Prologue

Regnab stuffed a thick sheaf of parchments into his leather bag. They were his own notes, scribbled down during sleepless days when his master was 

inattentive. But they wouldn’t tell the whole story, he knew, and so his eyes madly scanned the shelves. 

Under the steady light of magical torches, the rows of ancient books stood neatly arranged, capturing thousands of years of elven, draconic, and abyssal 

knowledge. His weathered hand brushed lovingly along their spines, gnarled fingers relishing the privilege to actually make contact. He was only a slave, but if it were up 

to him, he’d take them all, save them all.

A distant roar drowned out sudden squeals of terror down the corridor. Regnab shook himself and remembered his purpose. These books were priceless, 

but they weren’t his priority tonight. Reaching behind a heavy elven tome, he grabbed a hidden key and bent to unlock the safe at the base of the wall. 

The stone walls shook as another roar echoed from beyond the study. Dust drifted down on the aging human as he reached in to grab the scrolls. His master had 

always preferred scrolls, and for once Regnab agreed with him. Although difficult to file accurately, at least they were lightweight. There wasn’t time to determine which 

scroll was which, so Regnab shoved them all into the bag.

The walls on one side of the room seemed to shudder under another assault. Fissures appeared, leaking cloying white smoke as the stone on the other side of 

the wall bubbled and hissed. Regnab shuddered, feeling a cold sweat break out. The dragon’s wrath was coming. Grabbing the last of the scrolls, he slammed the safe 

shut and rose on shaky knees. It was time to go.

He’d barely taken two steps toward the study door when a figure strode into view, blocking his path. Lord Aramon was a tall, powerful man who always dressed 

in the finest of robes. But now he staggered against the doorframe, smoke still drifting off his scorched clothing. His eyes bore into his slave with more intensity 

than Regnab had ever seen.

Regnab gasped, instinctively dropping to his knees. “My lord,” he whispered.

“Regnab,” Lord Aramon boomed, “it’s time. Come with me.”

Unable to resist, Regnab scrambled to his feet and hurried after his master. The leather bag, slung over his shoulder, slapped heavily against his back.

The wide, stone corridor filled with the cacophony of nearby battle. Familiar grunts from the temple’s human guardians mixed with the squeal of something 

smaller—probably goblins—as blades clashed together. Regnab wanted nothing more than to run, to flee this madness, but compulsion forced him to follow the long 

strides of his master.

The stone corridor ended, opening outward to the night sky. This step of the ziggurat wrapped around the entire fortress, and similar platforms formed the 

steps above. Bodies lay where javelins as thick as Regnab’s arms had skewered them; those few defenders still alive fired their shortbows as quickly as they could 

manage.

A massive shape swung up from below. It missed the defenders, but caused them to drop their bows and retreat.

Aramon paused, gesturing for Regnab to stay back. The master grabbed the nearest guardian and threw him back toward the edge. “Stand and fight,” Aramon 

commanded, “to the very last man!”

The other two guardians hesitated, frozen in terror, then finally drew their swords. Before they could advance, the same massive shape came into view again. 

Regnab, cowering against the stone wall, realized that it was a club the size of his whole body. It was held by a hand of matching proportions. 

A monstrous ogre rose into view as it climbed the stepped side of the ziggurat fortress, only slightly hindered by the arrows embedded in its hide. It spied 

the puny defenders and grinned as it raised its club to strike.

Aramon stepped forward, a bolt of dark, searing light blasting forth from his hand. The force of it was enough to knock the ogre’s arm backward. The beast 

dropped its club as dark necrotic energy sizzled up toward its shoulder, withering its flesh along the way. But it was too enraged, or too stupid, to stop its attack. With 

one good arm left, it lurched forward with a roar.

Aramon responded with a flurry of gestures and barely-audible prayers. Regnab felt the power of his master’s god building in the air around him. He cowered 

back, shielding his eyes as the ogre took another menacing step forward. Aramon made a final, sharp motion downward with his hands, and from the heavens a flame 

strike enveloped the ogre. Its massive body froze in shock, instantly charred by the divine power. The body teetered, then toppled with a crash.

“Hold this ground with your lives,” Aramon ordered the terrified guardians, before turning and motioning Regnab to follow him back into the fortress.

Regnab followed him down a set of stone steps and along a shadowy passage. The clash of combat faded even as the temperature dropped, until the 

only sounds were Aramon’s steady footfalls and Regnab’s own laboured breathing.

Regnab caught up to his master just as Aramon completed the spell to unlock the door at the end of the passage. The metal bolts slid out with a heavy 

clunk, and the door swung inward. Regnab followed Aramon through, feeling the temperature drop even further as he crossed the threshold. He pushed the door 

shut and activated the enchanted lock.

“Vydiliar has breached the temple fortress,” Aramon said, casting off his burnt cloak. He paced toward a massive, leather-bound tome that rested on a stone 

pedestal. “We must take drastic action.”

Regnab quailed, his stomach churning when he looked directly at the tome. His eyes drifted across the floor to the stone sarcophagus carved in bas-relief there. 

Burial images and lurid frescos decorated the walls beyond it. A death mask rested on a wooden pole beyond the coffin, surrounded by an arrangement of canopic 

jars. The chamber was lit only by the greenish glow of captured faerie fire, and its constant movement created an eternal dance of shadows. But Regnab didn’t need 

to see it to know of what his master spoke. The Tome of Syyx, created by Aramon but written in Regnab’s own hand, stirred as its master approached. The chamber 

shook again, and Regnab could barely imagine the forces being unleashed above.

“We are to summon the Servant then, Master?” 

Silence stretched in the room, long enough that Regnab lifted his gaze. 

Aramon was staring at the locked door, eyes afire. “No,” he replied finally

“My lord?”

Aramon stepped away from the Tome of Syyx and reached into the sarcophagus. Pulling out the deep red robes Regnab had painstakingly placed there 

a lifetime ago, Aramon slipped them over his shoulders.

“Regnab, on your feet. It’s time to conduct the ritual.”

Leaving the bag of scrolls and parchments forgotten on the floor, Regnab rose and approached. He could feel the raw power awakening in his master. It was 

reflected in the Tome, still unopened on its pedestal. 

Another blast shook the chamber, this time much closer. Every mortal instinct screamed at Regnab to back away, but he took another step forward, 

compelled to obey his master. He reached the pedestal, eyes watering as he gazed down at the ensorcelled patterns burnt into the cover of the Tome. Aramon loomed 

before him.

“Open it and begin the ritual,” the master commanded

Regnab’s hand moved on its own, gripping the Tome’s cover and pulling it open. His eyes squeezed shut at the foul radiance that poured forth, but his hand 

kept moving.

He painfully muttered the opening words of the ritual, his voice slowly growing into a chant as the magics were unlocked. His sanity slipped away with 

each word, but he was unable to stop, his mind both riveted and repelled. He wanted nothing more than to flee this foul chamber, or even to kill this maniac before him, 

but his body moved on its own, turning the pages of the Tome as he continued the unholy rite.

 His hand burnt, black fire climbing slowly up his arm as the ritual progressed. Dark energies emerged from the canopic jars, flowing to the death mask in a macabre 

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dance of shadows. The chamber shook frequently, and the part of Regnab’s mind that he still controlled knew that their enemies were just outside the door. Heavy 

thuds impacted the door, followed by magical blasts. The enchanted lock would hold, he thought with disappointment as he turned another page of the Tome. 

If only Vydiliar could break through and end this madness. Looking down at his withered hand resting on the page, Regnab knew that the first stage of the 

ritual was nearing its end. Aramon glowed with power. Unaware of, or perhaps unconcerned with, the heavy clacks indicating the efforts of goblin tricksters to 

pick the chamber’s lock, Aramon turned toward the sarcophagus.

Now was his chance, Regnab realized. The master’s back was turned, and he was consumed with his magics. Regnab could run and hide, or even open the 

chamber door and let the attackers in. 

But as his mind raced with possibilities, his legs stepped forward on their own. With the book hefted in one arm, he rounded the pedestal and guided Aramon 

gently toward the sarcophagus. His voice continued to chant the same phrases over and over, the final words of the ritual. Regnab helped his master to lie down in the 

stone coffin, then reached to take the death mask in both hands. Smash him with it! A part of his mind screamed. But he reverently placed it over his master’s face.

A flash of sickly darkness enveloped Lord Aramon as Regnab ceased chanting. He lay in his sarcophagus, perfectly still as the chamber walls shook and 

dust fell.

Regnab scrambled back as the sarcophagus lid closed on its own, sealing with a heavy thud. The top of the stone coffin was intricately carved with a cradle 

in the centre—the resting place for the Tome of Syyx itself. The ritual was complete. The master was safe, and now there was only one more thing to do.

Regnab’s hands burnt as he hefted the cursed book. Its black magics coursed around him, making him sick with revulsion. At least, he snarled to himself, 

this wretched Tome would be hidden from the world while the master slept. The sarcophagus was already sinking slowly into the floor. The Tome must be placed 

safely in the cradle, then his task would be complete. Only three more steps, and then freedom.

He staggered as the door exploded inward, chunks of stone crashing against the walls. A shard hit his leg, and he tumbled to the ground, the Tome knocked from 

his grasp as blood trickled down his leg. The Tome must be placed with the master. 

Movement caught the corner of his eye: a pair of goblins charging into the chamber. Their bodies were instantly consumed in dark fire, their shrieks little more 

than gasps as the trap activated. Regnab knew he was exposed in the middle of the room, a target for whatever was coming next, but he crawled forward, scrabbling 

to recover the dropped Tome. Time was running out: the sarcophagus was almost below floor level. 

Suddenly, a force wrenched the Tome away from his reaching hands. Shocked, Regnab spun and watched as the book floated across the room, toward 

the shattered doorway, and into the waiting hands of a man.

No, an elf, tall, with pale skin and dark, almond-shaped eyes that froze Regnab where he stood. The elf’s long, black hair flowed past his broad shoulders. 

His breastplate looked carved from obsidian: black but with multi-faceted edges that flickered in the dancing faerie fire. He carried no visible weapons nor helm, 

but he stepped into the chamber with an air of supreme self-confidence. His gaze passed over the sarcophagus as heavy stone slabs closed over it, then came to rest 

on Regnab once again.

Those eyes. Regnab was transfixed. Such power behind them. Such unshakable self-assurance. The elf stepped further into the room, his escort of 

goblins watching warily from the corridor beyond. He looked down to where the sarcophagus had disappeared beneath the floor, no doubt sensing what Regnab 

already knew: Aramon was safe, and no power in this world—or any other—could threaten him. The elf spent little time in contemplation, turning instead toward the 

Tome of Syyx in his hands.

No! Despite every instinct to stay down, Regnab struggled to rise. The ritual was complete, but he’d failed in his final task: the Tome was not safely on the 

sarcophagus with the master.

The elf glanced at him, and waved his hand in a languid gesture. Regnab was pushed back, an invisible force crushing him against the wall. Unable to move, 

Regnab watched helplessly as the elf examined the Tome of Syyx with an unhurried ease, then turned and strode out of the chamber. After a few moments, the goblins 

scurried away. The pressure relented, and Regnab collapsed to the floor.

He lay there for a while, enjoying the cool stone against his cheek as he listened to the blessed silence. The sounds of battle had faded; the pulsing magic 

that had filled the room was gone. Eventually, he realized that the only thing he could hear was his own shallow breathing.

He sat up, surveying the dancing shadows for any real movement. Nothing. The stone pedestal was bare. The sarcophagus was gone. And there, forgotten on 

the far side of the room, was his leather bag. The sight of it jarred his scrambled mind awake—the notes!

The master was safely out of this world, he realized with growing fear, but the Tome of Syyx had not gone with him. At least the Servant had not been summoned. 

A renewed panic enveloped him. He had to get out of here. In a desperate scramble, he lurched to his feet, grabbed his bag, and ran.

                                                                                                                      *

The burning smell was easy to detect from downwind, even at this distance. Of course, Edris thought to himself as he shifted where he sat against the tree, the 

smell was no surprise after watching the destruction being unleashed only hours before. In the false dawn he could now see the night’s devastation. In one hundred 

years of life he’d never seen a dragon in full fury before, and he shuddered at the carnage such a beast could bring to his woodland home. The unmistakable “black 

flames” had lived up to the reputation of the vaunted Vonsedion, who was well known in these parts for his cruelty. The fires ignited by the black dragon’s acid 

breath had illuminated the hulking forms of lesser giants as they scaled the ziggurat walls, as well as swarms of smaller creatures Edris hadn’t been able to make out 

across the moor, but from their comparative size must have been goblins.

Whatever had been holed up in this mysterious fortress, someone had wanted to see it destroyed. And whoever that someone was, they wielded enough 

power to enlist the aid of a black dragon and to compel ogres and cowardly goblins into battle.

The attacking horde had already withdrawn to the north. As an elven scout, Edris’ mission was to investigate anything unusual that happened in the lands 

around his home, but prudence suggested that he wait a few more hours before he approached. The ziggurat was still mostly standing, but smoke eclipsed the 

brightening sky above smouldering flames. He knew he was concealed in this rare copse of trees, and he was content to wait patiently.

Movement broke his reverie. He rose in a swift motion, reaching for his bow. The moor was scattered with boulders across its gentle rise and fall—treacherous 

landscape for any creature unable to see in the dark. Edris watched as a lone figure stumbled across the hard ground, one hand out to feel for obstacles while the other 

gripped a large sack. Edris could see no weapons, but there was a faint aura of magic that trailed back across the moor toward the ziggurat. He watched for a long 

moment, assuring himself that no others were approaching. Whoever this was, he appeared alone.

Confident in his own innate ability to counter any petty magics, Edris stepped out from the trees and moved to intercept. The figure looked human by his 

size and shape, and by the fact that he was stumbling like a blind man. At five paces, Edris stopped and held up his hand.

“That’s far enough, friend,” he called softly in the common tongue.

The human gasped, stumbling to his knees. He lifted one hand defensively.

“I mean you no harm,” Edris said, taking another step forward. “Do you understand my words?”

The human’s gaze shot in several directions before finally locking onto Edris. “I … I need to escape.” 

“Escape from where?” Edris asked, stepping closer.

The human suddenly recoiled with a gasp, covering his face as a look of confused recognition crossed his face. “Lord Vydiliar—please have mercy!”

Edris froze, senses on full alert. Vydiliar? He didn’t know the name, but it sounded like ancient Elvish. Had an elf been the leader of this assault? Edris knew 

that many of his kin could reach heights of great power … but powerful enough to enlist the aid of a dragon? A quick scan reconfirmed no-one else in sight. 

The human was cowering on his knees, barely able to look up.

“Human,” Edris said, “I’m not Vydiliar. Look at me.”

The human finally met his gaze. There was madness there, Edris could see

“My name is Edris Shadowstep, and I mean you no harm. Are you escaping from that fortress?”

“Yes. I need to escape. I need to get word …” He clutched his leather bag. “The master … the ritual … We have to stop it!”

Magic dripped off this man: powerful sorcery that clung to him even though it was spent. It was only an outer coating, though—and the magic hadn’t come from 

within him. He wore the clothes of a sage, and as the bag shifted in his grasp Edris heard the rustle of parchment.

“Do you know what happened in that fortress?” he asked gently.

“The ritual … the Servant wasn’t released. Vydiliar …” His voiced trailed away as his body started to shake.

“I can get you to safety,” Edris said, reaching out his hand. “Come with me.” 

The man looked up again, still shaking. He grasped Edris with a withered hand and pulled himself to his feet. But before Edris could lead him two steps, the 

human grabbed him with surprising strength.

“We need to go to Gnosis,” the man whispered. “They will know what to do. You must take me there!”

The Abbey of Gnosis was over a fortnight’s travel southwest. Edris’ first loyalty was to the Shadow Woods and to his Lord; whatever secrets this man held 

should be reported there first. But he glanced back at the smoking fortress, and at the manic desperation in this human’s eyes. There was something else at play here 

… It made no sense, but he knew that this man and his secrets needed to get to Gnosis above all else. 

“What is your name, friend?”

“Regnab, master.”

“Then come, Regnab, make haste. The Abbey of Gnosis awaits, but we have a long road ahead.”