The flash of light reflected off the stone walls, followed almost immediately by the rolling sound of thunder.  Nature’s fury howled outside the obsidian-framed window through which Lucan D’Lere watched.  The Commonlands outside sat calm and still amidst the falling rain, its features lost to shadow between lightning strikes.  At one time the vaunted Overlord would have looked favorably upon the lands, his eyes filled with hope and a fond optimism for a bright future in this new age of Norrath.  Now all his tainted eye saw was possession—a means to an end with the only hope being that of conquest to ensure a future forever secure from his sundry enemies. 

For they were out there, those who sought his untimely demise.  There were times he could almost see them, cowering in their strongholds that lay beyond the reach of his mighty hand.  Be that as it may, he knew none dared make a move on him now.  Thanks to his swift and just rule of Freeport and all the lands under its reign, those who would foil his designs remain at a comfortable distance.  No longer was the future a mélange of random acts, any number of which could bring his downfall.  With the continued deliverance of order by his divine hand, now the destiny of Freeport lay sheltered in prophetic refuge. 

“Master,” a chittering voice spoke from behind.

With a swift, deliberate motion, the Overlord of Freeport turned from the window to gaze at his intruding chamberlain.  The minute ratonga cowered before the tangible fury and majesty his master wielded.  It could be felt as a wave of heat sweeping the room as if the sun itself suddenly bore down through the dark window.

“Please, master,” the ratonga beseeched, falling to his knees.  “Forgives my intrusions.”

“Speak,” D’Lere said, returning to the window.

“We have broughts her to you, most high master,” the chamberlain chattered.  “It is she.  The one you spokes of.  The Militia founds her unawares in Longshadow, just as you said they would.”

The Overlord offered no comment.  He merely gazed out the window, his face cold and still as marble.  Not knowing what portents this indicated, the chamberlain continued.

“She awaits your pleasure, master.  In the main hall.”

“Bring her here,” the Overlord demanded calmly.

“To your bedchambers, master?”

D’Lere turned his eye toward his impertinent chamberlain.

“Yes, yes.  Most wise of you, master.  Most wise!”

Dreketh was livid.  The brutish Freeport Militia had no right to hold her hostage like this.  Her arrival mere minutes before had been flawlessly clandestine—even foolhardy.  It was as if these rejects from the human race had been expecting her.  How, she couldn’t fathom.  Sizing up her captors, she’d say very little had changed in the past five hundred years.  The gods-forsaken city was still the fallow, uncivilized place it had always been, and it still reeked of human filth from miles away.  She cursed herself as a fool for once ever daring to return to it and its unsavory Militia that somehow survived the centuries.

Long past struggling in the iron grasp of her captors, the Teir’Dal shadow knight submitted to their authority as they led her down a dark wooden hallway.  The shadows shown purple to her enhanced vision as she searched for any avenue that might yield an escape.  Sadly, the architecture was such that any brief liberation would only net her a dead end, only to be recaptured. 

Patience, she admonished herself.  An out will come.  It was only a matter of time with humans.  If nothing else, she could simply outlive them.

“Come!” a raspy voice echoed.  “Make haste!  Make haste!”

Peering ahead, Dreketh made out the shape of one of those strange rodent creatures that purportedly started showing up not too long ago.  Distaste marred her features as she allowed the guards flanking her to double their collective pace.

“Yes, yes, hurry!” the creature beckoned.  At their approach, the rat-man made a show of inspecting the prisoner, its beady eyes glimmering in the lantern light while its whiskered nose sniffed frantically at the dark elf.  “Very good, yes.  Very!”

“What do you want, rodent?” Dreketh muttered.

“Not I,” the ratonga replied.  “Oh no.  Come.  I shall delivers you!  Oh yes, it is a tremendous honor.  It is indeed!”

“Honor this,” the shadow knight sneered.  Dropping her weight on the guards’ rigid hold they kept on both her arms, Dreketh lifted a booted foot to connect with the ratonga’s annoyingly incessant nose. 

“Aaaaiiieeee!” the creature sniveled, falling over backwards from the blow.

The dark elf already knew there would be consequences even before the guards sent her senses spinning with the blow to her stomach.  It was expected.  It was also a calculated victory in her eyes that her arrival was heralded by defiance rather than submission.  Whatever was about to play out here, she figured such a gesture was necessary.  There was that, and the fact that she’d wanted to do it from the first moment she’d laid eyes on a ratonga.

Doubled over and coughing, Dreketh spat bile from her mouth, its acidic contents mildly burning on its way out.  Breath finally caught, she looked up to find herself face-to-face with the ratonga she’d so viciously attacked.  Blood ran gruesomely from its nose.

“I will enjoy watching you die,” it whispered, its sinister lips curled into a sneer that revealed sharp, bloodstained teeth inside.

The dark elf half expected the creature to slit her throat right there.  Instead, the ratonga merely turned about to unlock the door behind him.  At the sound of its bolt clanging, the guards pulled her again to her feet—this time grabbing her hair in strong, unrelenting fingers to help ensure her best behavior.

She was led precariously through the threshold into what appeared to be a bedroom.  The room was of modest size, complete with a lit fireplace.  The furniture, though nice, was austere to her eyes.  Whoever had so kindly requested the pleasure of her company obviously wasn’t one for ostentation, and yet still it held a stately bearing the dark elf couldn’t quite explain.

“Master,” the ratonga muttered humbly toward the far window.  “I present her to you.”

Following the ratonga’s gaze, Dreketh found an ominous gray-haired human, his back to the room.  He stood motionless, barely even acknowledging their presence in favor of observing the storm raging outside.  Moments passed before the man raised an aged but firm hand, giving a silent signal of some sort.

Immediately, the guard on her right shoved her fully into the hands of the guard on her left.  Unable to react quickly enough, Dreketh found herself locked in the armored man’s embrace, unable to breathe with her face pressed forcibly up against his chest.  Unsuccessfully, the dark elf fought to regain her composure when she felt two hands at the nape of her neck, fingers hooking the collar of her tunic from behind.  With a swift downward motion, the guard behind ripped her garment completely, revealing her blue-skinned back to open air.

Unable to see what was happening, Dreketh continued to struggle in vain against the guard’s chest.  A muffled gasp of panic escaped her as she felt the impending doom of the gray-haired man’s gradual approach.  Though she couldn’t see him, she felt his presence draw ever near in the endless moments that passed—the lack of air threatening her consciousness.  What twisted human ritual this might have been eluded her, but Dreketh was determined to go down taking at least one of the room’s occupants with her.

Reaching up to grasp the guard’s back with both hands, the shadow knight released the Touch into her captor, her own crack of magical thunder answering the ardent storm outside.  The guard cried out in agony and shock at the unexpected attack, his feet collapsing beneath him as he fell over backward in rigid spasms.  Still in his clutches, Dreketh went down with him in a heap that crashed into the floorboards with a mighty thud. 

Pushing herself up, the dark elf found herself straddling the guard’s hulking body, her lungs gasping at last to take in precious air.

“You may relax, dark one,” came a deep baritone voice from behind her—presumably the gray-haired man’s.  “I see now that the fates have not proven fickle.  You are indeed the one I seek.”

Still panting, Dreketh turned at the waist to see the man’s one-eyed leer gazing at her shoulders and back.

“What?” she spat.

“She bears the mark of suffering,” the ratonga explained, hopping around in his rapture.  “See, master?  I tolds you I would deliver her!  Yes, I did!  I did!”

“Leave us,” the man replied dismissively, bringing the chamberlain’s revelry up short.

“But master, I-“

The show of tolerant patience the Overlord had once displayed at the chamberlain’s irreverent enthusiasm had now waned in the face of his prize.  With a casual motion of D’Lere’s hand, the ratonga was sent sprawling over the floor to collide with the bedchamber door.

Dreketh looked back to the man to find his burning eye hadn’t left her throughout the entire exchange.

“Remove that,” D’Lere ordered.

Obediently, the remaining guard shoved Dreketh from off his fallen comrade.  Using the foot of the nearby bed for support, the dark elf pulled herself to stand while the guard went about his duties of clearing the room.  The job seemed almost mundane, as if such occurrences were commonplace in the presence of what she presumed must be the self-proclaimed ruler of Freeport.

At last, the door closed.  Still D’Lere’s gaze never left the half-naked shadow knight standing before him using a bedpost for support.  Dreketh was suddenly very aware of the man’s leer, but fought off the impulse to press what was left of her tunic to her chest.

“As I said, shadow knight,” the man said almost casually, “You may relax.  Such appetites are now forever alien to me.”

Dreketh was not so trusting.  “What do you want, then?”

The man’s features clouded a moment, as if genuinely surprised at the question.  “You haven’t guessed?  What does every ruler wish of his subjects?  I desire your fealty, of course.  Devout servitude to the best of your abilities.  Nothing more.  Nothing less.”

“Not every ruler has time to welcome each of his ‘loyal subjects’ in person like this,” Dreketh observed, swallowing at D’Lere’s slow, measured pace toward her.  She could feel the man’s heat intensify with every step.

“Though each is crucial in one capacity or another—even in death—few, I submit, harbor your unique importance, my dear.”

Dreketh’s eyes narrowed, trying to appear nonchalant even as she subconsciously gave in and clutched her tunic remnants to herself. 

“You’re sure you have the right inkie?”

“Indeed,” the Overlord said simply.  Now towering over the Teir’Dal, D’Lere reached out a hand to run its fingertips along the back of her shoulders.  “The Scion of Innoruuk leaves a singular mark, does it not?  The pain… must have been excruciating.”

His fingers left trails of burning flame behind them as they lightly grazed the scarred, misshapen skin on her back.  It was a reminder, if only in the vaguest sense, of what she endured to inflict them so many centuries ago.  Not knowing what to say or think, Dreketh pursed her lips closed, her eyes riveted cautiously to the Overlord’s face above her.

“I keep a secret,” the man gloated.  “A secret vowed and fulfilled in ages past.  I keep your secret, Dreketh of Neriak.  Advocate of Innoruuk.”

Dreketh visibly paled at the appellation.  Jaw clenching, she thought frantically to herself what this could possibly mean.  What did D’Lere know?  How did he come to know it?  How much of what he didn’t know afforded her plausible deniability?  Would it even matter?

As though reading her thoughts, the Overlord stepped past his prize to approach a nondescript wooden cabinet.  Almost immediately the stifling air around the dark elf cooled, much to her relief.

“I thought it likely you had perished in the Shattering,” the man continued, unlocking the cabinet with a click.  “The southern lands of Karana are all but below sea level thanks to the ire of the gods who were.  I would be curious to hear the tale of your escape some day.”

“The tale’s a long one,” Dreketh commented uncomfortably.

“Of that I have little doubt,” D’Lere replied over his shoulder.  Drawing a book from its place inside, the man gently closed the cabinet door.  “Nothing, I fare, is short about you except perhaps your demeanor.  That may work to our advantage.”

“Our?” This time, the shadow knight retreated several steps at the Overlord’s approach.

“Yes.” Licking his thumb, as would any mundane librarian, Lucan D’Lere opened the book in his hands and flipped several pages as he took his time in searching for a particular passage.  “Here attend if you will, my loyal subject… ‘Tears of the slayer upon the brow of the slain shall herald the unsealing of the Cup of Ages...”

A chill shot up Dreketh’s spine.  Her hands and feet turned immediately cold at hearing the long-familiar words.

“…Sundered light and shadow will be cast upon mortal soil, wielded in the hand of innocence…”

“No…” she whispered.  Taking another step back, Dreketh unwittingly bumped up against the bedchamber wall.

“And the whispered convergence of power shall reign unleashed upon all lands of Norrath by privilege of its keeper.’”

A shuffling sound brought the Overlord’s words to a halt.  Looking up, D’Lere discovered the once defiant shadow knight had slid to the floor against the wall, her face a mask of unspeakable terror as she gazed at the book he held. 

“Apologies, my dear,” he said, his biting sarcasm a virtual lashing in the face of her distress.  “Would you prefer to read it yourself?”

Closing the book, D’Lere held it out for the dark elf to take.  Dreketh’s eyes dilated at the book’s title written across the cover in sparkling gold leaf.

It read, "The Pact of Zeranon" in flowing Common script. 

Eyes filling with tears, Dreketh clenched her teeth as she reached out trembling hands to take hold of the book hovering before her.  The moment was surreal.  Her fingers grasped the leather binding.  The book’s supple curvature electrified her sense of touch.  It was soft and warm.  Even in relative shadow, the title glistened at her in a mocking resurrection whose sole purpose was seemingly to drive a spear squarely through her chest.

Opening the cover slowly, Dreketh read the first passage that came along.  It told of a surrogate father bequeathing a forgotten legacy to his adopted daughter.  Dreketh skipped ahead.  A blind old priest betrays the coming of a nexus he himself prophesied.  Again, the dark elf skipped ahead.  A mysterious ranger valiantly saves the lives of his two charges from a creature of fear.  Dreketh skipped ahead yet again, her fingers anxiously tearing at the pages.  An orc slave falls victim to the treachery of a friend’s friend.  A short-winded grunt escaped the dark elf’s mouth as she voraciously clawed her way forward through the pages…

A young wood elf girl finds the impetus to stand up to her former teacher.

At this, Dreketh slammed the book closed, her labored breaths hissing through clenched teeth.  She couldn’t believe this was happening.  The nightmares of history rose from the grave to haunt her in stark, illicit detail—nightmares she’d thought were left fitfully to nights long past.  Closing her eyes, she made as if to shut out the world when a stray question entered her beleaguered mind.

Turning the book on its side to read the spine, Dreketh spied the author’s name written in the same gold leaf as the title it accompanied.

“Dathan…” she whispered, her features twisting into a mass of sorrow and hatred.  Nostrils flaring in time with her silent sobs, the dark elf exploded in a sudden burst of rage.  “Widdlethorp, you bastard!”

The dark elf threw the book across the room where it rebounded off the mantle and straight into the fireplace.  The flames within rose in response to the newfound kindling.  Dreketh indulged it as a response to her anger.

“Burn in the abyss you immortal son of a bitch!” she screamed.

“An odd reaction,” D’Lere commented, pondering his prize.  “I rather found the story… illuminating.”

Dreketh wasn’t even listening.  Already the dark elf had clutched her head, burying her face into the depths of her arms, crying openly and loudly, as would a child fully chastised by an unforgiving parent.  She shouldn’t have returned to Freeport.  She shouldn’t have returned to civilization at all.  What was she thinking?  Could five hundred years of exile truly have expunged the past?

She was a fool for believing it.

The man’s heat grew more intense, jolting her from her enshrouding misery.

“Get away from me!” she shouted aloud.

Rather than cowing the Overlord as her disjointed thoughts intended, she felt D’Lere’s fiery grip on her throat pulling her upright.  Raw, corporeal anguish shot through her nerves, setting her mind ablaze in pain.  Unable to resist the man’s indomitable strength and power, Dreketh was thrown physically onto his bed with a single overhead sweep of the Overlord’s arm.  In hysterics, her fingernails continued clutching frantically at the man’s hand in a desperate panic to divest her neck of the torturous grip that held her firmly to the mattress.

“You are the key,” D’Lere muttered, his voice seething.  “You have touched the whispered convergence of power.  Confess!”

Her mind was slipping away inch by inch.  Flesh burning, bones breaking, sinew ripping apart.  Every fiber of her body and soul was being torn asunder.  At that moment, the Teir’Dal realized the staggering depths to which the Overlord’s power pervaded, and for the first time in over five hundred years Dreketh was afraid.  Horribly afraid.

She’d have told him anything.

“Yes!” Dreketh answered in a strangled croak. 

In a blink, the pain was gone.  Gripping her own throat in remembered pain, Dreketh rolled to one side, striving to catch her breath.

“Excellent,” came the Overlord’s starkly calm and collected voice.  “Then we have much work to do, you and I.  Much work indeed… my loyal subject.”

Still clutching her throat, Dreketh looked up grimly at her new master, the pain replaced by a renewed sense of hatred as she hadn’t felt in centuries.

To Be Continued

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