In the pale blue sky, large white-gray clouds hung in misshapen bundles and odd oblong forms. Beneath the clouds, tall brown grass stretched for miles in all directions. A light breeze barely moved anything in the sky but stirred the tall brown stalks of grass, causing them to sway gently.
Nestled in the grass were slabs of granite and white marble with gray veins. Once part of a city, the stone lay crumbled all around, buried in the prairie like a hidden monument to the devastation of an old metropolis. A dirt road ran through the middle of the city ruins, blocked by a hunk of granite or a wedge of marble at random spots along the way.
Near noontime, the calm was broken by a slow rumble. The noise began to build, sounding like thunder and scaring some nearby birds out of their nests. A column of dust became visible along the road as if a dust storm was lumbering westward.
The thunder stopped suddenly, while the dust storm intensified and approached the ruins. Then the dust cloud dissipated leaving only a ring of silence and settling dust to descend upon the area. Evan Pierce and his host of a hundred reined in their horses. Evan, a priest of the Order of St. Michael and a demon hunter, surveyed the broken road that lay ahead. His companions, 50 swordsmen and 50 archers, sat awaiting his commands, their breastplates of polished metal emblazoned with silver swords gleaming in the sun.
Evan touched the parchment under his belt and recalled the contents of the message from His Grace, Duke Wrightwood:
Evan,
I have intelligence that necromancers are planning to camp in the Morean ruins. Their exact purpose is not known, but is a matter of concern. By the time you receive this dispatch, they will no doubt have established themselves.
Of particular concern is the mage called Jormundan. He has been known to summon demons, raise the dead for zombies, and consort with vampires, and give aid to other forms of undead. I have intelligence that he is now consorting with thieves to steal an expensive gem or some jewelry, most likely magical. The exact details are sketchy. I suspect he is leading the necromancers in the Morean ruins.
You are ordered to proceed to the ruins. Capture or kill the mages, I care not which, and destroy any preparations they may have made. If possible, apprehend Jormundan for questioning.
Evan repeated the second-to-last line to himself again. Capture or kill the death mages. Capture was preferable, Evan knew, but few necromancers were willing to stand trial for their crimes and preferred to respond to even this merciful option with lethal force.
How many comrades have we lost in the last eight years because of this? he thought. Evan had lost count, and doubted this time would be different.
Evan had already lost several healers and priests a few days earlier in an ambush staged by five necromancers. Ordinarily, he would have replaced the wounded and slain men once the battle was over. However, Evan received His Grace’s current orders while his troop was still recovering from the conflict. Given the threat these necromancers posed, Evan had decided he could not wait to replace his fallen comrades with new men. Any delay would give the necromancers in these ruins time to complete their plans.
Evan wondered if he had made the right decision rushing here. With no one among the assembled host to fill the roles of healer and priest, aside from Evan and the few knights who could administer first aid, he and his men might not fare very well on this mission. Causalities would mostly likely be higher than normal; this concerned Evan greatly but even the additional loss of life seemed small when weighed against the prospect of some new evil unleashed upon the world.
Putting these thoughts from his mind, Evan’s focus returned to his mission. Time to resume the march west into the ruins, he thought. Evan wanted to continue his rapid pace. The road ahead, however, would not permit excessive speed. The destruction of the old city, and the castle that had been at its heart, got worse as the group moved farther west. The road all but vanished under large chunks of stone. They would have to ride even more cautiously or risk crippling their horses.
Evan signaled to continue forward and spurred his horse forward. The steed, a dappled gray named Alsvinn, began to step slowly, allowing Evan time to maneuver easily around blocks of stone that were in the road. The knights of St. Michael behind him spurred their horses forward at a similar pace.
They rode for another hour avoiding obstacles until the debris thinned and the way ahead looked easier. Evan signaled a halt.
“What’s wrong?” asked his friend and captain of the Michaeline soldiers, Sir Lan Falconhead.
“Look ahead. See that pile of leaves.”
“I do,” said Lan. “What of it?”
“It’s autumn and there are few trees among the ruins. Where did those leaves come from?”
Lan snapped his fingers. “It’s a trap.”
“Most likely,” said Evan, nodding solemnly. “Deploy the troops. We’ll divide into two groups of fifty, 25 archers and 25 swordsmen in each. I’ll take one group with Sir Ambrose as my second and circle to the left; you take the other group with Sir Geoffrey as your second and circle to the right. Watch for unnatural placement of stone and anything else which may be unusual.” All the knights dismounted and assembled around Evan and Sir Lan. They all made the sign of the cross and bowed their head.
Evan turned his face to the sky and said, “Almighty God, grant us the strength this day to vanquish the evil we face, to defeat your enemies, and to return home safely. Let us go into battle in your name, to promote your word.”
“With your blessing in battle, we cannot fail,” said the knights in unison.
Evan looked at the assembled host and made the sign of the cross in the air. “May the blessings of St. Michael be with you.”
“Amen,” said the knights and again they made the sign of the cross.
Now they were ready for battle.
