Sir Brent rode down the ancient road lost in solemn thought. The King's guard did not travel this far south often, but these were hard times and an expedition had been sent to the great ruins of the old capital. During the times of darkness when all other provinces had fallen, only the north had withstood the relentless assaults of the Orcish hordes. Stories from the old times were littered with great names and heroes that had died preserving the kingdom. Brent sometimes wondered what it had all been for, starving masses of peasants and the haggard shadow of a once mighty Imperial army was all that remained. His thoughts were interrupted as he spotted a lone horse wandering the road ahead of him. Brent slowed down Grim, his ill-tempered stallion, and approached the horse slowly. Under the dim light of the half-clouded moon he could see that the horse was of a dark colouration -- a cavalry stallion of a proud bearing. The approaching horse stopped and looked him in the eyes. A cold flash shot up his Brent's back as the moon clouded over and the horse sprinted away. He remained silent and studied the area around him. This had once been a prosperous trade route, but the centuries since had flooded the route with bushes and vegetation. In the dark and silent night, with only the wind rustling the leaves, he could find nothing that could have startled the horse. Grim was of little help, the bravest horse in the cavalry had a secret. No sound would frighten him, for he was deaf. Brent had little pity for his steed, for he had learned along time ago that the beast had a mean temper. Brent drew his sword, and was unsure of himself for the first time in ages. He had fought many battles during the civil war and had always remained calm during the worst of times. Tonight was different, there was something sinister in the air. Not wishing to face whatever demons lurked near the abandoned path, Brent spurred his horse into action and rode fast south after the expedition.

"Captain!" A voice shouted out of the darkness. The bright gleam from a lantern illuminated the spartan tent that Farnham had spent the night attempting to rest in.

As the old man rose out of his makeshift bed he glared at his lieutenant and called out "By the gods who cursed us, what right have you to barge in here?"

"Sir the man we sent out to meet Brent has returned wounded and on foot, he speaks of things attacking him" replied the lieutenant, his voice a mixture of fear and excitement.

Farnham shut his eyes for a few seconds, letting the burning rage in his belly calm down before speaking again. "You mean to tell me that you wake me up to tell me that one of my men was frightened of shadows and stumbled home after injuring himself?"

"I thought you would want to be informed" muttered the lieutenant.

Farnham cursed the lieutenant for being a fool and laid down, pulling a blanket over his head. As the lieutenant departed into the night, Farnham thought about how the expedition was going. For two weeks they had scoured the rubble of the capital, in the hope of finding something of value. So far, heaps of human bones, rusted swords and armour had been the only things of interest to turn up. The place had frightened the men when they first camped there, so now they were located on the border of the capital. To Farnham a frightened soldier was a worthless one, and he felt aggravated to have to put up with such a poor force. His dreams had been troubled since their arrival in the cursed place. As he fell back into his restless slumber, his guards and sentries were being watched from the cover of the night.

Brent had ridden down the dark path for over an hour, passing the ruins of burned-out inns and villages that had once been monuments to the prosperity of the old Empire. The wars had devastated this region as armies of bitter soldiers had been locked in a desperate struggle for survival. Down the road a village with a large church tower loomed on the horizon. This was the meeting place with the scout from Farnham's expedition. Brent had been selected to carry a message to the king and to return with further orders. Even if he was not privy to sensitive information, Brent knew that this was no simple salvage mission. The expedition had been sent to find something specific and whatever that might be would only been known to Farnham and Tristen the royal scholar who had accompanied the mission. The church tower loomed nearer now and seemed to glow with a ghastly light under the rays of the moon. It was strange that the building still stood after all those years. Its blackened stones and engraved pillars still testified to one of the gods who had once ruled the land. Brent pulled his steed to a halt a few paces from where the village gate had once been. He studied the area carefully looking for signs of the scout. He knew he would be on foot having seen his horse earlier on the abandoned path. In front of him the church loomed over, casting a shadow over the village square, it was a strange sight to see the building stand among the ruins of huts and houses. Brent had been a soldier for over two decades, and he knew when something was a miss. He looked up at the large tower, even its bells where still in place, he had wondered before when passing through, why it was still so intact? The armies on both sides had laid waste countless temples and churches, and Brent could see no reason why this one had been spared. Startled by the haunting cry of an Owl, Brent spurred his horse on and slowly entered the village.

Illuminated by the soft flicker of a candle, Tristen studied the ancient tomes that he had brought with him. It would be daylight in under half an hour, and he needed to be prepared for when the workers would remove the seals that closed the underground levels of the Imperial palace. Although the old magical wards would have vanished with the gods that had granted power to mortal men, there was always the possibility of more mundane but no less lethal traps. The smiths of the old Empire had been marvelous craftsmen, and even if their secrets had since been lost to the dust of time, their handiwork might still be found in working condition. No robber had penetrated the inner sanctums of the Imperial palace, and even with good intentions, the feat would be hard to accomplish. Startled by Farnham shouting at the gathering workers, Tristen closed up his books and made ready to join today's excursion. Picking up an old mirror that was part of his personal belongings, Tristen studied his appearance before beginning to shave. Like most of his fellow companions his eyes where bloodshot and signs of weariness clearly outlined his face. His hair was matted in thick brown chunks speckled with grey patches that reminded him of just how old he was getting. During the civil war he had seen the same reflection, only younger and with some pallor to his face, after a long march he would often find himself haggard-looking and tired. Here however he was not hard at work, nor carrying heavy armor, nor short of sleep. Nightmares were taking their toll, and not just on him, the nights had carried the wailing's of other men, brought forth by forgotten memories from more than one tent. Better than anyone, Tristen knew that this area carried with it a dark history, but that alone could not explain the impact this cursed place was making on them. These thoughts Tristen kept to himself, as any plausible explanation would include magic, and magic had vanished with the withdrawal of the mad Destroyer.

Farnham had found the encampment in an uproar when he awoke. Two of the sentries had gone missing and the scout sent to find Brent had died during the night. The poor fellow had not been injured badly, only small cuts and scratches were found on his body. It was quite peculiar that he had passed away, and many of the workers had started to see this as a dark omen for the future. Knowing that superstition would only serve to reduce the already sagging morale of the troops, Farnham had been making his rounds this morning shouting and cursing at anyone who dared to voice their suspicions about the dangers of exploring the old capital. He had told the assembled workers that the scout had probably been bitten by a snake and had grown delirious from the venom. As for the missing sentries Farnham made a long speech about the pitfalls of desertion, it was known to all that deserters would face execution at home and that food was scarce in the region. To make his point clear Farnham had offered anyone who wished to leave a day's rations and a knife with the clear implication that a coward was not welcome in his outfit. It had been a calculated gamble. Farnham knew that a mutiny was unlikely while under the illusion that everyone was free to go if they wished. As long as no one took the first step, things would be fine. Once the grumbling had receded and the workers collected their bowls for the morning meal, Farnham walked over to a small tent on the edge of the camp and tapped quietly against the canvas.

"Old man, are you awake yet, or should I wait for the gods to plummet out of the sky before that happens?" Farnham asked dryly.

"Ah Farnham you old crow, what can I do for you this fine morning?" came Tristens reply.

Farnham opened the flap on the tent and entered, and spoke in a hushed tone to his old friend "Its about the man we sent to meet Brent, there is no snake bite, but I noticed something else. We need to talk".

Brent halted Grim in front of the door to the old church. It was made of blackened wood and bore the inscription of Surtur the Human Lord of War. The remnants of the old Imperial army would never have burned this sacred site down, and neither would have the legion, but Brent wondered why the Orcish hordes had left it standing when the region was over run. Nearby he noticed a post that had been used to tether an animal, probably the scout had left the horse there and it had broken free, but with no signs of the scout, Brent remained mounted on his horse. He knew that if there were brigands around, he would stand a better chance if he was not on foot. Slowly he spurred Grim on and rode in a circle as if he was making ready to leave. Attack now then, he thought to himself. Knowing that if someone was there and with an advantage they would strike as soon as it was clear that he was departing. While slowly heading away he scanned the area without appearing alarmed. The post caught his eye again, the tether was still there, but it had been cut cleanly, as if someone had wanted the horse free in a hurry. Bandits would have caught the animal soon enough, so this was out of place. Satisfied that the burned out huts were not shielding a small army, Brent dismounted and examined the post in more detail. Small dark green spots stained it in a few places, as well as on the ground mixed in with a few spots of dried blood. By the looks of it, it would be raining in a few hours and Brent had arrived just in time to catch the evidence of whatever struggle took place.

Placing a lit lantern at his side, Brent examined the dry flakes that he had scratched off with his knife, the red patches were definitely dried blood and it looked as if it had sputtered out of a small wound. Brent thought back to the horse on the road. It had not appeared wounded, and in any case it would have had to be bandaged to carry on for so long. Perhaps the scout had been injured while attempting to mount the horse. As for the assailant Brent could only wonder, the green flakes that he carefully collected into a folded parchment were rapidly turning into faint green dust. Brent dabbed his finger into the dust and scrutinized it in the light of the lantern. This was no blood, but something more akin to the substance of a spice or sand. While rubbing his finger clean Brent picked up the lantern and shone it at the doors of the church. The doors were tall and heavy, laid with iron and a massive door knocker shaped into a wolfs head. During its day, this temple had been constructed to offer the protection of a fortress. One of the doors was slightly ajar, leaving a space large enough for a man to squeeze through. Brent raised his lantern and examined the hallowed interior of the temple. Behind the doors was a large room, once meant as a gathering place for the faithful, now covered in rotten wood and debris. Brent slowly drew out his blade as he entered, having noticed the feral glint of rat eyes in the shadows. Rats, even the larger species, were not a concern unless one was foolish enough to corner them, but they could inflict grievous harm if they managed to sink their teeth into flesh. As the flicker of the lantern danced about the abandoned room Brent slowly studied his surroundings. Above him a huge painting covered the ceiling, depicting a large and glorious battle. Despite the many faded and damaged parts Brent could make out the two battling forces, a large force of heavily armored footmen were engaging an Elven army on the outskirts of a great forest. Suddenly startled, Brent heard a female voice behind him speak in a strange accent, "You should not have come here, none of you, never".

To be continued...