“Man is flesh. Flesh is weak. Temper the spirit and be as steel.

The winged celestial stood tall and proud as he addressed the assembly of men before him, bringing
forth the words of Balatar, delivering hope to those fighting against the rising darkness.

“You, the pure, the guardians of your kind, will build a bastion. Gather men to this point and protect
all men from the forces beyond the Veil. Your order will temper men and become the weapon with
which Balatar will defend and conquer!”

As the angel spoke, the assembled warriors cheered, the spirit of Balatar surging through them; an
infusion of righteousness.

Then the horrendous screaming began as flames erupted, consuming the celestial messenger, and
spreading through the ranks of men....

Conall sat bolt upright, panting for breath. A sheen of sweat covered his body like a cold wash-cloth.
His mind raced as his heart hammered at his chest, desperate for release. The dream was wrong! He
had dreamed it a hundred times before, the union of the orders and the foundation of Bastion. It
was the start of the dark times where man began his final stand against the terror of the Veil-born.
But the flames had never happened. Galaton, the arch-angel had brought forth his message from
Balatar and man had begun construction of the city, under his guidance. The dream had always been
a comfort to the young knight, ensuring him of the purity of the cause, but now he was shaken.
Utilising the calming techniques that the clerics taught, Conall slowed his heart and tried to still his
mind. Settling himself again, he closed his eyes and sleep took him. But, at the edge of his mind,
flames danced.

“The boy has visions.”

It was a statement of fact as opposed to a question.

“You are certain?” Jareth asked.

The angel nodded once his confirmation. “I have witnessed his dreams. Always his devotion to the
cause is strengthened by them but this previous night the dream changed. He saw events that did
not happen.”

“Meaning what, exactly?”

Galaton paused for a moment before answering.

“I am uncertain, but I suspect it to be a warning of sorts.”

Jareth observed the arch-angel for a moment. He had known him for close to fifteen years and in
that time he hadn’t changed. His face was still youthful, and his poise still powerful and graceful.
Jareth was only too aware of his own physical changes during that time, the greying of his hair, the
deepening of wrinkles in his face and the aches that came with age.

“Should we be concerned?” he asked.

“Probably. Have you ever known change to be a good thing?”

“I shall bring the matter before council. I am certain that Lord Kranson will wish to be informed.”
Lord Kranson, the head of the Order of *******, was the most holy of the clerics in Bastion and was
considered to have the strongest connection to Balatars will. Knowing about a young knight with
potential prophetic dreams would be of paramount importance to him.
The group cautiously advance toward the village. The leather straps of their armour creaked as they
approached. All of them felt chills in their bones as they looked around the destroyed homes and
Brother Brettos muttered a prayer.

“Stay together.” Sir Wyll ordered. “If anything remains here it wouldn’t do for anyone to be
separated.”

As the group progressed through the village they peered in through broken doorways. Bodies lay
everywhere, mutilated and butchered. Whatever had done this had not only tried to ensure that
none survived but had also enjoyed what they had done.

“Over there.” Wyll pointed to a large wooden building. “The church.”

The doors to the church lay in tatters. “Torvek, what do you make of it?”

The ranger examined the splintered doors and the area outside the church. “The doors were oak.
Solid. From the way they lay, I’d say that people were holed up in here with the doors barred.
Whatever broke in here literally ripped the doors off from the outside.”

“Scout the area; see if you can make out any tracks. I want to know what did this and which way
they left. Sergeant Hibbon. Take two men and accompany Torvek. No man goes off alone.”

The sergeant saluted smartly and set about.

“The rest of you, ready yourselves and follow me.”

Sir Wyll drew his sword and advanced into the church, the rest of his men flanking him. Brettos
recited a blessing and followed.

The massacre throughout the village so far was nothing compared to the sight that met them within
the church. Bodies and parts of bodies lay strewn. The blood was so thick on the floor and walls that
it was still sticky to the touch. Brettos muttered another prayer as their eyes fell upon the altar,
wrecked and desecrated.

Conall gazed around. He had seen battle numerous times and was not quelled by the sight of
slaughter but as he observed the massacre in the church, his stomach felt as if seized by a hand of
ice! His head buzzed and flames flashed and danced in his mind.

“Sir Wyll,” Conall called, his breath escaping him, “something is here!”

Wyll looked at Conall. “Rigaard? What is wrong? You have lost all colour to your face.” Brettos
moved over to examine the young knight. “Sir Wyll! He seems to be having a seizure.”

Wyll looked concerned, “Take him outside Brettos. See if you can do anything for him. We can’t
afford to have a man out of action.”

Brettos escorted Conall toward the doorway but halted at the sound of a SLAM! The fragments of
oak door flew and reformed into solid doors before their eyes. Conall now let out a pained scream,
his head burning. The others looked in his direction. “Brettos! What is happening to him?”

“I have no idea Sir!” Brettos kicked at the doors to try and force them open so he could take Conall
outside, but without so much as shudder. Sir Wyll gave the command and the others ran to the
doors to batter them open, but try as they might, once again there was not so much as a shudder.

A deep throaty laugh echoed around the church and the place was plunged into darkness! Then they
heard a shuffling sound like something sliding across the stone floor. At a word from Brettos, the
head of his mace flared into light, illuminating the church. Standing before them was a sight from
nightmare. The body parts scattered around the church were sliding together and with a sickening
sound of wet flesh and the popping of twisting bone, knitting themselves together into a huge mass,
limbs twisted and contorted at unnatural angles. Even whilst other body parts were sliding to join
with it, the mound of dead flesh ambled forward, swinging a multitude of arms, legs and torsos like
fleshy clubs; a writhing mass, constantly twisting and changing.

“Brothers,” Wyll shouted, “there is your enemy! Attack!” The knights charged the creature, blades
flashing in the pale light of Brettos’ spell. As valiantly as the men fought, it was to no avail. The
blades cut deep of the creatures flesh but no wounds seemed to slow it. Brettos called upon the
power of Balatar to aid them, holy fire erupting from him toward the beast, searing its dead flesh.
This seemed to affect the abomination as it started to hesitate in its attacks.

Then an agonized shriek erupted. Sir Wylls body lifted into the air, as an unseen hand gripped him by
the throat. The shriek became higher in pitch and then dropped to a bestial scream. His body
convulsed and the knight began to spew viscous liquid. Wylls limp corpse hit the floor with a
sickening squelch and lay rumpled and folded as if his entire skeleton had been removed. Another
shriek followed as the next knight likewise was lifted into the air.

And the next.

And the next.

And the next.

With each subsequent death, the shambling mound of corpses grew. The remaining knights and
soldiers hacked at it, chunks of skin and flesh flying from it but never slowly it for an instant.

Torvek heard the screams from the far side of the village and, with Sergeant Hibbon and his men on
his heels, ran back to the church. They saw the doors reformed and fearing what they may find
inside immediately set about trying to break them down.

“We must retreat!” Brettos yelled. The priest set himself to battering at the doors once again but still
they would not move. Conalls head felt aflame, pulses of pain racking him with each step the
creature took. The air was filled with agonized screams and... What was it he could hear above it all?
It sounded like chanting but in no language he understood. The chanting grew louder and louder
hammering at his head. Conall clutched at his skull and a shout erupted from him, from the very
depths of his soul. Without realising it, his hand closed around the hilt of his sword and he strode
forward. Swinging the blade in a wide arc he struck the corpse mound. Light flared as the blade cut
deep. A hundred shrill voices emanated from the creature as black gloop pumped from the wound. It
staggered and swayed, then fell. As its lifeless form hit the floor a deafening silence settled over the
room.

The door once again fragmented and fell to the floor. Brettos, Conall and the other survivors fled
outside, all shaken, helped by Torvek and the others. The inhuman screams of Sir Wyll and their
companions still seemed to hang, echoing in the air. Conall glanced back inside the church. The
lifeless eyes of Sir Wyll stared back at him, the contorted body heaped on the floor.

“Any idea of what happened in there Conall?” Brettos asked. Conall, exhausted shook his head.

“Did you find anything, Torvek?”

“Nothing, my brother.” The ranger replied, “No tracks to follow, nor signs of anything passing. I think
we can all accept that this was the work of the Veil-born. One thing we did notice though, there are
no children.” With all that had happened it had failed to register with the knights, but upon
reflection they realized that the ranger was correct. There had been no sign of any children amongst
the butchered remains of the villagers.

“If you found no tracks, then it is unlikely that they managed to flee,” Brettos surmised
grimly,”which suggests that they were taken. But to what purpose?”

“What do you think we should do, Brettos?”

“It’s not my decision lad,” replied the priest in a solemn tone, “With Wyll gone, command of the
group falls to you.”

Conall nodded once, looked around the band and drew his breath.

“Our way then, is clear,” Conall said, “we must find where they have taken them and get them
back.”

The citadel rose from the crater, looming from the darkness like a creature of nightmare. Seemingly
pulled from the very rock, chaotic spires and twisted towers groped for the sky, a clawed hand
desperately grasping at the moon. Acrid smoke plumed into the air from titanic fire pits, a moat of
flames. Dark, winged shapes circled above, their keening cries echoing, even above the noise of
flames and crashing of ironworking.

The ragtag procession made their way up the winding path to the gates of the monastery. Their
mission here was one of gravity but they could not help but feel some element of relief at having the
chance to rest for a night. As the guards on the wall saw their approach, a call went up for
identification. Stopping just short of the gateway, Conall spoke and introduced himself and Brettos.
Seemingly satisfied, the guard shouted and the huge gates slowly swung inward. The group urged
their tired mounts forward and into the courtyard. As they dismounted, the doors to the monastery
opened a several figures hurried out. Leading the way was a slender woman, some 50 years of age.
She was flanked by a pair of sisters and two guards.

“We bid you welcome. I am Mother Thea,” the slender woman spoke, “Please allow these sisters to
tend your injured.” The two younger women led Cassun and Barket away.

“Our thanks to you Holy Mother,” Conall bowed his head, “Our journey has not been an easy one
and we are all in need of rest.”

“Of course,” Mother Thea smiled kindly, “and then, we will discuss the reason for your visit.”

The companions were led to where they could refresh themselves with food and drink, clean
themselves and sleep. As the rest settled, Conall and Brettos left to find Mother Thea.

The Holy Mother was in her office. Indicating the two warriors to sit, she poured wine for them all.

“Holy Mother,” began Conall, “we have travelled here to request that you, and your sisters, leave
this place.”

Thea snorted with derision. “Leave? Why, in Balatars name, would you ask such a thing?”

“We have seen an increase in the activity of the Veil-born. Something has changed. Before, we were
able to hold them at bay with weapons and Balatars grace, but the things we have seen recently are
largely unaffected.”

“I find that most difficult to believe.”

“Nevertheless, it is fact. When they get here, they will tear this place down around you, and you will
be powerless to prevent it.”

“I think not. Balatar protects us.”

“Even the might of Balatar will prove of little use with the horrors we have witnessed.”

“Our faith is our shield.”

“Your faith will be as of nothing to them.”

“Have a care, Sir Knight. You are edging dangerously close to heresy. Brother Brettos, you cannot
stand by what this man claims surely. A cleric of the faith must believe that we can hold with the
grace of the Great Father.”

“Holy Mother. When that horde arrives, you are all going to die.”