Holding his sword out before him, Fyr gazed hard ahead into the gloom. The doorway behind him seemed a long way off, the wind curling cruelly out from the opening, whipping cold air past his ears. Born of fire, was Fyrdrakus; he could not stand the ice, or the cold, for to him it was death. The snow which fell so callously beat upon him like a rain of acid, scalding him as no fire could.

Once more glancing at the light of dawn behind him, Fyr made up his mind, turned, and strode unerringly into the darkness. The light from his blade and, to a lesser extent, his armour, was mellow, like fire behind a slightly tinted glass. It meant that he could not see far, maybe a couple of metres, in front of him. He relied instead upon his sense of smell and hearing. Such senses were, however, only to a small degree useful in such a place. The dank stench of mildew and decay permeated his nose, spearing his brain and starting behind his eyes an awful, pounding headache; odours like this were murder for one with a delicate sense of smell. Echoes of footsteps crowded his hearing, making it seem an army was tramping down around him.

A set of stairs led downwards, quite wide but scarcely six inches high. The wide stone was barely worn; the edges still crisp and neat, a sign of the lack of human habitation. Since the beginning of the first human colonies, the Lower Crypt and Ziggurat of Belshin had been almost abandoned, haunts of only priests and seers, as well as the occasional knight seeking fame and fortune. They came for the tales of Brittle who kept the Crypts, and of worse beasts, Demonlords and the like, which were abound in the Impire and even lands further off.

His steps sounded loudly, filling the room with an eerie tapping; as if a horse were walking upon the floor. Fierce eyes gazed into every shadow, trying to discern whether the twisting shapes were man or beast. The stairway seemed to stretch for an eternity to either side and, try as he might, even walking for a while along a single step, he could not find its edge. It was said, though, that the Belshin Temple had been built for worship of some archdevil, a Bane of the deep ice, and that the creature’s magic still held sway. If that was so, he thought, best not to stay too long; a creature of ice did not like one of fire in its domain.

It took several minutes of fast walking to reach level ground but, once there, he began to relax a bit. Fyr had heard accounts of such temples, which wound right down to the bowels of Hell itself and he was not, he would admit, happy to go from once frost-covered place to another. The presence of walls began to form, and then he saw them, just within the glow cast by his blade. It was as if they feared to enter.

Happier with his sides covered, Fyr picked up his pace, striding further forwards with long steps. He was in fact walking down a corridor of stone. The walls, whilst thick, were smooth and polished, as if crafted by hand; or magic.

No sound escaped his lips, not even breath, for he was not ready to give away his position, as yet. The thing he had come to kill was not to be taken lightly, not even to kin of dragons, and so he kept still and silent, planning every move, every possibility as he went onwards.

Sound up ahead. Instantly he turned off the glow, putting the sword across his back and stopping dead. Tramping of feet, he could hear and, if he concentrated, muffled laughter. Perhaps some knights had come, hopeful of the glory of Brittle’s death; or even to take the Death Orb. The thought made Fyr start. If this was so, then he would need to kill them, and take it for himself. Then again, such a plan would rely on them succeeding in the first place; and that was unlikely.

The Dragonspawn crept along slowly, carefully, making sure not to make enough noise for human hearing. As he pulled down his helmet, the sound of shouts and murderous activity began up ahead.

Minutes crept forward, as did Fyr, until he was within eyesight of the melee. One of the men held a torch, which flickered dismally, sending strange patterns of light across the walls. The scene was thus; five men, all in thick plate armour, fought what must have been twenty others. At the head of the knights, a huge man with a broadsword sent blasts of magic at the clustered assailants, only just keeping them at bay. The others, apparently unmagical, seemed to be failing; one of them speared his sword through a chest, but his enemy did not fall. Instead, it grasped him by the shoulders and hauled him upwards, throwing him head-first into the wall. As it did so, the Dragonspawn caught a glimpse of its face in the torchlight.

A thick, rough jaw was suspended from the skull by trails of ligament and muscle. Flesh still clung on in parts, but futilely, patches of skin hanging off here and there. The smile was the worst, gruesome as the bowels of Hell, fixed there by a lack of lips or cheeks. Its body, too, was lean, although being without muscles it was sometimes left with only bones. How its right arm stayed attached to his body, Fyr knew not, for there was no shoulder, muscles, tendon or ligament to keep it there.

Before he knew what he was doing, Fyr leapt into battle. His sword jumped into his hands, flashing forwards in an instant and shattering a dusty skull. A second swipe knocked the limbs flying, skidding across the floor until they came to rest, a few metres away.

The new arrival did nothing to stir the undead. Zombies, skeletons, creatures not yet dead still clamoured around the Dragonspawn, the warlock and one other living knight. Even the flaming sword Legend was not enough to make them flee.

“Aiee” the Warlock raised his sword upwards; for a moment time seemed to stop, but when it started again the blade cast a dull white glow, bouncing off of the walls and shining into the faces of the living dead. Where it struck, life left the corpse immediately, and it fell in a soggy pile of flesh and bone. The last knight fell, a bony hand taking him downwards; but then the enemy were fleeing, fleeing from the light of the holy sword. Then they were gone.

“Alberetca!” the Warlock spoke the tongue of the southern marches, a mix between Ankhish and High Imperial. He seemed somehow angered by the Dragonspawn’s intervention, a broad face scrunching up with loathing and disgust. His head shook slowly from side to side, spraying long sandy hair all round him as he did so. His face almost stood on par with Fyr’s and, although nowhere near as broad, his shoulders were huge.

“What do you want?” Fyr spoke in the March-tongue, frowning as he did so. His face was uncovered, but although his countenance was draconic, there was nothing about him which truly spoke of his heritage; nothing that the man before him could spot, anyway.

Appraising him steadily for a while, the Warlock seemed to choose his words with care. “I am Alberetca. Why did you save me, kin of dragons?” if Fyr was shocked, he did not show it, instead remaining cool as he said,

“I go for the same goal. To kill Brittle.”

This was not, however, strictly true. His goal was to get the Deaths Orb, held by the ghoulish Brittle; the fact that the living corpse would die as a result was unimportant.

The Warlock laughed, “I do not wish to kill Brittle. I am here to undo a past wrong; take what is mine.”

Fyr stepped forwards, “Not the Death Orb?” he said in Imperial.

“Aye. The Death Orb.” The Warlock spoke perfect Imperial. “You see, I created it.”

“What are you?” Fyr advanced another step. Alberetca laughed.

“What do you think? Alberetca.” He raised the sword and directed it at Fyr, blasting him with some fearsome energy. He flew backwards, against the wall, the force of it hitting the back of his head and dazing even him. It was not enough to knock him out, though, and he rose within moments; to his consternation finding that Alberetca had already run away, pounding down the corridor with heavy steel boots. Something told Fyr that they were more than just metal, however, for in them the Warlock ran faster than any man he had seen before.

The chase began in earnest, the Dragonspawn pulling down over his head the dragon-faced helmet, holding his huge sword ahead of him like a lance. A dragon, no matter how fast a man may be, was always faster; he began gaining on Alberetca after a few minutes, closing steadily the gap between them. The Warlock directed a blast of power at him, but Fyr took it upon himself, catching it on his shoulder and barely halting.

Suddenly, without warning, the Warlock disappeared from sight. It was as if he had fallen into a pit. Fyr slowed his pace right down. By the time he reached where Alberetca had disappeared, he was at a snail’s pace, shuffling along with all care. In such a place, one did not live long if one was careless.

Stories aplenty had he heard about Brittle; the Lord of the Undead, some knew him, although others as the Ghoul, or the Gris. All agreed, nonetheless, that his wrath was terrible, and even the immortal races feared to enter his domain. His life also was assured by the Deaths Orb, a magical item of necromancy created by a wizard during the Dragon Wars. Whilst he had it in his hands, he was invulnerable.

“Welcome, Dragon, to my realm.”

Fyr stopped dead. A ring of steel closed him in, surrounding him in an impenetrable wall, behind which stood many skeletons and ghastly undead creatures. In their midst, over the fallen body of Alberetca, was Brittle.

His image was every bit what the stories described. Like a corpse, he stood, rotting all the while, yet for some reason exuding strength and power. Fyr got the idea that it would not take much for this Brittle to smash him to shards. Sinews still clung to every bit of him, but in no bulk, such that he looked emaciated to the point of death; yet still, somehow, fiercely alive. One arm was completely bone, smooth and white, no hint of flesh upon it, and this hand held a long, slim black sword; like a rift in space.

“Why are you here?” He pointed at the Warlock, “You did not come with this fool. Yet you seem so keen to start a war.”

“That fool gave life to you. His work keep you in this unlife, as you are.” The Dragonspawn pointed out. Brittle laughed at this.

“That fool is not the creator of the Deaths Orb. It is a servant of Alberecta, sent in his stead for his work. This blade,” Brittle held up the holy weapon, which just a short while ago the tall man had used to shoot at Fyr, “Was giving the illusion of enchantment.” He crushed the weapon with one hand.

“Where is the Deaths Orb?” Fyr demanded, holding his ground regardless. Again Brittle laughed.

“Where is belongs.” He brought the longsword upwards. “I forged it into mine own weapon ages ago; and gave it some magical properties.”

“I must have it.” Fyr took a step forwards. The ring of steel waved threateningly, but did not waver.

“You step closer, you die. This object was forged by the greatest necromancer of our time; his power was so great as to dwarf even the Arcites, a power not seen since the time of Nariccus Oberon. This blade can shatter anything. Any weapon, any armour; even any life. Believe me when I say that you could not take this weapon off of me if you tried.”

Fyr looked about him, unsure. Such a weapon was priceless; but not worth his life.

“Who sent you for this blade? I assume you were hired.”

“It was a man, hooded and cowled. A wizard, I think. He has hired me to…acquire some other artefacts of power in the past, although in the main they have been trinkets. Nothing like this”

“And in return?”

“I get histories, tomes…anything. Sometimes even that worthless money that men are so fond of.” Fyr shook his head, “You think that wizard is Alberetca?”

“I know it is. Alberetca is a warmaker; believe me when I say that he wants to start off a new war, one which will bring him to control all of the Impire. And now, with the Arcites dead, and the Dragons too, he has made a pact with the Demons. He must be stopped.”

“And what of you? Who were you, why are you here?”

“I was Sir Aron Wroth, of the Knights of the White Horn. I was mortally wounded by a dragon; one of your kin. I came here, half dead, and here died. Yet the power of the Orb revived me, and I became this.” Brittle pointed at himself with his decaying limbs, as he spoke.

Thoughts whirled through Fyr’s mind. He had been in a war before; every last one of his kind had died, and a third of all the men in the Impire. If he could prevent it…but what was he, half dragon, half demigod; what power had he against a necromancer. And yet…who else could do such a thing, if Fyr did not? Who else was there to stand against the evils of one such as Alberetca?

“For as long as he lives, Alberetca will seek the Orb. Join me, Brittle; aid me.”

“Join you for what?” Brittle frowned slightly. Fyr bowed his head.

“I cannot let a war, so similar to that which killed my kin, be started again. Not again.” He sighed, “Even if it means my death, this Alberetca must die. If the necromancer dies, then you are free, to live your unlife as you will.”

Brittle smiled then. This time there was sadness in his eyes. “I cannot. In life, I was the greatest warrior in the army but…I was so scared when I felt my life failing. I cannot do it again. But, if you say that you will face Alberetca, then I will not stop you. Go, go north; he lives, I believe, in the city of Ebrick. There will you find what you seek.”

The Dragonspawn was silent for a moment, saying no more as he turned away and moved without a sound through the ranks of the silent undead. He did not look back, not even to see Brittle’s hard eyes soften, and the merest hint of a tear grace his rotting face.