Shilvar had once been a man of battle. When he was younger and his knuckles less twisted and scarred. Now his days were spent in the holy caverns, fondly remembering the days of battle and, occasionally, tending religious ceremony. Today was a day for the latter. A day that would beget days of nothing but religious service. A day that dawned the end.

“Do you have the tokens?” Alvar’s voice echoed off the cavern walls causing the dim light of the torches to flicker and flutter. Now there was a man Shilvar would have liked to punch. Even his voice was annoying. A wavering, hesitant voice. But then Alvar was a wavering, hesitant man. It was a young voice. Which was likely because Alvar was also a young man. It was this that Shilvar thought annoyed him most. Alvar was young and had wasted his life in these caverns. He had never fought another with fist or blade nor, as was painfully evident, had he ever been punched. Everyone needed to be punched at least once. It taught a man his place. Shilvar considered, not for the first time, correcting this last issue. 

“Aye, I have them.” He gestured to the midnight cards stacked on the table before them. Dezem Bak. The Deck. Created a millennia ago when mankind ruled the world. When the order of Tenatun was at its peak and not just served by an old drunk and, well, Alvar. 

When The Dark Ones first invaded each card had been carefully created and bestowed with power. Power that was, in turn, linked to those chosen to save mankind. The Champions. The Devallah. It had worked. Of a fashion. Shilvar knew the lore, just as every other Vermatian. When the Dark Ones came they had rolled over the world of man like a storm. Smashing its armies, crumbling its cities. An unstoppable, indestructible force. At their forefront were The Umbra. Warriors without peer who moved faster than any human and slew king and peasant and hero alike. 

And then came The Champions. 

Shilvar drew phlegm up through his throat loudly. The Champions! Some good they had done. Aye, they had halted The Dark Ones, but at what cost? From here, up in the high mountains, Shilvar reckoned he could probably see most of the domain of man. The last sliver of land unto which humanity clung. How many were left? A million? Less? And most of those would be crushed together in the city of Vermasse. The last city. A mismatched, sprawling mass of humanity. 

Shilvar had been there once. Once was enough. He shivered at the memory and, even now, thought he could make out the undying lights of the city far away on the distant horizon. Who would want to live in such a place? Shilvar much preferred the quiet solitude of the caverns. For a moment he was struck by an image. A horrible, nightmarish image. He had seen the caves, his caves, swarming with people. Women and children and the elderly, all pushed together in fear and necessity. He blinked and the ghostly visage disappeared. But its taste lingered in his mind. 

“I did another reading,” Alvar squeaked.

“What did it say?” Shilvar didn’t need to ask. He knew what it would say. The same thing it had said everyday for the past thirty moons. 

“It says we must draw the cards.”

Shilvar sighed. As he had known.

“Do you really think this will work? Surely there are no more heroes left.”

Shilvar shrugged. “There were no Champions the first time The Dark Ones came either. Not until the cards were drawn.” He had no idea if that were really true, of course. It had been centuries since The Dark Ones first came and these cards hadn’t seen the light of day for longer than Shilvar had lived. It had seemed like the right thing to say, though.

Alvar cleared his throat and, for the first time, Shilvar turned to meet the stoop-shouldered man. Torchlight caught in his thinning hair. Something else that annoyed Shilvar. What are you, boy? Twenty winters? It is nonsense that you should have less hair than me. Above them both the bright hunter’s moon shone down onto the open outcrop of rock they stood upon. Shone down onto the deck atop the lone table. The air was fresh and cold and carried with it a pleasant tingle. Below them the smell of pine drifted on the soft wind and Shilvar felt, as he often did in this place, a moment of contentment.

“Should… should we draw them now?”

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“We draw two,” Shilvar said. “You know the scripture for the first drawing as well as I: it is to be that on that first night of the brightest moon, and from the holy deck of the chosen, no more than two representations should be drawn by the hand of the Hood when the light of that perfect moon shines upon the altar of Tenatun,” he quoted. A load of wordy nonsense, he thought.

Alvar nodded. “Do you really think they’re coming?” He had asked this very same question at least half a dozen times recently. And Shilvar had given the same answer at least half a dozen times.

“We always knew they would come back. If the readings say it is to be soon then so be it.”

Alvar did what Shilvar knew he would do. Gulped, closed his eyes, and nodded his head grimly. “Then tonight is the night.”

“Tonight is the night,” Shilvar agreed. “We draw.” As the Hood, it would be him who would choose the cards. Alvar, of course, was the Sleeve. A title that was far too generous for one such as he, and far too uncharitable at the same time. In reality Alvar was the full robe. He did the duties of many, for the acolytes of Tenatun numbered only two and Shilvar had no desire to do anything that was not officially stated as his responsibility.

Unfortunately the drawing was one of those responsibilities. “Come,” he said, turning back to the table. “Let us draw.”

He heard Alvar shuffle forward apprehensively. The boy’s own nerves permeated the air, some finding Shilvar himself. He wanted to curse Alvar but, even to him, it seemed wrong to swear in such a place, at such a time. Instead he chewed the inside of his lip. The deck was just that, he told himself. Just ancient carved images of men and women long dead. The cards were said to be made from the bone of a Dark One God, but Shilvar doubted it. They looked more to be made from some ancient darkened wood. It was likely even the images they depicted had since faded and chipped.

He couldn’t be sure, of course, for he had never actually touched the deck. Well, not yet. With a steady hand he reached out an arm that was once well muscled but now hung sinewy and lean and covered in greying skin. The tips of his fingers brushed the first card; the card which would save or doom mankind.

It was wood. For a moment he felt slight vindication. He’d known it was! And then he flipped it. Placed it right-way-up on the table before him. It caught in the moonlight.

“Who… which Champion is it to be?” Alvar whispered.

“Come. See.” 

Alvar appeared alongside him. For a moment the two men stared on in silence, before Alvar finally broke it. “It cannot be.”

“It is to be what the card shows us.”

But Alvar hadn’t heard. Or had chosen not to. “No. It cannot be them. It cannot!” He backed away, even in the white light his face appeared paler than it should. Eyes wide and fearful. “We must draw again. “We need the Paladin. Or the Gallant! Draw again! You must!”

Shilvar took a step toward Alvar and did something he had long been desiring: slapped him on the head. “Enough! The cards are what they are and we cannot change them! We have chosen! And we have chosen The Fool. They shall be the first Champion of man. Now come, we must still draw the second.”

Alvar gulped, closed his eyes, and nodded. “You are right, I am sorry. Perhaps the second will bring us more fortune.” He gave a weak smile and together the two men returned to the deck.

This time Shilvar didn’t delay. In one smooth motion he reached, drew, and flipped. The second card lay face up before them. This time Alvar swore. It was so unexpected and so out of place that it took Shilvar a moment to process what he had heard. Still, at that moment, he contemplated doing the same. Beside the card of The Fool lay the second Champion. The second who would stand before the Umbras of the Dark Ones and be humanities sword in the night. 

It wasn’t a great card, Shilvar had to admit. In fact it was about as terrible a duo as he could have hoped. But it was what it was and the decision was final. He gazed once more over the last realm of man; the land of Verma. Somewhere out there two figures were even now beginning a destiny they had no idea about. Somewhere out there The Fool stirred. Somewhere out there his brother Champion also roamed. Poor bastards.

Shilvar looked down upon the second card once more and shook his head. The image that started back at him, though faded, was undeniable.

The Madman.

So be it. With the full-moon reaching its peak in the night-time sky the first of humanity’s champions were laid out. Shilvar wondered idly if one of them was to be Vasuna bak: the Sacrifice. Though truthfully he’d be surprised if either chosen would live very much longer.

He felt a moment of unexpected regret deep in his stomach. And then shrugged. What did it matter? His part was done and now it was time for others to take up their roles. As soon as the cards had been drawn the agents of the order would have started making their way towards the chosen. Agent, Shilvar corrected himself. As far as he was aware there was only one agent now. A man older even than Shilvar. A man who would now be moving towards the chosen like a moth to a flame.

A funny thing. With the drawing of two cards, two lives were about to change irrevocably. The lives of an idiot and a crazy man, apparently. He wondered if they knew, if they had sensed it when he drew their cards, if they could feel the world suddenly change for them. He wondered if they would thank him or hate him. Then he decided he didn’t much care. 

With one last look out over the world he threw up a casual salute to The Fool and The Madman, before returning to the warmth of the cave and the jug of honey-ale that awaited him.