The forests of the Rena'Mal were more often than not dark. Though the sunlight did shine through in some areas, shadow often covered most of the ground. The tall trees blocked out the sunlight, though the magical aura from the Tree of Immortality allowed plant life to grow underneath the gargantuan trees.

            However, the Rena'Mal Forest Elves preferred this. Being warriors of shadow, the shadows allowed them to strike intruders and enemy forces with great ease. A hostile being that wandered into the forests, whether intentionally or accidentally, would certainly meet death.

            Elan Forestfury awoke in a small, blue tent. He was lying in a well-cared for cot, a pillow under his head. He rubbed his forehead, and tried to sit up. His head throbbed, but he managed to hold his balance long enough to view his surroundings.

            Elan was dressed in white, silk clothes. His armor and weapons had been taken off of him, placed on the side of the tent. His armor and sword had been somewhat polished, the demon blood cleared off well enough. A washbowl and some fresh bread were sitting on a small dresser inside the tent. Elan would eat later. Right now, rest was the only thing that mattered to him.

            Elan tried to fall back asleep. However, a rustling of the tent's entrance forced his eyes open, and he looked up. His head throbbed, though he could comfortably sit up now.

            It was the female archer who'd dragged him back to the encampment. She looked at Elan, realizing he was awake, and smiled. She walked into the tent, and picked up the washbowl, full of water, and a small wash towel that'd been behind it.

            "Do you feel alright?" she asked, dipping the towel into the washbowl, and placing it on Elan's head. It was warm and soothing.

            "I'm...fine." Elan replied. His mind jolted suddenly. "What happened in the battle? Were the demons driven off?"

            The girl laughed. "Would I be here if they'd lived? We killed every one of those damned sorcerers. We burned the bodies, and took the armor to be purged by the druids. Our soldiers will wear it afterwards."

            "What was the body count on our part?" Elan asked.

            The girl dipped the wash towel into the bowl again. Elan hadn't noticed how much his forehead had been bleeding. "Only the ones you saw. After you passed out, we didn't have any more casualties. The demons thought your injury would leave the squad weak and confused, but it only made them push harder!" she said, laughing. "Teaches them right. Every last one of those sons of bitches deserved to die."

            Elan smiled, and then looked at the girl. "What's your name?" he asked. He'd gotten so caught up in the conversation of the fight; he hadn't even known the girl's name.

            She looked around, nervously, in a strange way. She leaned down to Elan's ear. "Maldra." She whispered.

            Elan laughed again. "What is your family name?"

            A grim look crossed Maldra's face. "I...well..."

            "What's the matter? Is something wrong?" Elan asked. He looked around the tent, worried.

            "No. Nothing's wrong..." she said, sighing. "My last name is Starsinger."

            A surprised look crossed Elan's face. "Starsinger? As in....related to King Starsinger?"

            Maldra smiled. "Yes." She said. "My father, though he allowed me to join the archer squad, didn't want me to be in the eye of the public. So he made me enlist under a false name..."

            "I see." Elan replied. "So why did your father keep that secret from me? It's something I'd need to know."

            "He is paranoid. He believes that if my identity is revealed, I'd be in some sort of danger. He is a fool, but, seeing as that he's king, he can be one."

            Elan smiled. "Thank you for telling me this. Should I speak with your father on the matter?"

            "Oh no! Please don't!" Maldra said, worriedly. "My father will be enraged with me if he discovered I told you! Please, don't speak with him on the matter."

            "Don't worry." Elan said, laughing. "I won't talk to him. We'll keep this between us."

            Maldra smiled at him. "Thank you." She said. "Would you like to rest?"

            "I would." said Elan. "Thank you."

            Maldra carried out the bowl and towel as she left the tent. Elan put his head onto his pillow, and closed his eyes. Fatigue shot through his body, and he fell asleep.

***

            "King Bartell. We can't continue to send small platoons of soldiers into the Red Hills. The Dwarven forces have large amounts of soldiers based at the borders, and are working their way into the middle areas of it." Leon Briggans said.

            "Then what do you propose? If we send an all out attack force, the Dwarves will surely retaliate with a naval strike!" Lionel Bartell replied.

            Leon had left early in the morning from his home to visit with Lionel Bartell. Because the other surviving soldiers that'd been in the platoon were still injured, Leon had been the only one well enough to represent the group.

            "Then what do you propose we do? Continue to send soldiers to their deaths, while the Dwarves only make their presence stronger?"

            "We cannot afford to recklessly charge into the Dwarven lands! Laramoth will go to the aid of their allies, and we will be forced to deal with two nations larger than both ours and the Elves!"

            "Laramoth is at war with the Orcs, Trolls and Ogres! They offer minimal support on this front, and vice versa." Leon replied.

            "Then what?" Bartell asked. "What after we ravage the Dwarven lands? What after we destroy Laramoth? We war with the Orcs, Trolls and Ogres?"

            "Yes!" Leon replied. "What other choice do we have? If we don't fight the Dwarves, our nations will be destroyed! Better to wage war with the beasts of the south than lose our homes to the Dwarves!"

            Lionel Bartell looked sternly at Leon. "I will...consider what you have said. Begone now." Bartell said, waving his hand. He stood up.

            "Very well." Leon said. He stood, bowed, and walked from the throne room. He nodded at the guards, who nodded back. Leon knew many of the palace guards very well. Some of them were childhood friends of his.

            Leon left the king's chambers, and walked into the palace garden. He sat down on a stone bench, markings of the gods engraved into it. He looked down at the ground, a small rose laying next to his feet. He picked it up. The rose had a few of its pedals town off, most likely by a small child.

            Leon respected Lionel Bartell greatly. However, he did feel that Bartell was somewhat unfit to rule an entire nation. He'd fit the position of a senator or councilman much better than a King. However, his family had been noble, and had taken control of Stromadon, which fit perfectly with the monarchic standing of Stromadon.

            King Bartell was wise when it came to running the nation. He had enforced law well, given privileges to the non-nobles and peasants, and worked at improving the farms and crops of the lands. In addition, he had greatly improved relations with the High Elves of Sin'lathal, allowing both nations to prosper.

            However, Bartell's weakness came in times of war. He was from a noble family, posh and rich. He hadn't experienced the violence and hatred the world had thrown on so many, and lived comfortably for his entire life. Bartell wanted peace, something that was simply not available in these times. If Stromadon didn't fight, they would be crushed beneath the iron heel of the Dwarves. King Bartell was simply unable to fathom this concept.

            Leon threw the rose to the ground. He stood up, and continued walking. The air of the palace was cool and soothing, compared to the foggy, somewhat smoky air of the city. The sky was light and damp, signs of rain abundant. Leon decided to take a walk through the city.

            People scurried about the streets. Children played in the alleys and gardens. Vendors and bazaar owners yelled in the streets to people passing by, customers looking for cheap prices on food and clothing.

            These were common sights of Stromadon. Leon looked around, and went over to a number of the tents and caravans the street vendors. He bought an apple from one, and continued down the street.

            Leon's brother, Kyle, had moved to the city when Leon was still a child. After his father's death, Kyle had taken up work as a street vendor to help support himself, loaning money to Harrison to help keep Leon fed. After Harrison's death, and Leon's enrollment in the army, Kyle a\\had opened a bazaar in the city. He sold a number of items, mostly strange rocks and collections of items he found out in the wilds. Though Leon found no use for the items his brother sold, he did like to visit Kyle from time to time. The bazaar was on a street corner, painted white with a purplish blue roof. Leon walked into the door.

            The bazaar was lit by oil lamps stung around the walls. Strange assortments of items hung from the walls, lit up by the oil lamps. Leon walked into the shop, up to the counter. He heard shuffling coming from behind the counter, in a room closed off by a door. Leon walked behind the counter, and opened the door.

            Kyle sat on a bench, dusting off a strange looking necklace made of beads. He heard the door open, and turned around. Upon seeing Leon, he smiled, revealing crooked, yellow teeth.

            "Leon!" Kyle yelled, jumping up. "Where've ya' been?"

             Leon smiled, and hugged his brother. "Out doing something important, unlike someone I could name." He heard Kyle smirk.

            Kyle was a complete opposite of Leon. Whereas Leon was a disciplined militant, Kyle was a free-spirited bazaar owner. Leon's hair was cut, his beard only slightly dark, and his clothes tidy. Kyle's had long, black and messy hair. His beard grew from his face, tangled up in many spots. His teeth were anything but pleasant, and his clothes were nothing more than sewn rags.

            "So...what are the beads?" Leon asked. "They look strange."

            "Orcish." Kyle said, grinning. "Some peon brought ‘em in from the Red Hills. Took them off him when he came here. Poor bastard didn't even put up a fight." Kyle said, chuckling. It was common for bazaar owners to steal from peons. It was oftentimes expected, as something of an underground law for bazaar owners.

            "What else have you got here?" Leon asked, rummaging through the crate.

            "Nothing much. Mainly Orcish artifacts from the Red Hills, but-" Kyle stopped mid-sentence.

            "What is it?" Leon asked.

            A large grin spread across Kyle's face. "Follow me. You might like this." Kyle stood up, and walked over to a dusty shelf in the back of the room. Leon followed. Kyle took out a small, dusty box, slightly larger than a human head, and placed it on the table.

            "What's this?" Leon asked.

            "Got it from a traveling salesman. Poor guy was looking for food money. I gave him a few silver pieces for it, though this is definitely worth a lot more."

            "So what is it?"

            Kyle lifted the lid of the box up. He brushed some dust off, the object, and picked it up, grinning as he did.

            Kyle was holding a helm made of what seemed to be silver reinforced with iron. The helm was human-sized, a small slit for the eyes. On the mouth, there were small holes poked into the iron to allow the wearer to breathe, though the holes were so small, they were hard to see. Two horns jutted from the top of the helm. The sides had strange, runic markings engraved into them.

            "Where the Hell did he get this?!" Leon asked. The helm was incredibly detailed and beautiful.

            "Said he found it on the western coast, where they sent the ships to Death's Hold..." Kyle said slowly. "That was the main reason I bought it. Sentimental value, ya know?"

            "May I see it?" Leon asked.

            "Sure thing." Kyle replied, handing the helm to Leon.

            Leon ran his fingers across the helm. The markings were strange. They made his hand tingle slightly, though nothing strange. Surely they were magic.

            "Mind if I try it on?" Leon asked.

            "Dunno if it'll fit ya', but go ahead." Kyle replied.

            Leon looked into the hollow of the helm. He felt an ecstasy as he lifted it above his head, and slowly pulled it down. He felt the cold iron and silver combination touch his forehead. Suddenly, he felt invigorated. He continued to slowly pull the helm on his head though.

            Kyle looked at his brother in amazement. "Damn! It fits right on ya'!"

            Leon slowly pulled his hands from the helm. It felt....good. He felt a strange presence in his mind, almost as if something were trying to claw through his flesh and climb into his brain. It didn't bother him though. The power he felt was amazing.

            "Kyle..." Leon said. "This helm is...amazing..."

            "I'm as surprised as you." Kyle said. "That thing fits you, almost like it was meant for you..."

            "Would you mind if I kept it? As my own?" Leon asked. He felt the helm touching his flesh, almost like it was melding with his body.

            Kyle looked down slightly. "I was hopin' that I could sell it for a good amount of money..." he said. "But, what the Hell. It's yours."

            "Thanks. I appreciate it." Leon said, moving his hand up to take the helm off.

            Suddenly, a massive bolt of pain jolted through his arm. He cried out in pain, surprising Kyle. Kyle grabbed the helm, and tried to pull it off. He struggled with it. It was almost as if it was trying to attach itself to Leon.

            Kyle grabbed the horns on the helm and gave a strong pull, ripping the mask away from Leon's head. He fell back onto the ground, holding the strange headpiece. Leon sat up, his face cut slightly.

            "What in the Hell?" Kyle said. "Leon...I...can't let you have this..."

            "No!" Leon said. "You have to! I...can't let anyone have it! It's mine!"

            "Leon! Calm down!" Kyle yelled, standing up and setting mask on the table.

            "Then give me the helmet, Kyle..." Leon said.

            "You want this thing?! After what just happened? You must be out of your mind!"

            Leon stood, breathing heavily. "I must be..." he said.

            "Leon..." Kyle started, but he didn't have time to finish.

            Leon ran at his brother, his sword drawn. He swung the sword at Kyle, who dove to the ground just in time to avoid the blade.

            "Fine! Fine! Take the damned helmet!!" Kyle yelled, avoiding another blow from Leon.

            Leon looked at his brother, dropped his sword, and grabbed the helm.

            "Get out of here..." Kyle said. "And don't come back..." Kyle wiped blood from his mouth.

            Leon looked at his brother. "Don't worry..." Leon said. "I won't." At that, Leon picked up his sword and turned. He walked out of the door, leaving Kyle to his broken, ripped up shop.

            Leon walked into the streets. It had started raining slightly, the skies grey and dark. Leon looked at the helm, which still had blood coming from it. When Kyle had pulled it off, he had felt as though he'd lost a part of himself...almost as if Kyle had severed Leon from a dear friend.

            The rain picked up, and began to splash in the streets. Water came from the mask, washing the blood from it. Leon ran his fingers across it. The cold iron felt good against his hands. Suddenly, Leon was jolted back to reality. He covered the mask with his cloak, and headed for the castle.

***

            Rand'Drek felt the humidity of Tor'Skan surrounding him, beating him down. Beads of sweat ran from forehead, hitting Grale's fur. Rand'Drek and his wolf had traveled through the humid swamplands for days now, both of them weary from exhaustion. However, Rand'Drek had traveled this route many times before, and knew that the camp was only over a few more hills from where he was.

            Rand'Drek was worried about Duracall. Nazgrum had become a trusted sergeant and friend of Rand'Drek's after Rand'Drek became the warchief of the Orcs. Duracall, coming from a background of warlockery, was extremely brutal and savage, though honorable. Nazgrum would gladly charge blindly to his death for the clan, a trait which Rand'Drek found fitting in a warrior of his status. He only hoped that Duracall was still alive somewhere.

            Rand'Drek saw the camp come into view. He was hungering for something to eat other than dried jerky and lukewarm water. The camp could provide him with some fresh meat. At this point, he was starving. As the camp came into closer view, a female guard approached Rand'Drek. She lifted her hand, to which Grale slowed down and stopped in front of her.

            "Greetings, Warchief." She said, helping Rand'Drek off his wolf.

            "Thank you." Rand'Drek replied, as the guard grabbed Grale's reigns. "Has there been any word of Duracall?"

            "Actually..." the guard began. "Warlord Gro'Malog said that he wished to speak to you about Duracall. He's in the officer's tent right now."

            "Thank you. I'll speak with him." Rand'Drek said, grabbing the last of the jerky from his bag, and feeding it to Grale. Rand'Drek thanked the soldier again, to which she responded with a smile and a nod.

            Rand'Drek walked over to the officer's tent, and parted the tarp. He looked in, and saw Agronak lying on a cot.

            "Agronak?" Rand'Drek said.

            Agronak looked up, somewhat angry he'd been woken up, then smiled and laughed when he saw Rand'Drek. "I thought you'd never get here." Agronak said.

            Rand'Drek laughed. "Careful when speaking to your warchief." Rand'Drek replied, laughing again.

            Agronak stood up, shook Rand'Drek's hand, and then sat down at a table. Rand'Drek did the same. A large map of Tor'Skan had been laid across it, a number of markings on the shaman village that Duracall had last been seen in.

            "Now, Duracall was originally have been said to be imprisoned here." Rand'Drek said, pointing at the village. "However, when we sent scouts out to the village, they found humans inhabiting it."

            "Odd..." Rand'Drek said. "Did they find any tracings of the Ogres?"

            "Ogrish armor, which matched the description the escapee soldier had described."

            "What of Duracall? And the other Orcs?"

            "Duracall's men were killed early on." Agronak said. "The armor had been placed around the camp. However, we found no signs of Duracall or his armor when the scouts found the village, or when we attacked it."

            "So...Duracall has been taken prisoner?"

            "That is what we've concluded."

            "But where would Duracall have been taken? I don't know of any Human settlements in Tor'Skan."

            Agronak pointed north of the village, near the border of Tor'Skan and Laramoth. "This is the nearest Human encampment. A barracks originally constructed to keep watch on the war. It still has heavy use, based on that there are no actual human camps in the swamplands."

            "And Duracall had been taken there?"

            "It would only seem logical."

            "Agreed." Rand'Drek replied. "Then I suppose we should launch an attack on this barracks?"

            "Yes. The only problem we could foresee is that we would actually be making an attack on Laramoth lands, which would frighten the Humans. In addition, the barracks is in the same province as the capital..."

            "Yes, but there's no other way to rescue Duracall. If we leave him be, he'll be executed."

            "Unfortunately, yes." Agronak said. "Appears as though there's no other way."

            "Ready the soldiers at the camp for an attack. We'll leave tomorrow at sundown." Rand'Drek said, standing up.

            "I'll send out word. Anything else?" Agronak said, standing up as well.

            "Yes..." Rand'Drek said. "I need some food."

            Agronak laughed. "We'll head over to the mess hall. The cooks are in a rather good mood today."

            Both laughed and left the tent.

***

            Mithril Island was an incredibly rocky island. In reality, it was nothing more than a large mountain. However, the Dwarves, this island being their original home, had built a tall, wondrous city coiling around the mountain, the castle of Gornall Mithril resting upon the top. Beneath it, moving in a slow, downward spire, the city rested, homes, shops and other common sights built into the mountain. Unlike the Orcs, who'd built their city inside the mountain, the Dwarves refused to defile the depths of their home.

            Glorv looked out across the island. From the city, it was nearly impossible to catch a glimpse of the sea, the reason being that the island was so large. Though there were flat plains on the eastern part of the isle, it was primarily a hilly land, in geographic terms. It was rugged and beautiful.

            Glorv walked further, and reached the top of the spire. The castle came into full view, the magnificent garden of the palace resting in front of it. Young flowers bloomed, as maids and servants went about watering them. Glorv nodded to the Dwarves, and the occasional Human, as he made his way through the lush gardens, and into the palace. Both guards greeted him, and he nodded back to them.

            The inside of the palace was of fine, intricate design. Marble tiles, which covered the floor, were colored to fit the walls, made from stone, and supported by nothing other than mithril. The support pillars held beautiful engravings and symbols, the stone walls having depictions of Gods and great battles carved into them. The castle was truly a sight to behold, as few ever got the chance to actually enter it.

            Glorv's footsteps echoed through the great halls of the castle. He approached a large door, embroidered with gold and silver, along with gems carefully encrusted into it. Two guards wearing heavy Mithril armor walked to the center of the door, and quickly pulled it open, their incredible strength pulling the massive behemoth that was the door apart, revealing the throne room of the king.

            Gornall Mithril sat at a small table, slightly off to the side of the throne, eating what looked to be a recently-prepared meal. He looked up after hearing the door open, and smiled at Glorv. He put down his food, and stood up to greet his friend.

            "Glorv! How ya' been?" Gornall asked, grabbing Glorv's hand and shaking it.

            "Fine." Glorv said, laughing. He pushed his emotions back into himself, and gave Gornall a serious look. "But I have to ask...why did you call me here?"

            Gornall realized the serious tone Glorv had put in his voice, and the smile slowly faded off his face. "Come over and sit. Eat and have yourself a drink. I'll explain."

            Glorv followed the king over to the small table. A scrawny looking servant brought out Glorv a mug of ale, which he took and began drinking slowly.

            "Now, about these requests..." Gornall said, pulling an envelope from his shirt pocket.

            "So you've read them over?" Glorv asked.

            "Many times." Gornall replied. "Though one thing has been plaguing my mind."

            "What is that?" Glorv asked.

            "Do we ever plan to strike?" Gornall asked. "As strong as your strategic plans are, your battle plans always involve defensive positioning. Do you ever plan to make an attack on any of the Stromadonian or Elven settlements?"

            "Gornall..." Glorv replied. "We have next to no footing in the Red Hills, other than two military camps. The Humans and Elves have established towns and villages in the area. If we can't achieve a strong presence in the Hills, how are we ever going to make our attack on their settlements? Attacking now would be suicidal and foolhardy!"

            Gornall sighed, and looked at Glorv. "I know..." he replied. "But we need to accept the facts. Our allies in Laramoth are facing danger from the Orcs, Trolls and Ogres daily. Because of that, we are forced to send more and more troops to help them deal with these threats."

            "But what of the forces that threaten our own lands?! Certainly, Laramoth doesn't expect us to sit here and defend our people with rocks and sticks!"

            "You think that they don't care about our situation? They send many troops to help guard the towns and cities! All I'm saying is that until the southern situation has been put under a degree of control, your plans won't go into action! Is that understood?"

            Glorv looked into the empty mug. He slid it away from him, and stood up. "That's all I need..." Glorv said, his voice holding a downbeat feeling. He slowly moved out of the throne room. Gornall ignored his friend's sullen act.

                                                                      ***                                      

            Glorv sat against the wall that led down the mountain, directly outside the castle. His mind raced with thoughts. He would have to return to the encampment in the Hills, and plan his next moves carefully. If Stromadon could pull together a strong enough force, they'd easily overrun the encampment, and tear through the Dwarven lands. This would only increase the separation of soldiers on the two battlefields. Undoubtedly, the Orcs, Trolls and Ogres would take advantage of Laramoth's weak moments, and only create more chaos.

            Glorv breathed deeply, and relaxed his head. He would have to consider this all another time. He would return to his own house for the next two days to rest, and then head back to the battlefield, which he expected to arrive at in two weeks' time. All of this would sort itself out. It would have to...