Upon the Forge of Battle

Book 3: Age of Wrath

by Anthony Ryan

Genres: Fairy Tales, Folk Tales, Legends & Mythology

Synopsis

As the Age of Wrath reaches its bloody conclusion, the world will be reforged in steel and fire . . .

Thera Blackspear was once champion to the Sister Queens. Now she's a queen herself, with Elvine as her spear maiden, wielding a weapon forged by the gods. But while the traitorous Sister Lore plots in the shadows, Ascarlia will never be safe.

Felnir has won a crown of his own and forged a kingdom at the tip of his divine blade. Yet his dreams are troubled by visions of the brother he thought long dead. A brother who needs his help, and whom Felnir would give anything to save - even his hard-won kingship.  

Ruhlin's many victories have made him a hero to the Morvek, who believe he is the prophesied saviour who will overthrow their Nihlvarian enemies. But now he finds himself a prisoner of the Vortigurn, the King of Nihlvar, who has secrets and schemes of his own.

Secrets that could unmake the world.

Upon the Forge of Battle is the epic conclusion to Anthony Ryan's Age of Wrath trilogy, a gripping fantasy saga of bloody retribution, deadly intrigue, and soaring heroism.

Release date: August 25, 2026

Publisher: Orbit

Print pages: 576

Sample

The snow leopard hissed as Guthnyr’s fingers tightened on the bowstring. Its pale blue eyes stared down at him from the ledge above, lips drawn back to reveal long white fangs. The distance between them was more than a man could leap, but surely easily covered by a leopard. Once again, it appeared Guthnyr’s knack for finding fresh opportunities to die had not deserted him. He could try to put an arrow in one of those disconcertingly beautiful eyes. But instinct warned that the beast’s teeth would be piercing his throat before he half-drew the bow. Normally, the sense of being at another’s mercy would have enraged him, stirring ugly memories old and new, stoking the rage that was his best ally and worst enemy. Yet it failed to stir as he returned the leopard’s stare. The reason was plain: the cat didn’t actually mean him harm. It merely wished to scare a rival predator away from the herd of goats strung out on the slope below. For Guthnyr’s rage to truly blossom, it needed to be fired by the malice of others.

Slowly, he eased the tension of the bowstring and removed his fingers, holding up the hand, fingers splayed. The leopard continued to bare its teeth until Guthnyr took the first backward step. By the time he had, not without some difficulty, edged his way to the broader mountain trail a dozen yards to the rear, the cat’s snarl had disappeared completely. Raising itself from its aggressive crouch, it regarded him with a narrowed gaze, then tensed once more when Guthnyr’s heel dislodged a loose stone from the trail and sent it skittering down the mountain’s flank. Ever attuned to danger, the goats let out a chorus of warning bleats and bounded from sight. The leopard spared Guthnyr a final glance, one he suspected held a gleam of reproach, then scrambled up the short cliff, a blur of silver vanished with a serpentine coil of its thick tail.

“Tuhlan would’ve killed you,” Guthnyr grunted. The Caerith hunter had never hesitated when faced with a threat during their shared expeditions. Cat needs to eat, but so do we, he said. And fur is valued in the winter. The chill air of mountains fully gripped by winter made this inarguable. Although, as Guthnyr followed the trail back to the settlement of Tahrim Kyrn, he was still glad he hadn’t killed the leopard. You have a weakness for beautiful things, boy, his great-grandfather had told him once. Have a care lest it kill you. Margnus Gruinskard had often made a point of remarking on Guthnyr’s weaknesses, for there seemed to be so many. Yet, as Guthnyr’s gaze strayed to the Nihlvarian noblewoman, he knew with resentful certainty that the old man had been right about this one.

The shelter occupied by Tuhlvyr Deyna Holvehlt lay at the edge of the settlement’s unmarked boundary. She had chosen it herself after Guthnyr abandoned the nightly chore of locking her in the shed next to the privies. Ruhlin had made it clear that, having lost the favour of her king, the woman had nowhere to run to. Therefore, treating her as a prisoner was a waste of effort and merely a sop to Guthnyr’s detestation of her people. As ever, the tedious effort required to maintain petty spite had deserted him a few days after returning to Tahrim Kyrn. So, issuing some dire threats regarding her conduct, he let her have the run of the place, within reason. She kept to herself for the most part. He suspected this was partly due to an innate sense of superiority over the collection of escaped slaves and Morvek among whom she was now obliged to abide. But the often naked hostility with which his comrades regarded a member of the Tuhlvyr caste was reason enough for her to shun their company, albeit with one singular exception.

Ryma let out a happy giggle as the Tuhlvyr tied the final braid into her hair. “There,” Deyna said. “Now you no longer look like a Tielvik.”

Ryma squirmed in Deyna’s lap, turning to prod her small fingers at the scarlet tattoos tracing over the woman’s brows. “Want,” Ryma said, her face taking on an insistent frown.

“No, no,” Deyna chided, setting the girl down. “Those are for when you’re older. Run along now, or your mother will come and wave a knife at me again.”

Ryma’s features tightened into a sullen scowl, fists bunching the hem of Deyna’s robe. Ever since the Tuhlvyr’s arrival at this remote mountain village, she had instilled an instant fascination in this girl. Much to Aleida’s annoyance, Ryma began sneaking off to beg attention from the new arrival, uncaring of any scolding she might receive. Guthnyr found he couldn’t fault the girl for her interest, since it was one he shared, albeit sternly unexpressed. Still, Aleida’s ire was not something to be ignored, and her temper grew shorter with every day Ruhlin failed to return from his sojourn.

“Off with you, girl,” Guthnyr told Ryma with as fierce a glower as he could muster. “Aleida will be fretting.”

Ryma offered him a short poke of her tongue before scampering off towards the village. The fond smile that played over Deyna’s lips as she watched her go made Guthnyr resume his stride for fear she might notice how it piqued his interest. “Empty-handed?” she enquired, voice laced with that arch taunt he found so irksome. “Again.”

“There was a leopard,” he grunted, not breaking his stride.

“Then why didn’t you kill it?” She raised her voice as he walked on, adding a touch of laughter for good measure. “I look very fetching in fur.”

Such barbs were, of course, to be expected from one who bore the name Holvehlt – Quick Knife – but he still swallowed a curse at her faultless ability to make them sting.

Fortunately, it transpired that the Morvek had also been hunting this day, bringing in a boar which meant at least they would have fresh meat tonight. “There was a leopard,” Guthnyr repeated to Iyaka who at least didn’t taunt him for his failure. Although he did detect a few shared smirks among her fellow Morvek.

“A hunt is always a game of chance,” she said by way of conciliation before her face resumed its more typical seriousness. “Any sign?”

This had become a daily ritual between them. Every day he would climb halfway up the mountain, ostensibly to hunt but in truth to cast his gaze over the southern valleys, hoping to see three figures struggling across the frosted ground. Guthnyr shook his head in response, drawing a sigh from Iyaka. “Nor has Velkar returned,” she said. “Although she could have simply returned to the Teyracha.” The elder to the Teyrak clan had departed the village with her three remaining wolves a week ago. She offered no word of farewell to Guthnyr but Iyaka explained she had gone in search of a new member for her pack. It was impossible to say how long such a quest might take, or if Velkar would return at all. Her continued absence added to Guthnyr’s growing unease, a sentiment fully shared by Iyaka.

“The Ochra-mah is not so far,” she said. “The Telchak should have returned by now.”

“Tomorrow, at first light,” Guthnyr said, “we’ll scout the foothills. Look for signs of trouble.”

“We should send word to Tirohk also,” Iyaka said. “There are many hunters among my people. More eyes would be welcome.”

“Tomorrow,” Guthnyr confirmed before forcing a smile and nodding to the recently skinned and gutted boar suspended from a frame, blood draining to pool in the snow. “Tonight we feast.”

Iyaka gave a cautious nod in response. So far, she had accepted his leadership without demur, but he saw the doubt she failed to hide. He was not Ruhlin. Not the man who had broken her chains and led this curious band through all manner of dangers to this mountain refuge. Nor was he the Telchak, a mythic figure the Morvek believed would win victory over the hated Nihlvarians. He was just Guthnyr, a man from far across the sea who bore but one name. She had seen him fight, to be sure, and knew him to be fierce. But Guthnyr had learned well from his brother, and from Ruhlin, that fierceness alone did not make a leader.

Nodding to Iyaka, Guthnyr made his way to the forge where he found a shirtless Sygurn busy pounding his hammer into yet another sword blade. Always brawny, weeks at the anvil had added sharp definition to the Nihlvarian’s arms. The thick hair of his chest, singed in places by wayward sparks, was matted with sweat though he showed little sign of tiring as he wielded the hammer. His features showed serene, concentrated contentment rather than exertion.

“I told him to rest,” Aleida said, emerging from the shadows of the adjoining armoury. “He won’t.” Behind her, Ryma peeked her head around the door and favoured him with another poke of her tongue. Guthnyr took note of the fact that her braids remained in place. He had expected Aleida to have unpicked them already.

“Make your toil your passion and it’s no longer toil,” Guthnyr said, a favoured saying of another blacksmith. Hunfyrd had fashioned all the weapons carried by Guthnyr’s kin for three generations. As a boy, he liked nothing more than sneaking away from his great-grandfather’s house to watch the master work his magic. Sometimes, the grizzled old smith would allow Guthnyr to work the bellows or even sharpen a blade upon the whetstone. It was from Hunfyrd that he learned the secrets of smelting steel from base iron, and would have learned more besides if Margnus Gruinskard hadn’t seen fit to forbid any further visits. Your role is to wield weapons, boy, the old man growled. Not make them.

“We’ll need a bigger shed soon,” Aleida said, gesturing to the racks of weapons in the shadowy confines of the armoury. Despite the gloom, each one contrived to catch a gleam, for these were blades like no other. Once touched by her hand, they would neither dull nor break. Kelvehr, Sygurn had named them: steel blessed by the gods. Guthnyr had no inkling if Aleida’s power derived from the Altvar or arose from her Morvek blood. Nevertheless, its effectiveness couldn’t be doubted, as he had demonstrated himself in the battle that shattered Deyna’s army and saw her in bondage. The sword he carried, dubbed simply Kohrvayl – Vengeance – had done much bloody work that night. Guthnyr knew with a certainty coloured by his un-sated hunger for retribution it would do a great deal more before his sojourn in these distant lands was done.

“And more hours in the mines,” Sygurn added. He set his hammer down upon the anvil and used tongs to lift the freshly shaped sword for inspection. “Since the extra hands the Morvek promised us have never turned up. Stocks of ore grow thin, my friend.”

The mines… Guthnyr suppressed a shudder but couldn’t keep the twitch from his face. He had faced hired blades, slavers, inferno, and cold that could strip flesh from bones, but the prospect of spending any time in the mines filled him with the worst dread. Ruhlin never shirked his shift, he reminded himself. And he too feared the dark beneath the mountain.

“We’ll send word to Tirohk tomorrow,” he told them. “Once we’ve scouted the valleys.” He hesitated before speaking on, fearing Aleida’s reaction. “Iyaka says they should be home by now.”

“Iyaka’s right,” she said, and Guthnyr caught the faint note of reproach in her voice. If she had her way they would already have gone in search of Ruhlin.

“Could be any number of reasons,” he offered. “A storm or…” He trailed off when she met his eye with a glare.

“I’ll scout with you,” she said, tone softening as she placed a hand on Ryma’s head. “This one can play with her new friend when I’m gone.”

“You’re content with that?” Guthnyr asked in surprise. Until now, Aleida’s attitude to Deyna had been one of mostly silent but obvious detestation.

“She’s unworthy of trust, that’s true,” Aleida said. “But her liking for Ryma is real enough. Besides, if I couldn’t keep this brat away from a bear, what chance do I have with a Tuhlvyr?”

“As you wish.” Guthnyr forced a grin. “The Morvek brought in a boar. So we’ll greet the dawn with full bellies.”

Aleida arched an eyebrow. “No goats?”

The grin slipped from his lips as he made for the door. “There was a leopard. Find me in the mine if you need me.”

Toiling in the gloomy discomfort of the mine always put Guthnyr in a sour mood. He tried to smother his sweaty trepidation with sheer effort, hewing away with one of the pickaxes left behind by the long vanished original occupants of Tahrim Kyrn. His labours bore fruit, filling a dozen buckets with precious ore. He stopped when Sulvryn, one of the freed Nihlvarian slaves, advised that Guthnyr was in danger of bringing the whole seam down upon their heads.

“Need to buttress this before we can dig deeper,” Sulvryn said, casting a critical eye over the arcing wall of rough stone. He had been a miner in his youth before fondness for dice had swollen his debts to the point where all other options save slavery were denied him. In Ascarlia, debt might see a man or woman reduced to the ignominy of indentured servitude as a mahkla, but they at least had the option of exile should the shame prove unbearable. In Nihlvar, their king, this mysterious Vortigurn who aroused so much dread at the mere mention of his name, allowed no such choice. And mahkla were never whipped by order of the Sister Queens, Guthnyr recalled. The scars on his back, although healed, burned once again as memories of the ship intruded. This is a cruel land with a cruel master. I shall delight in its fall.

“I’ll get the Morvek to hew some fresh timber,” Guthnyr said. Stooping, he took hold of a bucket in each hand and started along the shaft. Sulvryn might have mistaken his haste for yet another example of strength, but in truth, Guthnyr had reached his limit of toleration for this place. Talk of collapsing shafts added to the tempo of his heart and another wash of sweat to his skin. “Enough for today,” he grunted to the other miners, imbuing his voice with hearty good cheer. “Fresh meat awaits us. Time to eat!”

After the musty confines of the mine, the vastness of starlit sky and mountains kissed by moonlight were a welcome relief. The firepit where the Morvek roasted the boar cast a tall flurry of embers while lacing the air with the sweet aroma of cooked meat. Guthnyr would have liked a horn or two of ale to wash down his meal but had to content himself with a few cups of the wine he had purloined from the camp of Deyna’s defeated army. It was rough stuff, harsh on the tongue with a tendency to burn its way down to the gut. Still, it was preferable to mere water.

The atmosphere was genial albeit with an undercurrent of tension. Ruhlin’s continued absence was keenly felt, not least by Guthnyr who found leadership sat ill upon his shoulders. His lips formed a rueful smile as he supped more wine, remembering those days aboard the Sea Hawk and the envy provoked by his brother’s effortless authority over every soul in his crew. Felnir exuded a surety of purpose that ensured his word was never questioned, even when they sailed for the Fire Isles. The notion inevitably took Guthnyr back to the Vaults of the Altvar, and memories that had him reaching again for the wineskin. The sound of all that stone slamming down, smothering any cry Felnir or Sygna might have let out in their last moments. They wouldn’t have screamed, Guthnyr told himself, grasping for some morsel of solace. Not even then…

He paused in the act of gulping wine as he became aware of the sudden silence around the firepit. All eyes were turned to Deyna’s tall, slender figure as she proffered a bowl to the Morvek standing alongside the boar’s spitted carcass, knife in hand. “May I have some meat, please?” the Tuhlvyr enquired.

The Morvek looked first at Iyaka, who shrugged, and then at Guthnyr, who responded with a nod. The portion Deyna received was noticeably smaller than those that preceded it. But, upon taking her bowl, she voiced no complaint and gave a nod of thanks before moving to take a seat alongside Guthnyr. The quietude lingered as she ate, apparently indifferent to the hard glares of her companions.

“Jolnyr!” Guthnyr said when the absence of voices grew irksome. “Sing a song, for Ulthnir’s sake! Something cheery.”

Seated to his left, the lad hesitated before setting aside the ash staff he had been whittling and stood. Jolnyr was still a mostly silent youth but at least hadn’t lost his love of song. He chose “Fair Alundia”, an Albermaine-ish sea shanty. The words were lost on most present but, as Guthnyr hoped, the jaunty tune and the purity of Jolnyr’s rendition served to capture their attention with ease.

“And I’ll take my leave

With the morning tide

And sail for fair Alundia

Where I’ll drink good wine

And seek my love

The jewel of fair Alundia…”

By the time the song ended, even the Morvek had begun to sing along and the audience were soon imploring Jolnyr for more.

“The boy sings well for one who says so little,” Deyna observed as Jolnyr began a rendition of “The Crimson Tides”, an old Ascarlian battle song. It was phrased in ancient dialect but the Nihlvarians among them appeared to have little difficulty comprehending the lilting ode to some long-forgotten sea skirmish.

“He spoke well enough before feeling the lash of your slavers for weeks on end,” Guthnyr returned. His tone was gruff but lacking any real animus. The wine and strain of his toil in the mine made him too weary to engage in a game of taunts, not least because he knew her to be far better at it. “Here,” he said, pouring wine into a cup and handing it to her. “Tastes like piss, but it’s still liquor of a sort.”

“I defer to your discernment as to the taste of piss,” she replied. Consequently, Guthnyr enjoyed the spasm of disgust that passed over her features upon taking her first sip.

“It’s what your warriors drank,” he pointed out. “If you’d provided them some decent ale instead, mayhap they’d have fought better.”

“I could have given every one of those worthless fools a sack of gold and they would still have disgraced themselves. Still, it’s a hard thing to stand against a beast of legend.” She took another sip, wincing but swallowing, before letting out a wistful sigh. “Ah, mighty Amundyr. What a sight he would have made in the Vortigurn’s wuhltra.”

“His name is Ruhlin ehs Kestryg,” Guthnyr reminded her, an edge to his voice. “And he detested your bloody spectacles.”

Her tattooed brows creased. “Is not the battle you revel in a spectacle? Do you not seek glory in combat?”

“You call it glory. We call it renown. In Ascarlia, worth is not measured in mere silver, but in the tale you craft from your life. And honest battle should not be compared to the forced slaughter of slaves.”

“Honest battle?” Deyna let out a laugh and reached for the wineskin. “Battle is but an outcome of war, and war is very much the province of lies. Before the Vortigurn dispatched his fleet against your people, his servants cast out a blizzard of dishonest bile to win the common Nihlvarians to his cause. They were being sent to reclaim their birthright, as ordained by the Altvar. The Ascarlians were no longer truly our cousins, but unworthy heirs of noble ancestry. They had degenerated into weakness and no longer engaged in war, so cowardly had they become. Some swallowed it whole, but I suspect most didn’t care. In my experience, promise of loot and increased status is all it takes to compel fools to war. Either that.” She paused, gaze shifting to the Morvek on the far side of the firepit. “Or the promise of revenge.”

“From what I gather, they have many a just score to settle.”

“We stole their lands, it’s true, and thick did the blood flow in the stealing, at least according to the few accounts that remain of those days. But blood flows in all directions. Old tales speak of defenceless settlers slaughtered by Morvek who made no effort to even ask their origins. Our people have never been particularly good at recording their own history, but from what I have been able to gather, our early years in this land were fraught with peril. We might well have perished entirely but for the Vortigurn. He united us, gave us purpose, turned us from Ascarls into Nihlvarians, the people born of wrath.” Her words might have conveyed a sense of reverence if not for the bitterness Guthnyr detected in her tone. No worship for the fabled Vortigurn here, he surmised.

He started to ask for more tales of Nihlvarian history, keen to discover how deep this enmity for her king went, but the words faded as he detected a fresh sound on the breeze. It was faint, barely audible above the crackle of the firepit. He thought it might be wind howling through the upper reaches of the mountains, but it was too persistent for that. He saw Iyaka straightening, face drawn in concern.

“Those are Velkar’s wolves,” she called to Guthnyr.

“Why would she set them to howling?” he asked, rising from his seat. As he did so his ears detected another far more familiar sound, the hard thrum of many bowstrings loosing at once.

“Down!” he snapped, battle born instinct causing him to clamp a hand to Deyna’s shoulder and force her to the ground. Something cut the air a few inches above his head followed by a hard thunk, his eyes snapping to the sight of an arrow quivering in the log where Deyna had been sitting.

Shouts of pain and alarm filled the air as more arrows flew, Guthnyr seeing one body slumped in the firepit, a shaft jutting from its back. “Get clear of the firelight!” he cried, dragging Deyna to her feet and hauling her into the gloom. “To arms! We are attacked!”

More arrows flew as he took firm hold of Deyna’s wrist, running in a low crouch towards the hut where they stored firewood. “Your people are tenacious,” he told the Tuhlvyr in a fierce whisper, pushing her to the shadowed ground in the lee of the stone structure.

“They are,” Deyna agreed. “But would never find this place without help.”

Despite the gloom, he caught the hard, steady gleam of her eye, and the meaning it held. We are betrayed. Understanding brought a rush of anger, one he welcomed for he would need it this night. Sinking lower, he drew Kohrvayl from its sheath, shrugging off his cloak to wrap the blade lest it catch a wayward flicker of firelight. Risking a glance in the direction of the firepit, he sighed in relief at seeing no sign of his comrades, but the shouts echoing from the surrounding darkness told a tale of discordant combat.

“Stay here,” he murmured to Deyna. “If I don’t return, make for the mine. The shaft on the left is the deepest. After that…” He shrugged. “I’ve every confidence you’ll make your own way, Tuhlvyr.”

“Your concern warms my heart,” she replied, the lack of fear in her voice provoking a discomfiting pang of admiration.

Altvar curse this woman, he thought before stealing out into the dark. Moving with sword still wrapped, he refused to allow his gaze to stray to the firepit, letting his ears guide him. Soon the hard grunts and soft thuds of exchanged blows drew him to the sight of Behsla and Jolnyr, both fighting back to back as they sought to fend off a trio of assailants. Jolnyr swung his half-carved staff with furious energy while Behsla delivered more measured slashes with a hunting knife. By Guthnyr’s design, neither had tasted battle since that dread day upon the Styrnspeld Sea when the Nihlvarian’s captured the Sea Hawk. Although they fought now with far more resolve than he expected, their shared expression of terror inflamed Guthnyr’s rage to fiercer heights.

Still, he didn’t allow himself to surrender to it until he had crept within sword length of the nearest attacker. As he drew closer, he made out the man’s buckskin garb and the war club he wielded. This is no Nihlvarian. Clearly, this betrayal ran deeper than he knew. Casting the cloak away, Guthnyr slashed Kohrvayl’s edge across the warrior’s ankles, lunging for the Morvek on the right even before his stricken companion began to scream. As he stabbed him through the throat, Guthnyr noted how this one’s face was marked differently from other Morvek he had seen. It was painted in a complex mix of black and white, besmirched by red when Kohrvayl pierced his gullet and the spine beyond. Drawing the blade clear and kicking the Morvek away, Guthnyr turned to face the third foe only to find him brought down by a stab of Behsla’s knife. She and Jolnyr leaped on him as he fell, the boy’s staff pounding his head while Behsla delivered thrust after thrust at his belly until, letting out a gurgling sob, he lay still.

The creak of a straining bow stave snapped Guthnyr’s notice to the Morvek he had maimed. The warrior lay on his back, face contorted in both pain and fury as he drew the string back, flint arrowhead quivering. It was too close to dodge and an inch too far for Guthnyr to reach before the Morvek loosed.

A grunt of controlled aggression, accompanied by the flicker of slashing steel, and the Morvek archer’s neck opened in a red smile. Straightening from the twitching body, Deyna grimaced and flicked blood from her knife. Guthnyr recognised it as a kelvehr blade from Sygurn’s forge and wondered when she had contrived to steal it, not that he was about to complain.

“Enough!” he barked at Behsla and Jolnyr as they continued to abuse the third warrior’s corpse. “Stay close,” he instructed the three of them, twirling Kohrvayl to banish the worst of the gore and making for the loudest tumult. “We’ve still work to do this night.”

Thirty paces on, they discovered a thrashing knot of Morvek, Iyaka in the heart of the struggle, her spear whirling. At first, Guthnyr couldn’t tell friend from foe but soon made out the monochrome paint adorning the faces of Iyaka’s opponents. She was outnumbered, flanked by only three comrades and continually forced down the slope as their opponents used the advantage of higher ground. The sight stoked Guthnyr’s rage to its highest pitch, quickening his stride as he charged for the attackers, their gazes drawn by his fierce roar of challenge. Yet, before he could strike home, three large, silver-furred shapes leaped from the darkness to ravage the unnamed Morvek in a frenzy of snapping jaws and flensing teeth. It was over in moments, a half-dozen foes brought down and slain, the survivors fleeing into the dark. Guthnyr watched the three wolves pause to cast a short but voluminous howl into the sky before they loped in pursuit. The screams that sounded soon after made it plain their prey hadn’t gotten far.

“Who are this lot?” Guthnyr demanded of Iyaka, slamming a boot into the chest of a fallen Morvek.

“Vulksa.” The answer came not from Iyaka’s lips but from another figure stumbling from the darkness. Velkar tottered a few feet towards Guthnyr before collapsing to her knees. Rushing to her side, he beheld the grey, hollowed visage of a woman pushed to the brink of endurance. Still, her gaze held a mix of both grief and fury as it met his.

“The Telchak,” she said, her voice a sobbing murmur. “The Vortigurn has the Telchak. And that old Vulksa shit-eater killed my children!”

She dreamed of a city. A city aflame. Elvine was baffled as to which corner of her memory had conjured this place, for it was starkly unfamiliar. She knew neither its name nor the cast of its streets. Also, the manner of its construction was odd, the walls smoother than they should be, the buildings taller. While these strange walls appeared immune to fire, their innards did not. Flame guttered from every window and doorway. People streamed past her in an intermittent tide of suffering, some afire, others not, all screaming at a pitch that told more of madness than pain. She walked through it all with serene detachment, buildings toppling around her. Above the dust and smoke, she could see a mighty hall atop a hill. Unlike the flame-charred buildings, this was more familiar in style, as if the grand halls of many Veilwalds had been raised upon the same ground and forced into communion.

Elvine knew she had to go to that hall. That something or someone of the greatest import awaited her there. But what it might be was a vague ball of confusion in her mind that refused to unfold into comprehension. Making her way along a street littered with debris, human and otherwise, she turned a corner to behold a scene of slaughter. Here lay a market square of some kind, but in place of barter and commerce, the people were busy killing. Everywhere, they clawed at one another. Some wielded weapons, swords, knives, and axes trailing blood as they rose and fell with frenzied rhythm. Others were content to use their hands, choking or gouging, their victims biting or clawing even as they gasped their last breaths. And above all, the great, strange hall rose in majestic indifference.

As her eyes lingered upon the curious building, Elvine noticed a disturbance in the smoke roiling about its flanks. Moving in a manner that no natural wind could conjure, the clouds shifted and parted. But instead of revealing blue sky they created a jagged wound through which she could see only utter blackness. Wider it yawned as the screams of the massed killers before her grew louder, the blackness tumbling free, cascading onto the city. Buildings shattered and bodies tumbled as it swept down the tiered streets. Elvine wanted to run but found her body was now immobile, clasped by some unseen fist and forced to watch