fostered during the years he spent high in the treetops in Leatra. The sun had now risen and the morning fog was quickly burning off, revealing some of the greener pastures that were haphazardly strewn into the patches of gold. How glad he was to have his coronation on a day like today. A perfect day, Arnathor thought. 

Later on in the Great Hall of the Fallen the coronation ceremony began. The court and nobility lined the great hall and everyone was wearing red and gold; the attire nothing less than immaculate. Many men from all across the Kingdom stood outside the castle in honor of Arnathor and his triumphs; the soon to be crowned king was the hero of the people. The banquet hall lay adorned with the finest flags and regalia of the Kingdom of Men, two long red oak tables engraved with the golden insignia of the kingdom stretched across the length of the room on either side; at the far end of the wall stood a platform and on it sat the high throne with an end table to the left of the throne. A smaller chair sat next to the high throne which was currently occupied by Queen Therna. Red carpet adorned with glistening gold inlay had been laid in the center of the hall, reaching from the entrance to the throne platform. The finest chefs in all the realm had been summoned to Sundrous to prepare the coronation feast. Pheasants, steaks, stuffed pig, and much more lined the tops of tables; never before in the world of men had ever such a grand celebration been prepared. With all of the honored guests seated and feasting, the ceremony began. The trumpeters by the entrance to the hall heralded their resounding call and all in the hall rose to their feet. 

            “Announcing the arrival of his royal majesty, the honorable prince Arnathor Shaqe,”  

The hall erupted in a roar of applause and cheers before the herald raised a hand returning the people to quiet. 

“It is he who by right of blood is today to be crowned King of the Five Realms.” The herald proclaimed.

Once more the hall broke out into raucous cheers and cries of delight; this time the gathered masses were silenced by the trumpeters letting out a roaring fanfare. It was then that Prince Arnathor, clad in his brilliantly glimmering armor, adorned in its center with the sun, walked slowly out and down towards the throne platform. Arnathor’s armor clanked softly with each step, and as gracefully, and as quickly as he could he made his way down the red carpet of sorts; his illustrious silver armor softly letting out a tink sound as he was gently grazed by the golden-red roses the nobility were lofting at him. Shaqe’s cape gingerly touched the floor as it followed behind him; the cape of course bore the red and gold insignia of the Kingdom of Men, adding credence to the title he was about to be bestowed. 

“I’m to be king,” Shaqe muttered to himself, “and a good king I shall try be.”

Having reached the throne platform, Arnathor removed the golden coronation sword from its ceremonial sheath, presented the blade, and then knelt. Queen Therna in an elegant rose red gown rose from her seat atop the platform and addressed the crowd.

“For twenty five years tyranny ruled the Kingdom of Men. For twenty five long hard years, men whose idle brains would rather placate then fight gave into the wants of a tyrant who murdered and deceived for power.  For twenty five years slavery and hate ruled our realms. Life was lost and whole races subjugated. How much liberty, were we willing to sacrifice to find solace in our lives? I fear far too much my friends; too much.  Today we pass on the crown to its rightful heir, to a man who is the champion of the people, to a man who will fight for freedom, the first born son of Rahel, the hero of the five realms, Prince Arnathor.” 

Not a sound erupted from the rowdy crowd; entranced and awed by the ceremony they all were witnessing. Arnathor’s victory in the war spelled the return of tradition; tradion, his brother Thell, abhorred.

 The old queen slowly approached Arnathor, the only son she had left, and removed the sword from his hands.

“Arnathor, son of Rahel, banisher of Thell the Terrible, charged by blood and lineage to accept this charge, with this sword I charge thee to defend the honor and glory of the five realms. I charge thee to seek out threats to our land and pacify them. I charge thee to uphold the ancient and beloved traditions of our people passed down to us from Rahnn himself. With this sword of pure gold I charge thee to act as a moral and upright leader. We, the people of the five realms, are in your hands; our fates are ever intertwined with yours.” 

Therna used the magnificent gold sword to knight Arnathor. Setting the sword down on the end table on the platform and then with her old hands she grabbed the golden crown of Rahnn, a magnificent solid gold crown that legend stated, once belonged to the sun god himself.  For years parents had told children stories of when the gods of the world walked among man, Dwarf, and Elf alike; the tales spoke always of the powerful magic that was present in the five realms. The gods warred among themselves for power in this world and when Rahnn defeated the forces of darkness pushing the shadows back to their world he bestowed the crown to Rahel. Encrusted diamonds lined the edge of the crown leading up to the largest ruby known in the kingdom of man, the sun stone. Myth said that the sun stone possessed the power of Rahnn himself; though many believed it just a rather large and very priceless jewel.

“With this crown, I do, Queen Therna, hereby declare you, Arnathor, King and protector of the five realms.” 

The crown had barely touched down upon Arnathor’s head before the Great Hall of the Fallen was filled with the jubilant shouts of those gathered. A sea of red hats soared up into the air; littering the floor in support of their new king. The hall contained the joy and hopes of hundreds of thousands of people, all who believed firmly that Arnathor, would be the savior the kingdom needed. The newly appointed king rose and turning towards his new subjects he smiled and spoke.

“My friends, honored guests, fellow soldiers, and most dearest loyal subjects, twenty seven years ago our realm lost much more than just a king. We lost our way, our patriarch and our sense of responsibility. My brother plunged our lands into chaos when he robbed us of my father, our king. He burned bridges with our neighbors and thought only on himself. Our kingdom became filled with vile decadency at the expense of our friends and our people. While away I saw the horrors forced upon you. Every night I lay awake for hours, as your cries for mercy rang out everywhere. This can go on no longer I say, no longer! We shall not live in a realm that ignores the needs of our fellow brothers and sisters. Today is the day we stand together to make the realms a better place for all the kingdoms.” 

Once more the hall filled with noise this time thundering applause that shook the almost very foundation of the castle, before Arnathor raised a singular hand.

“I want to live in a kingdom that my father would be proud to be a part of, a kingdom that leads the five realms, not sulks in the dark. Here today we start a new age, the third age of the five realms of men, and here today we reaffirm our freedom and the realms!”

The rest of the evening went by rather uneventfully. After his speech and the rousing cheers of long ‘live the king,’ Arnathor made his way through the jubilant mass of onlookers who had already begun to celebrate with mead and wine. People stopping him left and right to shake hands with the newly crowned king. There was tugging, pulling, and overall need for the people to touch Arnathor which displeased him greatly. I am just an ordinary man the new king found himself thinking. 

The celebration of the coronation slowly faded away and out into the taverns and brothels as the night took hold. Slowly the people of the castle and the outlying villages made their way to their beds; the guests tired after a long and hard day of nothing but celebrating, drinking, and being jolly.  Once more Arnathor found himself sitting up alone in his chambers poking what seemed like the same dying fire.

“Now I’m king, not that it changes anything.”

Once more Arnathor addressed his dog that seemed to find much pleasure in simply lazing about on that bear skin rug. With a quiet bark that he seemingly only let out to appease his master, the dog rolled over and went back to sleep.

The fire had burned down to mostly embers and the chamber’s light almost faded away completely. Arnathor sat still in the leather chair near the fire, falling in and out of a light sleep untroubled sleep.

“Arnathor…..” 

A ghostly voice echoed throughout the room. Unsure at first if he was awake or dreaming Arnathor stood up and looked around his chambers. After he was satisfied, that he was in fact, all alone, he shrugged the idea of a mysterious voice off of his tired shoulders, and Arnathor made his way to bed. 

“Arnathor!”

This time the sound was unmistakable. It was the voice of a man and it had addressed him by name. Arnathor shot up from bed; the sound of the voice still present in the air softly bouncing back and forth of the grey stone walls. 

“Who are you?” Arnathor shouted into the dark room yet no one answered. 

 A small chill slowly made its way up Shaqe’s spine. There was no one in the room yet twice he heard a voice call out his name.

“Come Arnathor, come.” 

The disembodied voice spoke again; beckoning him onward. A cold sweat was now beginning to form on Shaqe’s furrowed brow. Slight fear had set in, yet there still was the faint taste of curiosity. He grabbed a robe from the floor, almost as if it had been left there for him and began fumbling around by the end table near his bed for a few seconds trying to find a candle and then a match to light the candle. With this new light source established, Shaqe quickly scurried around his room making certain there was no one but himself and a now very confused dog who, in Shaqe’s haste, had been kicked and stepped on quite a few times. Content he was alone and determined to find the source of the voice hauntingly calling his name out, Arnathor set out in the dead of night, into the depths of Castle Shaqe.

The cold dark grey stone though almost absorbing the light of the candle echoed Arnathor’s lightly placed footsteps all throughout the halls. Yet the calming presence of the night in the castle seemingly had lulled the guests into a deep slumber, that or the wine. He wandered aimlessly at first, slowly creeping through hallway after hallway. Arnathor paused in the kitchen and even contemplated making himself a quick snack before shrugging off eating this late as a possible reason for his current predicament.

“Maybe if I cut out some of the late night snacking I might not have such strange dreams.” The tall man said to himself.

 Arnathor had been walking for quite some time before he found he had stumbled once more to the gardens out back of the castle. Strange as Arnathor hadn’t planned on coming outside and he couldn’t quite remember why now, he had come out side in the first place. The calm sense of night found inside Castle Shaqe among the sleeping coronation guests was not to be found outside its walls.

 The moon was hidden behind thick dark clouds and no starlight could be seen. Near the gardens behind Castle Shaqe lay the tomb of the dead king. Rahel’s Tomb usually could be seen in the moonlight; but tonight the sky was dark and nothing more than a few feet away could be made out with any relative certainty. As Arnathor slowly wandered out onto the castle grounds, he felt drawn towards the tomb. The cloudy sky made the night darker than Arnathor had ever seen night be before. Now the winds from the north had picked up speed as if the dark of this night was encouraging the wind to whip and howl. The beautiful hedges Arnathor had just earlier appreciated were now shaking and twisting with the wind. No longer was Arnathor thinking of the quiet and calming beauty of nature he had found in the gardens. The gardens, on this darkest of dark nights, had become filled with sounds that would terrify even the hardiest of men. The movement of the hedges and trees, who were being tossed about by the wind, created dancing shadows on the ground. Arnathor pulled the robe closer to his body as the wind rushed past chilling him down to the bone; he pressed forward towards the tomb. The night became thicker and thicker and soon nothing was visible and Arnathor had no choice but to reach his hands out and fumble in the dark. The tomb calling to him, urging him forward as Arnathor navigated his way through the remaining pitch black darkness. He arrived at the stone doors or well Arnathor assumed he had as it was too dark to see anything.

“What am I doing out here?” He said aloud.

Arnathor questioned himself knowing the door to the crypt was always to be kept locked. He pressed his hand against where his mind told him the door would be and the soft touch of stone found his fingertips. The stone doors which should have always been locked swung open at the mere touch of a finger; the stone doors revealing the staircase that led down into the crypt; but something wasn’t right, there was a light source coming up from below piercing the darkness that was encompassing Arnathor. The tall blond haired man stood there for a few moments weighing his options in his head. It indeed was strange that the door to his father crypt had been unlocked, and indeed it was stranger that a light was seemingly coming from within if not the crypt itself. Eventually Arnathor’s curiosity got the better of him; and Arnathor proceeded to walk down the hard stone staircase into the tomb of his father. 

The tomb of Rahel was constructed in the standard way for the kingdom. Housed in a dome like structure made of solid stone the entrance way was a set of two engraved doors each with a stone pillar on the side. Following the doors there was a staircase of about twelve stone steps going down to the vault in which the body was kept. Arnathor had made his mind up to venture to about the middle of the staircase; when after he took three steps into the tomb he heard the stone doors slam shut behind him. Instantly knowing he had made a grave mistake that he could do nothing about he continued downward towards the vault.  It was here inside the vault that the body of his dead father was kept inside a stone sarcophagus. Arnathor upon entering the vault surveyed the room. The vault was a room no bigger than twelve feet by twelve feet. It had an arched ceiling reaching about ten feet high and lit torches were hanging in metal mountings attached to the four stone pillars that stood in every corner of the room. A small stone platform was in the center of the room and on it sat the stone sarcophagus that housed the body of the dead king. Directly behind the sarcophagus stood a statue of Rahel decked in full battle armor and a small plaque that read:

Here lies the dead king, Rahel the Mighty, and Honorable.                          
Who, with the help of Rahnn, God of the Sun, did bring peace
and happiness to the lands. 

Arnathor looked around at the inside of the empty tomb. Nothing was out of the ordinary the torches were lit, the sarcophagus untouched. Arnathor was just about to go try his luck with the stone doors until a gust of wind emerging from everywhere blew out the torches leaving him in complete and utter darkness.

            “What kind of dark magic is this?” Arnathor shouted into the darkness.

“My son…”  The disembodied voice echoed loudly inside the stone vault. It resonated shaking Arnathor almost down to his knees.

“Father..?” Arnathor called out into the darkness as he tried to regain his balance.

“..I am a shade of things passed. Not long of this world am I” Said a ghostly voice coming still bouncing off the stone walls and shaking poor Arnathor from his feet to the ground. 

It was then in a brilliant flash of light, the ghost of the dead king, Rahel, emerged from the statue that had sat there so seemingly innocent mere moments ago. The ghost emitted a faint enough glow that it provided a small source of light; illuminating the room just enough for Arnathor to be able make out the vague outlines of the horror he was now trapped with. The ghost was adorned in full battle regalia, the same as the statue that stood behind him; though you could tell it was Rahel by armor and the sound of his voice; the exposed flesh of the ghost told a different story. The ghost’s skin had holes where bone emerged victorious; his teeth were black, misshapen and a foul stench took control of the air when the ghost uttered even the smallest of words. His hands bore skin that seemingly lay gently wrapped around the bones of the fingers. Rahel’s eyes that had once burned bright blue now were black and yellows orbs that sent chills to the spine. The shade was overall a gruesome thing; but Arnathor was not afraid. Shade’s rarely come to kill those they worked so hard to reach and Arnathor was sure that the shade of his father had come bearing tidings, not death.

“What brings you here spirit of my father?” Arnathor questioned.

“With warnings that your brother Thell recently banished is not yet gone” answered the ghost.

.

“What do you mean?”  Arnathor said pleading with the shade to reveal more of what it knew.

“Far to the East in a castle hidden by constant night is where your brother wandered. There in the dark recesses of that place a hidden evil had laid dormant; kept from our world for centuries. That evil had slept for many cycles of the moon and had been  all but forgotten in this land. You brother wandered in the desert for days before he stumbled upon it. The evil finally had in its grasp what it had so longingly hoped for...Man. The evil has no face, it knows no fear, and its presence poisons everything in its touch. It will, in the end, kill everything it can. Shadows, the vilest of this evil’s minions, have entered the realms and already they take people from their homes; feasting on their life force and sucking the light out of them. An army of evil is coming.”

The shade cast a vision into the mind of Arnathor. In the foreground he saw Castle Shaqe on a bright summer eve. Then darkness approached from all sides surrounding the castle and then engulfing it in darkness. Arnathor could hear the screams of anguish of the people inside crying out for someone to help them; but their cries remained unanswered. The vision then shifted to the forest of Leatra; there Arnathor watched in horror as the darkness enslaved the Elves and forced them to burn the tree top cities to the ground. The darkness did not just enslave and destroy. The darkness contorts the very essence of the creatures it enslaved turning them into shadows; beasts that have no minds and only have one thing that they crave, killing. Arnathor watched in horror as slowly the five realms of men were plunged into darkness one by one. The light of the world vanished and darkness controlled the lands.

“No more!” He shouted. “What can I do father? I am just one man!” Arnathor asked the shade.

“The future of the five realms is still unwritten my son. The darkness will come and war will be waged. But the outcomes of the battles to come are still unknown to me and I doubt I shall ever know with certainty. The chance to save this world is not yet gone.” The shade answered.

“Tell me how and I will stop at nothing to save the realms.” Arnathor firmly replied.

“To stop the darkness you must first assemble warriors from the Elf and Dwarf kingdoms. You must first ride West and seek out Draedis of the Southern Dwarf people. Many years ago his father and I had adventures together; a blood debt to me by that Dwarven family is owed. Find Draedis and convince him to come with you. Arnathor, you must then ride north into the Kingdom of the Elves. It is deep in the woods of Leatra, Arnathor, where you will find the Chainmail of Terra, Goddess of Earth. You will need the protection the chainmail can grant you if you wish to defeat the evil coming from the East. After you receive the blessing of Terra find the Elf, Teella; her knowledge and skill at archery know no bounds. She also is well versed with animals and her help will be pivotal if you wish to succeed. Then ride north to the Ice Bridge of Lundrous. The Mages of the North Circle will be waiting for you there. I foresee it.” Rahel’s shade said. 

The shade slowly turned and pointed to the statue from which a faint glow could be seen.

“Teimǜr, the sword of the Sun God waits here for you. Claim the sword which by birth right you may possess and may the power of the sword protect and guide through the darkest of places; ride fast and hard my son. Danger is everywhere.”

As the last word left his dead lips the shade of Rahel vanished as quickly as he came. The vault that should have been dark, was now lit by the glowing blade of Teimǜr, which was in the sheath of the statue just feet away. Arnathor slowly walked up to the statue until he was mere inches away. The glow of the blade now was unmistakable. It was a magical blade; unlike  any Arnathor had ever seen. The intricate inlaying of gold in the sword’s blade seemed to cause the whole thing to give off light. Arnathor reached slowly over and grabbed the sword by the handle and thrust into the air.

“For you father.” He whispered before disappearing from the crypt and making his way back to the castle.