FALLING NIGHT- The Seven Keys of Imyx- Book One.

PROLOGUE

Prologue

The Keep of Bael-Nar was once, one of the most majestic and finely crafted structures of the known world. It had taken over a hundred years and five thousand dwarven slaves deaths to construct such a magnificent structure. The smooth walls once were covered by lavish tapestries from all over the face of Eiredor. Some still had deep blood stains upon them. This pleased the master. The great room was fitted with gold sconces and various statuary, all taken during the Master's crusade. That was over one hundred years ago.

The tapestries now lay in frayed threads, chunks took by rats and other vermin of the desolate island. The gold fixtures now tarnished beyond recognition among the crumbled walls of the keep. Even the mastery of the dwarven smiths couldn't withstand the insidious power of the dark evil that lay within the rotting corpse of the old keep.

Storm clouds rolled in like a brooding, invading force from the south, engulfing the entire island in heavy shadows. Rask Drannath stood at the prow of the longship and took stock of the small island as it came closer into view. He grew weary of the voyage. He was a man of the saddle and the bloody battlefield, not one for the uncertainty of the sea and the company of the dregs he'd been subject to the past month.

He watched the dark keep, as the ship pulled into the decrepit dock, absently fondling his holy symbol of Hela.

He was a man of deep faith but why the Queen of the dead had sent him to this foul place was almost beyond even his stout devotion. Why was he needed here when he could be planning an invading strategy and not here stumbling through the moss-covered rubble of some long-dead wizard?

A damn waste, he thought as the shipmaster tied the rope to the dock and quickly disappeared below deck.

The swollen clouds had completely overtaken the island as the knight made his way through the ruins of Bael-Nar. There were obvious signs of battle, that marred the once palatial keep. Piles of bones still covered the landscape, like moss on a stone. Black char marks and arrows covered the once pristine walls like ebony freckles on the many elves he'd slain... for pleasure. The knight of Hela chuckled as he stepped over the dust-covered dead, which were plentiful. He prayed for more to follow.

His prayers were answered by ten score. He was glad to be on land.

The remnants of the epic battle laid out before him as he made his way through the overgrown courtyard. Bones of elves, dwarves, humans littered the once well-maintained gardens, and he rejoiced in the crunching sound they made under his massive bulk.

He followed a large set of finely crafted stone steps, now littered with the fallen and stained red. Once at the top, the way was easy to follow. The deeper the mounds of bones were, the closer he was to the master.

Cold droplets of rain pecked the ground and bounced off Rask's black armor as he approached the tall tower at the center of the keep. The two huge, once beautifully gilded doors, now hung like dislocated, broken shutters and Rask grunted as he forced them aside.

The knight entered the throne room and paused.

Tall pillars of stone, carved in the images of the Goddess Hela and her father, Loki, lined the circular room. Each pillar alternating in the illuminated piety of both dear deities. It warmed Rask's heart as he gazed upon them. He stroked his long flowing, blonde beard.

In the throne room below, upon a large throne, made of twisted bones and stone, was a frail figure. Rask stepped forward and grasped his bastard sword.

The twisted figure was clothed in dark blue, tattered, blood-stained fabric and wore a tarnished crown fitted with jewels. It's powerful magic piercing the gray din. The room stunk of rot and death, but there was no denying the greater element holding sway over the ruins inside the tower.

"Come..." The skeletal figure spoke in a grating voice that sounded like it crawled out from the depths of Niflheim. It resounded with more force, thought possible as Rask slowly walked down the dead strewn steps. He paused, gripping his sword, as he saw six figures standing in a semi-circle around the throne of bones.

"Come forth Servant of the dark Goddess. Your presence has long been awaited," The cold words came in a slow, syncopated cadence that rode the stale breeze. The figure motioned with one bony arm, causing its heavy shackles to rattled the thick chains attached to it.

Rask slowly descended the steps, careful to step over the abundant dead strewn across them. He didn't detect any sign of good and that made him breathe a little easier-but, not by much-he continued to analyze the crooked figure on the huge throne of bones.

"It is not you, I view with a cautious eye, Lord Imyx," Rask grinned at the six figures glaring at him in the magical glow of the throne, but it was indeed the source of the magical illumination that held the Anti-Paladin's calm, but cautious attention. Rask halted at the foot of the steps and smugly studied the group.

The six stood in a semi-circle around the shadowy figure in the throne. All looked road weary but battle hardened. Rask grinned as they gave him the same examining glare.

"Come closer Knight," The figure in the throne ordered. "Your Mistress has blessed me with so many skilled and brave heroes and I am honored, Sir Drannath." Rask could barely see the bent form in the keep's darkness. The sun was fading and the cold moon was yet to rise to its zenith. He squinted and the soft glow of the crown offered a glimpse of the figure's horrid features. Rask moved closer to the throne and felt his booted feet crunch over piles of bones and it made him smile and his heart grew warm. Hela had told him about his duty and what he needed to do and had never failed the Queen of the Dead. He preferred to work alone and the group before him were merely just six different ways the mission would fail.

"I mean no offense, Lord Imyx, and I serve at the pleasure of Hela and anything I can do to aid you in your cause, I am a sworn servant." Rask glared at them and took a stance next to the throne. "However, I know not why you've gathered, this rabble, here." He stared into the deep-set eyes of the biggest figure- A mountain of a man, in battered plate-mail, standing at the center.- He stood a good three or four heads taller than the others and was easily just as wide. A long flowing jet black beard hung down to his belt. The giant gripped a two-handed ax in his large hands and eyed Rask with a frenzied look he'd seen far too often in his years on the battlefield.

"I find that I am best utilized when not shackled by dogs," Rask never broke his cold gaze at the giant-kin.

"Dogs?" The big man stepped forward, glaring at Rask. "I'll feed you your guts, you arrogant pig,"

Rask waved his arms wide open in invitation. His smug grin, never leaving his scarred face.

The giant-kin flexed and stepped forward, but a slim figure in an azure cloak softly gripped him by his tensed forearm. Rask watched as the hooded person whispered something into the angry man's ear.

"You would be wise to listen to your wench," Rask surveyed the rest of the gathered group and let his grin turn into a stern grimace.