Thieves of Light

EPILOG

The throne room of Scarrcastle was a shadowy place at the heart of a forbidding world, an armed and cratered artificial world moving through the silent gloom of a dark nebula. A wraith, a changling, a horrible grotesquerie sat upon the throne of the Warlord of Arr and screamed its rage. A bizarre and hideous menagerie formed a loose circle around the throne, some standing, some crouching, some cringing.

"My Lord-" began one of the Warri.

The wraith's wail sharpened to a shriek.

"My liege," the Warri attempted bravely, "Mandarr has won a great victory for the Dark against the demon Nar-lex-ko-li-hon-"

"Nothing! The demon lives! The crystals lost!"

"But a world claimed for the Dark Alliance-"

"The new warrior," the Warlord roared. "He lives as well."

"Yes, my lord."

Smoke rose up from the throne and swirled around the Warlord. When it dissipated, he stood a foot taller, his features more horrible than ever. "I want him. I want him mine. I want him dead." The words echoed the length of the long chamber.

The Warri bowed deeply. "Yes, my lord. But what threat is one thin-fleshed Guardian-"

"Do you question me?" the Warlord thundered.

"I question only-"

The wraith-changling shrank to a bristle-backed lump half its former height. "They will draw strength and courage from him. I sense it. I foretell it. Take your choice of my warriors. Find the new demon, and destroy him."

The Warri bowed again. "As you command. In the name of the Warlord, let the Darkness grow."

And the circle of monsters rose up as one to repeat in voices snarling, cold and terrible: "Let the Darkness grow!"