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…There in the darkness of the tunnel, Drakas dreamed of Rayela. Her warm arms wrapped around his waist as he stared into those ruby coloured eyes of hers, and wondered how he ever could be so lucky? But as was often the case with his memories, it felt far too short, and in all of them he could not speak to her. Tell her how much he cared. How he needed to see her again. Hold her in his arms. If only to remind himself that she was real. But as he closed his eyes, he saw Shureen off in the corner of his mind, and couldn’t help but feel guilty. It did not matter that Rayela was not there to see her, but he had begun to see Shureen as something more. She had been with him there from the beginning, had kept him sane in the madness that had become his life, and yet he knew it was wrong. Rayela was his Chosen, Chosen by the gods to be his betrothed. He could never abandon her, but as he tumbled through the inky black darkness that was the tunnel, he could not help but wonder if things would be different once he returned…

And it was that thought that stuck in his mind as he tumbled into the brilliant hot white light. His eyes blinded by the four suns that rode up high over the snow capped peaks of mountains behind him, and before him, his home.

The land, an icy tundra of rock, ice, and snow that stretched out for thousands of miles with lakes frozen like crystalline glass, and the sweet mountain air filling his lungs. He was home again. But more than that, he felt alive for the first time in many years, his senses relishing the gusts of cold air that whipped against his skin.

But instead of feeling joy at this moment, he couldn’t help but notice that something was off about his homeland. Where was everyone else? And what was that great black smog that covered much of the horizon like a poisonous fog that polluted the air?

Afraid of what he might discover, he moved slowly down the slope in a daze. The near freezing snow pushed up against his bare knees as he prayed that he was wrong, prayed that his battles were finally over, when he trudged down into a clearing of large jagged stones grouped together like spearheads pointing upwards. And knew then that he was right to be afraid.

For lying before him, behind the stones, a short ways off, was an abandoned village, it’s rough stone walls hewn out of the mountain rock, and piled together to create grand structures that would have dwarfed even the giants of Gilgathan. And amongst the stone homes of his people, great black fissure in the ground that spewed dark vapors into the air. Vapors that smelled of rancid meat, sulphur, and brimstone. But worst of all it reminded Drakas of the gateways mages would often use to summon demons to the surface world.

And it was in that thought that drove Drakas backwards up the slope, drove him up towards the high clifftop that jutted out like a dagger’s tip from the mountain. All the while his mind kept telling him, perhaps it was better if he did not know, that he did not need to see what had become of his homeland. And yet as his lungs burned with the effort of his climb, he continued his way up, and gingerly made his way onto the rocky platform, and looked down at a scene straight out of a nightmare. Hundreds of black smudges covered the great white expanse, and amongst them all huge black stalagmites that sprouted up out of the ground. And he knew then what they were. Towers. Hundreds of them. Spread throughout Kahloon.

His mind recoiling in terror at the possibility he had already lost everything that he had ever mattered to him, he imagined the cages filled with their young ones that had been torn from their families, the blackened wreckage of homes, and the ground littered with their dead. It was like he was reliving the attack on his home all over again, his Ba-loon and Ka-loon struck down by lightning before him, when he was beaten by flaming whips, and thrust into a cage by mages in dark robes, their faces twisted in grim sneers of satisfaction.

And in that moment, he wanted to scream, rage, and bawl tears of sorrow, but as always the voice was there for him. “You can reclaim your homeland, but first you must become stronger. Your army lies to the north-east of the mountains. Gather your strength, and take back your home.”

~*~

Kirgin had always thought of himself as being practical, quick with his hands, and able to fend for himself in the worst possible situations. Yet even he had to admit his life had taken a strange turn of events. First a slave that had been experimented on by mages that had tinkered with his mind, he had somehow ended up working for Shureen to help liberate other darklings from an endless cycle of torture. He’d even gone so far as to suggest that they had saved quite a few lives together, and but more worrisome, they had lost just as many.

And yet as he looked back at Shureen’s white robed figure weaving about their new fortified encampment in an abandoned stronghold, he couldn’t help but feel a touch of pride at the soft hearted ogress. She had not only kept the demon blades in line, but with her guidance they had found shelter from the constant frost storms, and the wild beasts that roamed the icy tundra. But more importantly to him, she had saved his life, and made it worth living again.

Blinking back tears as he remembered that day lying atop a pile of his own discarded kin. He could remember, wondering when the dogs would be let loose to feast upon them? When he would finally be released from his torment? When her plump face appeared before him, and he stared up into the warmest eyes he had ever known. For he saw within her, a person that did not look down upon him with revulsion, but simply saw him for him. It was in that moment that he had known he would forever be indebted to her, and why he had taken on the role as her protector.

It was also why he had followed Wargrim out of his camp outside the castle. The huge stone-faced giant that had refused to be in the same place as Shureen, had abruptly left camp in the middle of the night, taking his fellow giants with him, and Kirgin began to fear that trouble was brewing.

Slipping soundlessly through the trees, he followed the impressions left behind Wargrim, the giant’s footprints clear to see in the snow, and couldn’t help but notice a distinct lack of noise. The birds, animals, and monsters that would normally have filled the woods, suspiciously quiet. If he had not been so adept at stealth, he would have been worried, but as he scurried up a tree to gain a perch atop a branch, he sensed no movement at all, and assumed the giants had scared away everything. Even his own heritage urged him to flee for even thinking to go after such a mighty predator. But the dark ones had gifted him with one thing at least, that was the ability to think beyond his baser instincts. An incidental accident, and one that they had deemed worthless, but it was still a gift that Kirgin cherished beyond anything else in this world. One, that he hoped would be used against them one day.

His movements sure and deft as he hopped across to another tree, he easily scaled it’s winding branches, and balanced himself on the balls of his feet. The heavy foliage around him, covered in a thick layer of white frost that sparkled like precious white metal. But unlike ogrekans. Goblins did not relish like the cold, they simply had become used to it. Too many races of the world had preyed upon them, and so they had survived by burrowing themselves in any place they could. They had also learned to adapt and used the fat of animals to keep themselves warm. But even with his body layered in furs he had found on one of his dead kin, he could still feel the cold’s bite into his skin. Could feel the wind rustle through the leaves, and taste the boogers that dripped from his long hooked nose. But of course he had no time to complain about that. Knowing that something was wrong, he hurried along, almost skipping through the trees like a silent shadow, when he heard the distant rumble of voices, and squatted down amongst the heavy canopy to peer down at the giants gathered together in the spacious grove below.

As he had half expected he saw Wargrim surrounded by his blue skinned brothers, his sour demeaner crinkled up a deep scowl as he confronted another huge warrior, his bare chest tattooed with black markings, and eyes a multicolour of different blues that changed in the sunlight. His voice was like the sound of stone tumbling down a mountainside, “You have grown soft, Wargrim, why have not killed The She or taken her as your mate? Do you still even follow the will of our Lord? Do any of us anymore? We have not heard his voice in days, and yet we listen to that grey skinned dog and his She-Beast command us. I say we kill them all and be done with it. We have wasted enough time here. We must find our Lord.”

Wargrim his expression dark as he listened to the cheers of approval from around him, did not speak but simply stared at the opposing giant. His huge clenched fists by his sides as he stared at each one of them, before they all slowly grew silent.

Then he spoke, “You say we should find our Lord Tazrael. But where do you wish us to seek him? His Champion lies defeated at the hands of a greyskin, and as you say, we have not heard his calling in days. Would you have us go against the will of one who has been aided by a force great enough to defeat our Lord Barkan? He who defeated the dragons of Belzurag, obliterated the tribes of the sun, and crushed the Empire of Krulmar? Do you think I do not know that he does not follow the will of our Lord Tazrael?”

He pressed a hand to his chest, “I know, and yet there is more that should concern us. For whoever so defeated our master has incredible power, and has put his will behind this greyskin. And it is for that reason that we still live. But if you wish to go, I shall not stop you.”

Throats rumbling with discontent, Kirgin thought the giants would spill blood there and then, but as the giants split apart with some siding with Wargrim, and some with the tattooed warrior. They broke apart, and went their separate ways. Although more surprising to Kirgin was the fact that Wargrim had a mind in that thick brained skull of his, for he too seemed to realize that there were other forces at work here. The death of Barkan and their arrival in Kahloon was testament to that, and yet what worried Kirgin was the fear he had seen in Wargrim as though he knew something the goblin did not. And he did not like that.