The figure stalked through the halls of the castle, the dark stone sucking in ambient light. His footsteps echoed through the corridors, the sole sound to be found in the dank halls. As the figure strode forward, the light began to shift. Gone was the natural light of the moon, and in its place was a baleful light from lanterns hanging from the walls. Shadows traced the figure's face as he grew closer and closer to the intricate door at the far end of the hall.

He knew he was now deep underground, and as he stood in front of the door, he traced the etchings with his finger. A shudder passed through his body as he remembered the scene now memorialized in front of him. He had slaughtered hundreds that day in service to his dark master. It was not the ritual murder he had typically committed, it was brutal torture on a mass scale. He was but one of many of the Faceless, the mask wearing soldiers of Vorthax, whose sole purpose was to bring fear and panic to those who would defy him. That day, they had been cut loose. A population unsuspecting had been the victims of a brutality that would make the gods of the dead squirm.

The figure sighed as the memory washed over him, and pushed through the door. Immediately, a cacophony of screams and yells assaulted his ears. He could smell the coppery scent lingering in the air, and strode forward into the chaos. The figure closed his eyes, muscle memory guiding him to his destination. The screams of tortured souls, the yells of their gaolers, and the sounds of metal on bone were music to his ears.

The figure made it to his destination, a central great hall that led to an obsidian dais. He stared longingly at the dais, wishing for the power it granted. He turned away, a dark hunger in his eyes. Soon, he knew. Soon his power would be greater than any in history, and any in the future. He sat in the fetid chair, reveling in the smell of the creators.

A dark and hunched creature hobbled over towards its master. "Master, the preparations are nearly complete. We are but awaiting the last two caravans and then all shall be ready." The creature bowed low as it spoke, despite being an evil being it was fearful of the robed figure towering over it. "Two?" the master asked. The creature swallowed heavily, for there was immense danger in upsetting the master. "Yes Master, one of the caravans was attacked on the path, and one of the ingredients was taken."

Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

The figure stood up immediately, eyes blazing in fury. The creature backed away, terrified of what may come next. "Gather The Pact. Tell them we must retrieve it before the purpose of what we are doing is discovered."

The creature nodded as only its body allowed, and then shambled off quickly to relay the orders of the Master. The figure struggled to maintain composure, hatred and rage surrounding him in a tangible miasma. To be delayed at such a late stage was nothing but the largest of disappointments, not just to him personally, but to his goals. He was to be the Lord and Master of all that existed, his existence was proof enough. No one would dare stand before him. He had slaughtered thousands in his long life, and had no qualms about killing thousands more.

Something in the figure changed though, as though a predator was finally feeling like it was prey. The figure looked around the room, seeing nothing and yet feeling the pressure of an impending doom. Manic, he drew his weapons, the wicked knives winking evilly in the firelight. It took minutes for reality and reason to reassert themselves. Breathing heavily, he sheathed his weapons and sat back down.

A hang placed itself onto the figure's shoulder and began squeezing. "You dare sit while the ritual is delayed?" The figure immediately began sweating. The hand squeezing his shoulder was increasing the grip slowly but surely, and his shoulder was starting to hurt. "Ah, my servants are after the ingredient now, they will recover it quickly."

The baritone voice rumbled again, "They had better. Or you will know true fear." The hand on the shoulder was gripping harder still, and the light steel pauldrons were starting to get crushed. Pain exploded in the figure's shoulder as the pauldron crumpled completely under the inexorable grip.

"Remember Malachai, we made a blood pact of extreme import to the god of the end times, and to forsake our promise would invoke a damnation of unspeakable terror." Malachai nursed his shoulder, gasping as the hand withdrew. "Do not lose another body."

Malachai turned, staring at the broad back of the figure walking away. He felt fear in his heart, before hatred and wrath pushed it away. Malachai would kill the man, and rule over the lands and families of Eldranor as he was intended to. The figure turned slightly, as though hearing his thoughts. Malachai shuttered as he looked into those eyes. The last sight before the figure disappeared into the darkness was the momentary glint of light on a medal hanging from his breast.