"Come on, it's not much further!" exclaimed Juno, as he dashed up the dirt road. In his wake, Rox, the old family retainer, struggled to follow his young master.

Juno was a typical Azguardian youth - pale skin, pinkish but with a shade of grey, a little over six feet in height, and grinning ear to ear. The changes of millenia of guided evolution had yet to endow his people with the fangs, claws, or physical stature they would one day enjoy, as for now Juno could have easily been mistaken for a handsome if somewhat greyish human.

Finally reaching the edge of the cliff, Juno looked outwards along the mountainside, where Jarl's rock was illuminated by the red light of dawn. Majestic peaks of stone framed the mighty crenelated walls, with huge gates of steel shining in early morning. Behind the walls, the levels of the central keep could be seen growing ever upwards, like the layers of a cake, each one an artisan's dream of frescos and towers making the citadel both fortified and a work of art.

Juno smiled to see the wondrous sight, but turned his eyes away from it to watch the road going away from the castle instead. He frowned, however, to see that once again it was empty.

Rox finally caught up to his young master, wheezing while holding his fat belly. "I'm sorry, master. It appears your father has yet to return from his campaign. Perhaps later today?"

Juno sighed, and kicked a loose stone from the clifftop down to the road below. "Perhaps never..."

"Oh no need to be like that," said Rox, as he caught his breath. "Your father is the finest general of Jarl, he cannot fail."

"I don't mean he'll lose," said Juno, who gave a dejected sigh. "It's like he doesn't want to come home."

"Jarl teaches that we must all do our duty, young one," said Rox. "Your father does his only because honour requires it of him."

"Honour requires a lot of stupid stuff," grumbled Juno, who sat down at the cliff's edge. "He's going to miss my initiation, you know. He promised he wouldn't - isn't that dishonourable?"

Rox sighed, and sat next to Juno. "You know he'd be there if he could. To see his only son's initiation into the Lords of Jarl? Why wouldn't he be proud of you? I bet he's just as upset as you are he'll have to miss it." This didn't seem to perk Juno up any, so Rox tried again. "I'll tell you what, we'll go back to the city and I'll open up your father's pantry. You can invite your peers over and have a party before the initiation. Does that sound fair? I'm sure Lord Harun wouldn't want you upset on such an important day."

Juno smiled a little and said "Okay, let's go back. You're probably right. Whatever he's doing must be pretty important."



The rain beat down upon the tent of General Harun, a steady rhythem of water trickling along the canvas. The colourful banners that hung either side of the tent's mouth had soaked through and darkened - indeed, everything about camp had become dark and sodden.

Harun himself simply poured over the map stretched out on the table, scratching away with a quill the latest news from the front. The scratch of the quill and the beat of the rain was all that accompanied the old man in his deliberations. It would be several minutes more before the messenger would arrive with any more information, and so the general attended to his strategy in peace for a while.

He paused to rub calloused hands against his beard, examining what he had added to his map. The soldiers of Luminon, God of Thunder, had set up positions guarding the passes through the mountains, and so long as the rain continued, the river overflowed too much to take another road. Nevertheless, his forces were low on supplies, and if he could not break through the Luminon blockade, they would not make it back to Jarl's Rock.

He leafed uselessly through the stack of report scrolls, hoping to find something he had missed the first time, but there was nothing. As Jarl himself teaches, Things are as they are, and it is useless to expect otherwise.

Harun felt a resignation take hold - they would have no other choice but to advance into the forefront of the enemy and rely on their might and their honour to carry them.

He turned away from his table, and opened the footlocker at the base of his bunk. Inside were his sparse personal belongings - a mineature of his wife long passed, and of his son who had remained at Jarl's Rock, along with a few books of strategy. From it he drew his sword, a finely-crafted, narrow blade ornamented in the style that honoured his patron, golden laces intertwining to form the hilt. For the Followers of Jarl, a warrior's sword was his soul, and the two reflected one another.

As he attatched the sword to his belt, he froze. Harun began to count under his breath, yet when he reached zero, nothing happened. He waited a little longer, and still nothing. Finally, he stood upright and turned to face the mouth of the tent. There was no one beyond.

No one. The messenger was late.

Only not simply late.

"Tell me," murmured Harun, as he drew the blade slowly from his scabbard. "Will you show mercy to my men after the battle?"

A voice from somewhere in the shadows of the tent replied in a whisper, "Ishon is clear on this; there must be no survivors to report to Jarl's Rock."

Harun swung around and slashed at the shadows, but only managed in cutting a gash in the side of the tent - he had moved too swiftly. The curved dagger of the assassin thrust out from another shadow, but Harun managed to catch the blade with his hilt and threw his assailant back. The attacker faded into the shadows once more.

Harun turned slowly, peering hard into every corner of the tent. The beat of the rain was louder now, dripping through the gash Harun had cut. The slightest sound, the faintest breath, drew Harun's attention. He struck-

-He missed. Harun felt the dagger plunge deeply into his heart. The assassin leaned in, gazing at him from between folds of black cloth. "The way of Jarl will be ended in a hundred days, and you will see your family again."

Enraged, Harun tried to lunge forward again, but was pinned on the knife. In a matter of moments, the great general's eyes dimmed and he sagged to the floor. Satisfied, the assassin wiped the blood clean from his knife on the folds of the tent, and emerged.

All around, the torches that flickered in the wind and the rain were dimmed by hands bound in black. Figures emerged from shadows and darkness to surround their leader in a silent communion. Blood seeped from each and every tent in the Followers of Jarl's camp, running into a small river down the road their tents were pitched along.

"We must all be gone from this place before the Followers of Luminon arrive," spoke the lead figure. "Their scouts shall arrive by the north road within the hour. Ensure there are no traces, and we shall be gone for Jarl's Rock by sunrise."

With all that needed to be said spoken, the figures once again blended into the shadows.

Jarl's Rock was a masterpiece of engineering. Built into the side of a mountain that gave it a view of the rest of the range, the city where Jarl's people lived extended deep into the mountain's roots. As such, the outer layer was entirely designed to defend their people from attack through defences carved into the living rock and countless battlements and vantage points. To approach the massive iron gates meant being surrounded by paraphets where archers could rain down arrows from above, and breaching those gates meant only following a labyrinth of inner courtyards meant to confuse the enemy.

At the heart of this mighty fortress, the central keep rose as a mountain unto itself, each level bristling with catapults, towers, and fortifications to the top, where Jarl and his High Lord held council.

It was from that point that High Lord Karloff the Invincible looked down at his fortress, and knew fear.

"Not one survivor from the entire expedition..." he murmured. "Not one clue as to its' cause... which is a clue unto itself - the followers of Ishon march against us!"

He turned away from the window, towards the war room and his council of lords. The top of the castle was open so that they could see the sky above, and noonday sunlight shone off the suits of ceremonial armour and weapons that adorned the circular room. Around the room, nine men in fully concealing armour watched their master without a single movement - they knew better than to interrupt his thought process.

"They would not have been able to sneak up on Harun if they weren't granted leave by Luminon's soldiers to travel the pass. If they've joined forces, we may need to bring in allies of our own..."

"What of the followers of Yunos?" asked a creaky voice in an equally creaky old suit of armour. "They are natural enemies of Ishon, surely we can call on their assistance?"

Karloff frowned as he paced the room. "No, they wouldn't commit forces unless we could provide proof of Ishon's involvement, which all know we cannot provide."

"Herluey then? His soldiers have clashed with those of Luminon's throughout the season."

"Exactly," said Karloff. "And he has lost many of those battles - this would be an opportunity for him to lick his wounds and let someone else face the brunt of the Thunder Lord. He will not aide us."

"We have few friends who could reach us in time," remarked another of the lords. He was careful to leave out the fact that few would come to their aide either way.

"Then we stand alone..." Karloff muttered. At last, he stopped his pacing and cast his eye on the map spread out on the war room's table. There, the mountains and rivers that criss-cross all of Azguard were laid out, with pieces scattered about as though a complex game of chess were under way. "Call back all legions, we shall have to see to the defence of the city."

The reaction was hard to read behind the moulded metal faces of the lords' ceremonial armour. Nevertheless, an uneasiness descended on the meeting. The silence stretched on for an age.

Finally, the old lord in the battered armour spoke up. "We must at least send someone to the court of Yunos, surely? Their soldiers could make all the difference."

"But who could we spare?" said Karloff, who rubbed his chin as he pondered. "I think perhaps it's time we ask..."

A disquieting silence filled the room, moreso than before. Finally, the lords nodded in agreement. With hushed reverence, Karloff took his place at the head of the table. One of the lords rose, and lifted a worn hammer from a place of reverence on the wall. With a mighty swing he clanged it against a hanging decorative shield, that gave off a ring more clear and sharp than it would have seemed possible.

After a few moments the sky darkened, and from the clouds above a smoky meteor shot. It struck the center of the table, filling the room with smoke, and yet the lords did not flinch. Finally, as the smoke drifted upwards out the open ceiling, a mighty suit of armour rose up from a kneeling position in the center of the table.

He was huge, with each metal plate shaped as if around bulging muscle and sinew, though within the slits on the helm - the only crack in an otherwise complete suit - there appeared nothing but glowing red orbs.

In a voice that rumbled like a thousand swords beating on a thousand shields, the god Jarl said "Harun's son. I can sense much battle in that young one's future, much war and hardship. He shall succeed where other warriors may not."

The lords averted their eyes, remaining in respectful silence. His piece said, the pieces of armour began to compress into a compact ball of metal, shooting off into the sky once more.

Once the last echoing rumble of his departure was gone, the lords relaxed.

"Then it is decided," said Karloff. "We shall send Harun's son to Yunos."