Prologue
The Gathering

For generations, the Shadow’s Fang had stood in deathly silence, a jagged peak of basalt that was devoid of life and color. It rose like a black dagger against the sky, dominating the small island it stood upon, amidst a wide channel that split the blighted land to either side of it. Legend said that it had once stood amid a great city of shadow, destroyed and flooded by divine wrath. But those were just stories, loads of tripe that stupid country folk fed each other to keep themselves entertained.
Baroth scoffed to himself, shaking his head as his boots crunched on the rocky, narrow shore, that and the sound of his companions’ footfalls the only sound that greeted them on the lifeless isle. All of it was tripe, he knew. There had never been such a city and the story was the product of the overactive imaginations of the fools whose lands bordered Blight to explain away the dead, parched earth of the miles-wide expanse. Certainly, the fact that the ground was blackened was odd, but there was always an explanation for such things.
“Are you sure we should be doing this, boss?” Feldren, the youngest and most inexperienced of their number, called up to him from the back of their line, closes to the narrow boat they’d used to cross the channel’s turbulent waters.
“Stow it, Fel.” Another of the Company, Garos, growled before Baroth could respond, cuffing the young warrior upside his head. “You know where we were going when you signed on, so don’t think of backing out now.”
Feldren shot a glare at the older swordsman, grumbling under his breath before falling silent with a sullen nod. Baroth couldn’t help but chuckle, his attention turning back to the mountain before them, keen eyes already spotting the narrow path leading up the Fang’s jagged face. They were so close, now, and he could practically imagine the riches that must await them within the mountain’s heart.
The old tales of demons and magic may have been nothing but tripe, but the grizzled mercenary had it on good authority that there was a hoard of treasures hidden within. By whom, he didn’t care. He would claim them as his own and sell them for as much coin as he was able. The larger share would be his, of course, but his men would get their due.
They’d been together for years, the four of them, with young Feldren rounding out their number almost two months before. Together, they made up the Companions of the Green Blade, fending off bandits and serving as swords-for-hire on the eastern fringe of the Wolves Alliance nations. Sometimes they’d even stir up a bit of trouble themselves, if things were slow, ensuring that they’d get enough coin to live comfortably until the next time they could find a bit of action. But all of that was small compared to what waited for them, and as they began to cautiously pick their way up the narrow, sloping path, Baroth couldn’t help but grow more and more excited.
Before long, the slope became more treacherous, forcing the companions to slow their ascent to a crawl. It took the better part of an hour before the mercenary captain found what he had been searching for. Brushing strands of lank, graying hair from his dark eyes, he grinned, flashing a row of crooked, yellowed teeth.
“Here we are, lads! The cave. I told you I wouldn’t lead you wrong!” He exclaimed, glancing back at his men, each of them having seen thirty winters or more. This would be their last adventure, he knew, for after this they could live the lives of the wealthy. Chuckling darkly, he climbed the last few feet to the cave’s jagged mouth. It had been too easy to get there, the Company having traversed the supposedly dangerous Blight without facing more than weak wasteland creatures. Not even the cursed isle had proven a challenge so far.
One by one, the others followed him into the cavern’s mouth, the hiss of steel echoing in the darkness as each drew their weapons. He reached down, tugging free his own blade, its length notched but no less cared for than it had been when new, the sword freshly oiled and gleaming. No matter what came, with his sword, his old friend, he would lay it low.
“Alright.” He hissed, glancing back toward the others, each meeting his gaze with unwavering determination. All save Feldren, of course. The boy was shaking so badly that his sword was visibly quivering in his hands. “We stick close, with Mulden and Avery taking the rear, and Garos behind me.” Baroth shot Feldren a stern look as the others fell into position. That left the younger mercenary in the middle, where his obvious nervousness wouldn’t cause him to miss something that would prove fatal for the rest of the Company, and would hinder him if he tried to bolt. He was one of them, now, and Baroth meant to make sure he stayed one until death.
Lighting a torch, Baroth held it high, moving slowly down the dark passage and deeper in the mountain’s heart. With each step, the dim moonlight that spilled into the cavern and the tunnel that led beyond grew weaker, and the stone around them seemed to leech the warmth from their bones. The place certainly had an unsettling feel about it, and for just a moment even old Baroth began to reconsider his thoughts on the mountain’s supposed curse.
“It’s all nonsense…” He muttered darkly, scowling. Behind him, Garos glances his way, lofting a bushy brow.
“You say something, Boss?” He asked, his own voice sounding tense in the chill silence. Baroth didn’t even look back, shaking his head and scowling even more deeply.
“Not a thing, Gar. Just keep moving.”
The Company fell silent again, Garos nodding solemnly before beginning to scan the tunnel around them again. Soon enough, the light vanished, and the darkness seemed to even dampen the torchlight, the flame barely illuminating a few feet ahead of them. The silence almost roared in their ears, and was only broken when Feldren finally spoke, his voice hollow, deadened.
“May the Gods have mercy on us…”

* * *

After what seemed like hours in the darkness, the rough tunnel stretching out behind them without end, the Company had come to a fork in the path. Each side moved deeper in the Fang, leaving them with little option but to split up, Baroth taking Feldren and Garos down the right path, and leaving Mulden and Avery to take the left. It didn’t sit well with any of them, in this place, but they had all agreed that finding whatever treasure they could as quickly as possible was their best option.
“I’m starting to think Feldren was right.” Muldan muttered, the light of their torch casting eerie shadows across his rough features. He hefted his axe nervously, both the weapon and his shaved, oiled scalp glinting in the flickering light.
“Relax. It’s not like you to get jumpy, old friend.” Avery smirked, adjusting his grip on the torch, other hand holding his sword out before him. “This’ll be quick. We find the treasure, get out, and split the loot once we’re away from this damned place.” He shot Mulden a sly grin. “Maybe even keep a bit extra for ourselves…”
Mulden returned the grin, laughing roughly and seeming to relax a litt,e though he didn’t lower his weapon. Avery didn’t exactly blame him, either. The pair fell silent again, their footfalls not even echoing in the passageway. Avery took another step, cautiously, and nearly dropped the torch as the ground lowered sharply, the sense of being trapped in that damn tunnel lessening somewhat. Sheathing his sword, he groped for the side, his hand meeting nothing but the stagnant air.
“Ugh…what’s that stench?” He heard Mulden growl from further behind him. Avery turned, mouth opening to respond, when the same stench struck him, the aged warrior coughing and covering his mouth. It was a rotten, sickly-sweet scent; a scent he recognized all too well.
“It’s death…Mulden, tread carefully. Something must have died in here, and I don’t want to meet what killed it.” He turned again, finally finding the wall after a few moments more of groping in the dim torchlight. They had stumbled into a chamber, it seemed, much larger than the tunnel they had been in. His smile returning, he slid his hand up the wall, stopping when it hit what felt like another torch bracketed into the stone.
“Oy! Avery! I found something!” Mulden hissed, startling him, his voice sounding even more distant. Avery growled to himself, lighting the torch in the bracket to add a bit more light to the room and then turning toward Mulden’s voice.
“Damnit, you old fool! Don’t wander off!” He shouted toward the man. Slowly, the darkness seemed to lessen, Avery able to make out Mulden’s form several yards from him, standing over an odd lump on the cavern floor. The chamber they were in was much larger than he’d thought, though, at least seventy feet across, the ceiling still obscured in murk. His brow furrowed, then, the realization dawning on him that it was starting to get too bright.
He spun around, eyes widening as he watched the flames from the torch he had lit springing from it to another torch, then another, spreading along a row of them bracketed along the chamber’s rough-hewn walls. In the better light, the room was clearly crafted, if not by one with any desire for beauty, the walls and floor unfinished. Shocked, Avery lowered his gaze, the source of the stench becoming quite apparent as it fell on the lump at Mulden’s feet.
Mulden cursed, staggering back from the half-decomposed corpse he’d been standing over, his cry even louder when he looked to the room’s far end, drawing Avery’s attention as well. Bodies were everywhere, strewn about the furthest part of the chamber, and piled in a heap against the back wall.
“What in the name of the Gods…?” Mulden gasped, and Avery instinctively reached up to touch the talisman he kept tucked under his tunic. He was never the religious sort, but even he had his superstitions, though the small charm gave him little comfort in the face of such a horrid sight. There were so many, some mere skeletons covered in scraps of cloth, and others looking freshly dead, their faces mutilated masks of terror. As they looked on, the torches sputtered and dimmed, then flared anew, casting an eerie green light across the gruesome chamber.
“Oh, my pets…” A voice hissed, coming from all around them, dark and sensual and terrifying. “Your little gods cannot help you here…”
The shadows shifted, flickered, becoming longer and stretching over the grim pile. They twisted upward, something seeming to rise within them, from within the pile itself, a dark shape dripping shadows and blood, worse than any nightmare either of the men could have imagined.
“Welcome, my pets, to my collection…”

* * *


Feldren stopped, blinking, as an od sound echoed down the passageway. It was distant, faint, but it sent a chill up the young man’s spine just the same.
“Did you hear that?” He asked the others nervously, suppressing a shiver of dread. “It sounded like a scream.” His words earned him a glare from Garson, who had taken up the position behind the younger man when the Company had split up. For how much they called him “brother”, Feldren had the distinct impression that none of them trusted him.
“It’s just your imagination, lad. Don’t pay it any mind and you’ll be better off for it.”
The younger man sighed, but nodded, letting his mind wander again as Baroth led them onward. He supposed they had good reason not to trust him, of course. He was an unknown in a group of mercenaries that had been together for years. He had yet to truly prove himself to any of them.
Baroth’s obvious disbelief in magic and legend never failed to surprise Feldren, though. He recalled quite vividly a visit to his village by a traveling magician when he was but a boy. It had been more than  just a trickster, too, the man dazzling the crowd with displays that could only have been magical. Some even whispered that the man had had elven blood! Feldren hadn’t gotten a good look at the magician, but he could certainly believe it.
Garos nudged him from behind, then, snapping him out of his thoughts with a startled oath. “Stay alert. Last thing we need is for you to drift off on us and get yourself killed. I sure as hell won’t be the one to drag your carcass out of here, if you do.”
His words drew a low laugh from Baroth, and Feldren could feel his cheeks begin to burn. Damn them! He was tired of being constantly judged by these men, treated like a bloody child. Still, he bit his tongue, privately seething and tightening his grip on the hilt of his sword.
Slowly, the gloom around the three seemed to lessen, imperceptibly at first, but soon enough to they began to be able to see the tunnel walls in detail. Rough rock abruptly gave way to smooth, polished stone, odd patterns etched into the walls at shoulder height, the tunnel turning into a long hallway. Several feet ahead, the hall turned sharply to the right, the pale light originating in that direction.
One by one, they inched around the corner, the hall extending at least another twenty feet before ending in an arched opening, light spilling from the room beyond. It was as bright as numerous torches, but lacked the flickering of a flame, the light steady and unwavering.
“We’re getting close, I can feel it.” Baroth said, his tone excited, if becoming hushed. “I’ll bet ten crowns that it’s just beyond that room.”
“You don’t have two coppers, you old git.” Garos scoffed, growing visibly excited as well.
“Then I’ll take the gold from my share when we do find it!” Baroth’s voice rose slightly, though he quickly quieted himself again. Feldren merely kept silent, his gaze drawn to the room beyond the hall, stepping cautiously toward the archway to get a better look.
The room was tall, lined with columns that ascended into the darkness above, twisted creatures carved of stone clinging to them high above the floor. The light itself came from gems set into the black stone walls, placed in such a way that they resembled the stars in the night sky.
Feldren ducked back, though, seeing several dark shapes within the chamber, standing at the center near a low slab of stone that resembled some sort of altar. Shadows clung to them like cloaks, obscuring their forms, the three figures speaking in low voices that still managed to carry across the chamber.
“If the others do not arrive quickly, then we will be forced to begin without them.” One, the largest, growled in a voice like grating stone. Next to him, a smaller figure chuckled, its own voice calm and smooth.
“They will arrive shortly, my friend. Do not worry. We’ve waited this long, so we can stand to wait a few moments more.”
This drew as soft laught from the third figure, Feldren barely able to make out a stooped figure within the mantle of shadows. When he spoke, it was as dry as crumbling parchment.
“Regardless, we are all together in this. If we begin without all of our number we may as well remove an arm, or a leg, for all the good it would do us.”
The larger form nodded its assent and grunted something Feldren couldn’t hear. The young swordsman backed away further, nearly bumping into Baroth. The other two, having finished their joking exchange, had stepped up after him and caught the last few words of the mysterious figures’ conversation.
“What do you make of them?” Feldren asked curiously, motioning toward the shadow-garbed figures. Baroth frowned, hand running over his stubbled chin, having doused the torch and tucked it away a few moments before.
“We can take them.” He said, finally, his tone grim. “Whatever they’re using to look like that, it’s just a trick.” He waves his sword toward the room, his frown turning into a wicked smile. “On my smile, we’ll-“
“You will…what, my friend?”
Feldren cried out, turning to look directly at the smooth-voiced figure, shadows still enshrouding it. The other two were gone, it seemed, the room beyond empty. Baroth was quick to leap forward, shouting a battle cry, but the figure moved like smoke, blade cutting the air where it had been standing.
“I do hate poor manners. I asked you a question.” The figure said, voice calm, something flashing from within its cloaking shroud. Baroth had barely brought his weapon to bear again before he cried out, a wickedly curved sword plunging through him to erupt from his back.
“No!” Garos screamed in rage, and the figure twisted as the man rushed it, pulling its sword free and throwing the body into him. Feldren could scarcely believe his eyes, Baroth’s corpse having become a withered husk, as if drained completely of fluid.
Garos stumbled, crying out in surprise and dropping the body, his expression turning to one of disgust mingling with his already overwhelming rage.
“You monster! I don’t know what you are, but I’ll kill you for this!” Garos hefted his sword, bracing himself to charge the shadowy figure. His threat, however, was simply met with a laugh, waved off as if nothing.
“Perhaps, since you are on death’s doorstep, I will grant you a glimpse, then.” The shadows began to melt away, the figure slowly revealing itself. Feldren didn’t stay to see it. He scrambled away even as Garos lunged, and the old warrior’s dying screams followed him down the dark passage.

* * *

Marcus frowned as he kicked the dry, skeletal form that had been the foolish old swordsman off of his blade, already feeling the stolen life force suffusing him. It was minimal, which was to be expected, though the young man that had been with the two older ones had already fled. No matter, as the boy hadn’t seen his face, and would likely lose himself in the darkness and die of starvation before he could tell of what he had seen.
“The elderly rarely have more than a little life left…barely enough to bother.” He muttered, cleaning off his sword and returning it to its sheath at his hip.
“Snacking again, my dear?” Zaera’s familiar voice whispered in his ear, and he smiled as he turned to look at her, adjusting the thin panes of glass that perched on the bridge of his nose. She was exquisitely beautiful, her night-dark hair contrasting sharply with her pale skin, and her slender form clad in a gown of blood-red silk. She held aloft a hand, warped into a wicked claw, sensually licking streams of crimson from them even as they shrank into feminine digits.
“As you have been, it seems.” Marcus said with a smile, shaking his head. “You missed the others. They went ahead and left me to deal with the intruders, but I’m glad to see you did not miss out on the fun.”
She laughed, the sound melodic as she moved past him into the Sanctum of Night, a playful smile curving her full, crimson-stained lips.
“Enough tarrying, then. We have much work to do, yet, do we not?” She turned that smile upon him, placing a slim hand on his chest. “We will set this world afire, my love, and dance in the ashes.”