After the unexpectedly brutal autumn storm passed over the Wolfswood a large Saddleback Tundra climbed from out of a burrow he had been sharing with the rest of his pack. Once the big wolf cleared the hole he shook himself to somewhat dry his fur from the melted snow generated by the warmth of his pack mates. Five other wolves climbed out of the hole behind him each shaking themselves in turn and stretching after the close confines of the little cave. The large wolf was named Shadowback, called so because the markings in the fur of his back laid there much like the shadow one sees when the sun is gently shining through the leaves of a tree. He did not wear the typical black saddle that colored the fur on most of the wolves of his tribe.

Shadowback climbed on top of the boulders that made up the roof of the little burrow and looked out over the landscape the storm left behind. The small pack had journeyed far out on the Tundra to hunt the last of the herds of bison who were making their way south for the winter when the storm caught them. It was a successful hunt up until then and they stored away many caches of meat throughout the Wolfswood. All were within a few days journey from their clan's moon-site on the coast of the Northern Sea.

Shadowback was the only pack leader of the little group of wolves which was a very uncommon thing. Most all of the packs of the Tundra Wolves were led by a mated male and female, the Pack Duke and the Pack Duchess. Much to the sadness of he and his pack-mates their Duchess was lost over two turns past on one bright and warm summer day on the coast of the Northern Sea. On that day the three little pups of Shadowback and his mate went wandering into the mild surf of the sea and were swarmed upon by a shoal of dragon-fish. The Mistress ran to defend her little pups and stood her ground fighting off the frenzy of fish so the three could paddle to the beach and the safety of land. Shadowback ran to their aid and seeing the danger grabbed the pups one by one by the scruff of their necks and threw them up onto the shore. After he made sure they were safe he turned for her, but much to his sorrow he found he was too late. She was gone, dragged away by the swarm of deadly fish. Her name had been Birdsite and there was not a day that went by the big wolf did not miss her.

The pack was larger back then, ten wolves strong not counting the pups. After the death of their Duchess over half of the pack-mates left to join others. Only three of the wolves remained with Shadowback, two males and a female. His three pups, two daughters and a son, could not leave until they were one turn of age. Once they became turnlings they were able to decide for themselves whether to go or stay with the pack. Shadowback's son was strong and aggressive and decided to go out on his own with the hopes of finding a mate and starting his own pack. The two daughters did not want to leave their father and continued on with the small pack, much to Shadowback's delight. It was a tight-knit little group of Saddleback Tundras, fiercely loyal to their Duke and to one another.

As he looked out across the plain he knew the cold part of the turn was upon them from the covering of the deep snow the storm had left. He gazed upon the flat land that went on forever and something far off to the north, towards the Grimfang Mountains, drew his attention. It wasn't prey because the pack had many successful hunts before the storm and ate enough to satisfy their hunger for days. It was not the presence of man because he had sensed them many times before and knew their feel, especially the bad ones. It was not the Elves traveling upon the plain for if it were he would be seeing bright beacons of light, no matter how far away they might be.

This was something dark, with a sinister feel, causing him to growl involuntary as he looked in that direction. Something he never sensed before was out upon the Tundra, something tainted with a dreadful and malicious magic. Shadowback was strong in the Wild Wolf Magic, much stronger than those of his pack, and most of the wolves of his Clan for that matter. Because of it he could see from a far the corruption of the Black Magic in all manner of things, just as he was able to see the White Magic. He had seen its evil in the wild men who came to raid from across the sea as he fought against them with the Elves. He had seen it at work in the packs of the black wolves as he battled them in the northern-most parts of the Wolfswood defending the peaceful nomads and their famalies when they traveled across the northlands. He had sometimes even seen the evil at work within the dragon-fish as they attacked his pack in a frenzy in the shallows along the shore. Those times they did not swarm to feed, but only to make a kill. The hair stood up along his spine as he looked to the north and sensed this evil magic. It felt like the Black Magic, only somehow different, and he could feel the danger it posed for the wolves of his tribe.

He had been leading his pack westward to the sea where the Raptorcliff Clan called home. There along the shore they would live out the winter in the caves that dotted the cliffs by their clan's moon-site, alongside the mighty birds of prey that fished the sea. But now he sensed this threat and became concerned for the wolves of his tribe. He could not sense any other Tundra Wolves about, not this far in the northlands, nor this soon after the storm. His pack formed up on the boulder around him also looking towards the far north. They too sensed the unknown dark evil through the softly blowing snow beyond the horizon of the Tundra. They did not feel it as strong as their Duke, but it was strong enough to also make the hair stand up along the ridge of their backs.

Shadowback jumped down from the boulders into the deep snow and started making his way northwards. Through growls and mental images he ordered his two daughters to continue on to the Raptorcliffs and warn the Clan of this danger in the north. The pack did not question this change in direction as they followed down in his tracks. They had decided long ago to trust their pack leader completely. Once they had given that trust there was no turning back, no second guessing, it was an instinct born into them, it is the way of the wolf.

The Dark Lord stood to the side of a winding path and gazed towards the south as his column of slaves and sleds turned once again to retrace their steps out of the frozen mountains. He stood high in the foothills on the south side of the Grimfangs looking out upon the snow covered plain for those who pursued them. Through the power of the Black Magick he could see beings filled with the Good Magick as bright pinpoints of light. They were too far away to discern their numbers as they all blended together, but he could tell they were traveling north and he knew they were coming for him.

This was the fifth time he and his small group of slaves climbed a promising path up into the mountains hoping to find a place they could fortify and await the oncoming threat. It was the fifth time they found a path ending in high cliff barriers and leading nowhere. The voice inside his head and the one his acolytes heard still urged them on with its silent whisper, but it was no help in guiding them onto which snow covered path was the right one up into the mountains. He knew time was running out and it would not be long before they would have to confront those rushing towards them.

His only consolation was his small horde of slaves had grown during the days they searched the mountains for a secure encampment. Two of his acolytes and the Dark Stars they led had returned from their travel to the southern lands. They brought with them about five hundred enslaved villagers and a hundred warriors, plus three sleds piled high with tools, weapons and firewood. This was a boon to the Dark Lord for very few of the slaves they originally brought were still alive. Most had died in the harsh cold leaving a grisly trail of frozen bodies lying along the rocky foothills of the Grimfangs.

One of his acolytes was yet to return as he still hunted the southern lands for warriors to rebuild the slave army. He had been called Drest not so long ago when they still had need of names, but now that they spoke only through their minds names were unnecessary. He was the finest slave-master the Dark Lord had and could compel and control hundreds of slaves all on his own. With a Dark Star at his command he could potentially bring over a thousand slaves to this frozen wasteland. The Dark Lord had ordered his other two acolytes to return to him right away with those all ready enslaved when he realized they were being tracked. He ordered Drest to continue on collecting as many warriors as possible and then make his way back to them. The acolyte was not to worry about tools or firewood, just warriors and the weapons they carried. The acolyte was having excellent luck down south in the lands known as Finnic.

The two Dark Stars and their leaders had met up with the Dark Lord when they were about to climb the second path into the mountains. These new enslaved villagers and warriors could be pushed harder as they were fresh. They were also better dressed for the cold in thick leathers and furs. When the Dark Lord met the two groups at the base of the Grimfangs he detected tension between the black sorcerers of the Dark Stars and the two acolytes that led them. The black sorcerers still had emotions within them as they had not performed enough sacrifices on the altar table that would drive them out. Being the evil men they were they did not take to being ordered around by the acolytes. Being always angry and in fear of the men leading them the black sorcerers began calling the acolytes the Dread Lords, and the name stuck.

The Dark Lord looked to the south and re-lived the memories of being chased across the lands of Albion by the armies of the kings and queens of those lands and most of all by the army from the island of Eire that had been led by his father, the High Druid Priest, and the High King of Meath. He had thought those days to be over and as well he thought never to have feelings of fear again that those points of light on the horizon brought up. He now understood if he and his forces had traveled farther northward from the Nordic Barbarian lands before turning east their presence would not have been discovered by those carrying the Good Magick far to the south. An ancient magick that dwelled in the far northlands at the top of the world would have disguised their trek across the snowy plain. Thin tendrils of fear creeped up his back to the base of his skull just as they had done in the past as he watched the pin points of golden light. He grew angry to be once again having this feeling and to once again be hunted by forces that could no doubt destroy him unless he was given the time to find his stronghold and build his army.

He now knew he must go back to the western end of the Grimfangs and take the path that led through to the northern side of the mountains where he could hopefully find the place to build his empire. The path led into lands that went to the top of the world and were covered in deep ice, rock and snow. The Dark Lord had been loth to make the trek that way for ice and snow was not the only thing that filled those lands. He could sense the presence of an ancient evil that resided within the ice, a monstrous alien malignant force and he knew it could crush him on a whim. The magick the force possessed was foreign to him but he could tell it was an immensely strong slow moving power that was as old as the bones of the earth. The Dark Lord did not know if he and his followers would survive traveling in the lands of this evil but he became more and more sure it was the only place where he could build his empire. He had no choice but to take the path that led into those cold frozen lands that were covered in darkness.

He had first come across the path when they had arrived at the western foothills of the Grimfang Mountains. The path had been guarded by huge pillars of white mist of the Good Magick that faced towards the frozen lands and that only he could see. He could tell the pillars were not a danger to them going into the frozen lands for they had been put in place to keep the ancient evil from escaping. It could be a one way trek for he and his followers if the pillars reacted to their Black Magick and he had been reluctant to travel it at the time.

It was a risk going into the vast lands of only ice and snow. If they were not crushed by the ancient evil they could become trapped by the Good Magick that surrounded the north. They would be unable to leave to acquire the slaves the Dark Lord needed to build his kingdom. It would become a prison and they would most likely whither and die there. The only thing that drove him to chance it was the soft, constant voice that spoke to him inside his head. It told him to move on and it became stronger when he put his thoughts towards the path that led into the ice lands. With pursuers coming at them from the south strong in the Good Magick and unable to find a stronghold on the south facing sides of the Grimfangs the Dark Lord knew taking the path was quickly becoming their only choice for survival.

As the Dark Lord's followers passed him on the trail back down the mountain he sent out the command to return west once they reached the base. He took one more gaze out upon the plain to try and gauge when these pinpoints of light would reach the mountains. From communications with his Dread Lord, Drest, he would meet up with him and his small slave army when they once again reached the western end of the Grimfangs. He feared he would be meeting these carriers of the Good Magick at the same time. Once again the race for the survival of he and his followers was on.