[center][h3]The Balespire, Fell Lands[/h3][/center]

Heavy, rhythmic blows of metal upon metal resounded as Vrathar ascended the spiral staircase leading to the pinnacle of the dark tower that grimly dominated the greater of the Isles of Sorrow. In the featureless, perfectly smooth walls around him there was not a single window to allow the bleak sunlight of the Fell Lands to filter into it. Instead, what luminescence there was came from the torches placed along them at regular intervals, their writhing flames inexplicably casting grotesquely distorted dancing shadows upon the steps of cold black steel. While one could never grow accustomed to climbing the Balespire, it was said that, after one had trodden its stairs enough times, the rise would appear to them progressively less long and laborious, and the shadows less sinister (though, curiously, no mention was ever made of the descent). Vrathar himself had, unfortunately, no means of verifying whether this impression was truly common to all, nor did he expect to achieve this anytime soon; indeed, he had, until recently, not expected to reach the top of the spire, where none of the Ironbound were permitted save for the Fell Lords, within two or three decades at the very least.

The battle had wrought more damage than he had first imagined as he had taken flight from the field. When what remained of the army had regrouped at one of the inner garrison holds, it was discovered that not only had a noticeable dent been put in the numberless rank and file, but all of Vorthal's retinue had been destroyed, with the sole exception of those who had retreated at his command. This had staggered the hierarchy of the Ironbound, not in the least because, since time immemorial, there had never been either less or more than ten Fell Lords at one time, and Vorthal's unexpected demise had disrupted any designs of succession the Overlord and his advisers might have prepared. It was thus much to everyone's surprise that Vrathar had been found to be the only suitable replacement. His age was certainly not such to rival even the least of those who held council in the Dread Keep, or even certain overseers in the Lands without; yet all of those were under someone's direct command, and, by unspoken law, to remove them thence and place them into new authority was not meet. In the dim hall of the Umbral Throne, he had been named Fell Lord, and the suzerain had etched the angular symbol of dominion upon his armour with his great blade of steel and obsidian.

Not less astonishing had been the resolution the Overlord had voiced afterwards. In the penumbral gloom of the stairway, Vrathar recalled the words that had been uttered mere days before:

[i]"Out of the Fell Lands?" one of the Lords, his form indistinct in the shadowed corner he stood in, with only a few jagged edges visible in the shifting spots of light emanating from the nearest brazier, had asked, with a seeming impassiveness which would have struck a creature of flesh as unnatural - as indeed it was - considering the gravity of the matter he was inquiring about, "Would this not entail abandoning the relics of Memory to be desecrated and perverted by these invaders? Abandoning our ancestral duty itself?" The others said nothing, but from the slight nodding motions of certain among them it was clear they silently assented.

"It might be." came the low, echoing tones from the black dais, and Vrathar felt a shade of indistinct, nameless dread flit over his mind as Rahkerroth's burning gaze briefly passed over him as the fearsome horned helm turned towards towards the one who had spoken, "Yet think what good it would be if we remained. Think of this "legion". Only Vorthal could hinder it to at significant extent, and it was but two hundred strong. This could be less than a vanguard. If even we drove all our thralls in arms against the East, what would it avail if there were thousands more of those beings marching against us? The only manner for us to fulfil our duty would be to trust in the Ancients' foresight and hidden measures in our last instants. To do as you say would needlessly imperil what we are sworn to preserve as well as ourselves. Yet..." his ember-like eyes left the corner and slowly, deliberately shifted towards the darkness gathered beneath the vaulted ceiling, "If we gather all the might of the Fell Host and strike for the West... for Kahlor Marax... and finish what we began twenty years ago... If the Elder Gods shall return among us, all such concerns shall become meaningless."

With a surprisingly agile motion, the Overlord rose from his seat, draping his tattered cloak over his shoulder with a smooth motion of his clawed gauntlet. "But we shall not go alone. No, the land itself shall march with us..."[/i]

Were even the Ironbound not universally disinclined towards figurative speech, it would have been clear the Overlord's remark had been to the utmost literal. As the eldest of them, he was the most familiar with the esoteric rites and incantations gathered in the sinister, forlorn ruins in the north and stored in the vaults and dungeons of the Balespire, and surely knew that, through their occult potency, things could be achieved which fleshling brains could not conceive even in the direst extremes of their delirious visions, which they called “nightmares”. The summons to converge at the pinnacle, where, by tradition, the most portentous of evocations were performed, confirmed in Vrathar’s mind that, in one manner or the other, the land would truly be made to march if the Overlord willed it.

Finally, the stairway came to an end, and Vrathar stepped onto the wide circular platform that was, perhaps, the highest point in all the Fell Lands, save for the mountain peaks in the west. The others were already there: the imposing form of Rahkerroth seemed to cast a shadow over the nine Lords, eclectic in their shapes and armament, assembled near him, despite being only slightly taller than them. Somewhat to the side stood another figure, its body akin to that of an Ironbound and its head a hellish amalgam of metal and flame, the crackling of the inexhaustible conflagration alone breaking the stillness of the pale day. It That Consumes had come as well. Involuntarily edging towards the railings to avoid the fixed gaze of the aberration, Vrathar joined the Fell Lords, casting a glance towards the centre of the tower-top. There, a score of Riglir, bizarrely garbed in rags of cloth and mail with the apparent intent of emulating robes, stood in a circle, some fiddling with curious instruments such as bone flutes, drums of chimaera skin and brass cymbals, others strangely waving their forearms and rattling something with their mandibles. Seeing him approach, the Overlord inclined his head as in a nod, and, gesturing to the assembled Riglir, spoke a single word: “Begin.”

Immediately, the creatures began performing various odd motions, which they had apparently prepared and rehearsed. They grasped at the air with outstretched claws, chittered loudly and swayed to and fro; those who held an instrument began to blow or beat it, their initially discordant and cacophonic sounds gradually weaving themselves into a melodic, yet utterly unearthly rhythm, vaguely reminiscent of a tempestuous wind howling through caverns of jagged rock, bearing upon itself a host of moans, screams, lamentations and songs in unknown and unutterable languages. It was frightening and hypnotic; and anon, it grew in strength beyond what was imaginable for the squat creatures to produce. No, it was not the music; there truly was a wind. Many winds, roaring from all sides, swirling together in a vortex of dread and sorcery. The sky grew dark as a column of air, dust and black light encircled the tower, rising high over the sight of any present; within the circle of the frenzied celebrants, screeching and leaping madly in ritualistic ecstasy, there arose a wilderness of ebon flames, spinning and flaring, then stretching into a pillar to rival the whirlwind surrounding it. Bolts of crimson lightning arced from the flames and into the storm, the rising darkness rent by bloody glimmers visible from miles away; then, a thundering impact, a voice that could not be spoken uttering forbidden words and a glare which had no recognisable colour, and all was done.

Vrathar peered around himself. All seemed unchanged; the land nearby bore no trace of a storm of any sort, and certainly not the cataclysm he had beheld; in the distance, the dark waters of the lake could still be seen, and no dust hovered over them. He thought of what had transpired, yet the memory seemed to be growing vague and blurred, eluding him as sand flowing between his iron fingers. Yet it could not have been a mirage: there, among the crouching Riglir, there hung still a black wisp, no larger than the flame of a candle, and this shadow had not been there before… Yes, the shadow. Why was it that all around him seemed to be overcast with gloom, as though night were already not far from falling? Just then, one of the Riglir chittered, motioning upwards: “The charm is done. The Essence is here.”

Slowly, yet striving for all the speed their heavy frames would permit, the assembled Fell Lords turned their gaze to the sky. High above them, in the bleak, cloudless sky, there hovered something that could scarce be defined. It was not a cloud, or smoke, or a bank of fog; it was akin to all these things, and likewise to a wraith, a shadow, a void. Immensely vast and oppressively heavy, it moved slowly through the heavens, flowing as in rivers of liquid spirit and gathering in nimbi of incorporeal blackness. A voice like the subdued roaring of a blaze was heard from nearby as It That Consumes spoke: “The Essence of the earth. We called, and it came. Whitherever we shall go, the Fell Lands shall follow, and we shall be the heralds of ruin…”

A burst of chittering drew the attention of all back to the platform, and to the circle of Riglir, who were hopping and gesticulating in grotesque alarm. Between them, the black flame was growing anew. Yet it now was no longer a frame; it was a gaping wound, not in the air, but, for want of better words, in the fabric of the sky and the world itself. It gaped hungrily between blurred and frayed edges, the Riglir recoiling in fright before it; through it, a nightly sky, inexplicably yet unmistakeably alien in nature, could be glimpsed, replaced erratically with an inexplicable view of an expanse of sand. “What is this?” the Overlord rumbled, “The inscription did not speak of anything such!” “Do you not recall the tablet is broken?” It That Consumes replied, “The description of the incantation’s effects is incomplete. We knew it would summon the Essence, but not whether it would do anything else. You ought to have come prepared, as did I.” With these words, it grasped a heavy mace which had previously stood by its foot, and raised it as if poised to strike.

Anon, the rift appeared to grow stable in size, and soon in shape as well; then, in a single impossible moment, it vanished outright, and from it there stepped forth a horrendous creature, its chitinous hide and serrated fangs dripping with a foul ichor. Ironbound and Riglir alike stood motionless; never had any of them seen anything of that sort, not even those who had ventured in the lost and forgotten temples of the Ancients, where strange things were said to dwell. The horror remained unmoving as well, perhaps astounded by its transposition; but soon its four eyes flared up in ravenous ferocity, and with tremendous speed it leapt upon the nearest Riglir, eviscerating it with a swipe of its gnarled talons.

It That Consumes stepped forward, its flames crackling ominously, and swung its maul at the creature. The latter dodged the blow with an ease prodigious for something so large, and lunged at its foe. A small stream of smoke rose from its claw where it had touched the incandescent metal as it sharply withdrew it with a hiss, only to abruptly swerve about and hurl itself at another of the evokers. However, by then the Riglir had regained their bearings, and begun once again to chant in strange clicking intonations, rhythmically reaching up and swinging their pincer-like appendages at the sky. In its leap, the beast collided with what appeared to be a barrier of warped air, with veins of iridescent vapours slowly winging their way across the diaphanous surface. The creature swung to its left, then backwards, but all to no avail; surrounded by the shimmering force, it was trapped in a mystical circle, tenfold as tall as itself and to all appearances impregnable.

Motioning for the others to be silent, the Overlord ponderously approached the translucent prison and brought its helm close it, momentarily locking gazes with the misshapen head of the monstrosity within. Then, turning his back to it, he faced his lieutenants once more. “This is an omen.” came his voice, ever as grimly – or placidly – inflectionless as before, “First the one who stands in chains, now this entity. The Elder Gods have sent us signs, spurring us to be on our way. They know of our intent. We must not disappoint.” Indicating the mangled Riglir with a curt gesture, he commanded “Toss it this one, and prepare a receptacle for it. A harbinger of the Gods’ will shall not want for anything.” Stepping towards the parapet, he clutched it with an iron grip, letting the flames of his eyes wander away into the distance. “Soon, we march.”