[center][h2]Sepulchrave[/h2]

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Asa stepped gingerly through the silent gloom of the Library, careful not to disturb the teetering towers of books and piles of scrolls littering the vast, vaulted chamber. Relics of ancient knowledge rescued from oblivion by the Witch King's many agents, waiting to be sorted and stored by the small army of librarians that tended to this place. 

They were nowhere to be found today. The upper levels of the fortress emptied of their own accord when the King was taking the Augurs. 

Asa suppressed her own growing dread as she drew closer to the Arcanum, ignored the faint, barely discernible whispers, the fleeting figures hovering on the edges of her vision. She pushed open the heavy brass doors at the end of the Library, the ones that usually remained locked.

Inside was a round chamber of white marble, the walls carved with densely-packed writing in a flowing, alien script. In some places the lettering suggested the form of almost human figures, skeletal and sinister. 

A brazier smoldered in the center of the room, tendrils of smoke like clutching fingers rising from the crimson coals. 

Dratha was sitting cross-legged in front of the fire, the Book open before him.

"Asa, my love," he said quietly as she entered. He half-turned towards her, and for a brief moment in the half-light it looked as though he had two eyes, but when she blinked she saw only the ragged socket on the left of his face.

"The scouts have returned," she said, "Avikogerix has struck his camps. He is leaving the hill-country and heading back north."

Dratha closed his remaining eye. His shoulders slumped slightly, and he sighed like a man about to give in at last to some great temptation. 

Hardly the reaction Asa expected at the news. Avikogerix and his band of mutants and raiders had been plaguing the foothills and lower passes for months. Many of the Legion had died fending off his attempts to advance farther in the Teeth. His retreat should have been a great relief.

"Othman- what's wrong?"

"The North, Asa. The North is all wrong," he said, standing wearily. He tucked the Book into the folds of his robes. "Would you summon the officers to the throne room? I must prepare."

"For what?"

"To march on Aquilonia."

[center][h2]Atlantean Foothills, North of Aquilonia[/h2][/center]

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Dratha reigned his horse to a stop along a rise above the Old Road, and took a swig from his flask, grimacing. Octes and the other legates clustered behind him, awaiting orders.

The drumbeat march of his legions along the cracked flagstones of the Atlantean highway filled the chilly morning air, punctuated by hoarse shouts of command from the centurions. Row upon row of spears glittered in the climbing sun, a sea of shining steel.

"What word from the scouts?" asked the Witch King.

"Aquilonia is invested, m'lord," said Octes, "The Acharnaens are in strength, their number exceeds our own by some thousands."

"That will change," said Dratha, taking another drink. The legates shared disquieted glances but did not speak.

"My lord, do we mean to attack this Arsenikos?" asked Octes.

"We mean to take the city," said the Witch King.