The sands of time shift,
The end of an era approaches.
A harbinger is born to the people of light,
Fear consumes the people of night,
Great will be the battle,
Great the war.
An end to a time,
The start of another,
At the heels of the silver-haired emissary.
The prophecy echoed through Guntrek’s mind, driving his actions. That damnable prophecy spelled the doom of his people. As tribal leader, he simply wouldn’t allow it.
The people of the night shall fear pulsed through his thoughts and he grimaced in pained amusement. His people weren’t afraid. They were strong. They were victorious. They were beating the glowing scum, the so-called people of the light.
Vartor the Illuminated was wrong. His prophecy was wrong. They would overcome the people of light and they would stay alive. In this, he had no doubts.
“Mertzklaw,” a subordinate, his head bowed as he swept onto the Sliding Field. Even though the air was dark and gloomy, and it was hard to see more than the nose on one’s face, Guntrek could see the battle raging on the field.
An open area, it was called the Sliding Field because it was the designated area of ‘sliding’ between realms. Here, in the field, the realms were stacked on top of one another, making travel between them easier than elsewhere. Of course, travel elsewhere was possible, just not as easy. Some of his tribe could manage the journey between realms. And some couldn’t, becoming horribly disfigured as they died shameful deaths. But here in the fields, the travel was easy and few died. To die sliding in the fields was a disgrace, punishable by obliterating your entire family line. No one dared to die.
“How goes the battle?” Guntrek asked, though he knew that his people were winning. Anything else would be dishonorable, and would spell their doom. No one wanted that outcome. So they fought and they won.
“They hide like cowards in their stone tomb,” the subordinate said.
“Good,” Guntrek said. “Expected date of our victory, Limgr?”
“Soon. Very soon. There is only so much food in that stone tomb.”
“Order our spy to ask a few discrete questions. I want to know an exact date.”
“Yes, Mertzklaw.”
