depending on the magus’s creativity and level of skill. Particularly dangerous were the werebeasts—men and women transformed by the War Masters into savage animals while retaining the intelligence and skills of humans.
Finally, taking their places at the edges of the Board were the
Theldara
, the druid healers, who would immediately go to the aid of any human of either side injured in the fighting.
As Prince Garald worked, he could see the armies of Emperor Xavier materializing on the opposite side of the Gameboard. Keenly Garald studied the disposition of the forces of his enemy, knowing his opponent was doing the same. Occasionally he made changes, shifting a piece here or there depending on how Xavier was setting up his men. But Garald did not allow what he saw to influence him overmuch. He had his strategy planned out. He was confident in it, in his War Masters, and in his people.
Finally, all was in readiness. Looking down at the Gameboard—now populated with wizards, warlocks, catalysts, howling centaurs, grinning giants, flying dragons, snarling werewolves, and a host of other combatants—Prince Garald smiled in pride and satisfaction. Raising his hand in which appeared, suddenly, a glass of wine, Garald called for a toast.
His guests immediately followed suit, raising their own glasses in the air. The toast was shared by the spectators, many of whom were gathered in the sky above the Gameboard, waiting eagerly for the battle to begin.
“To victory!” Prince Garald shouted. “This day, it is ours!”
The toast was heartily drunk, the noblemen regarding each other and particularly their Prince with pride. Garaldhad never looked so handsome or regal as he did this day, dressed in his pure white robes trimmed with red and gold—the robes of the commander. His face flushed with excitement, his clear eyes gleamed with the sincere belief in the righteousness of his cause and his eagerness to engage his enemy in conflict. Once again, he lifted his glass, the red wine flowing into it through his magic. Radisovik, watching, was reminded vividly of blood flowing from a wound and, shuddering, made a hasty sign against evil, wondering as he did so why he was being plagued with these disturbing and unwelcome thoughts.
“To our secret weapon,” Garald said, turning to the Sorcerer and toasting him.
“To our secret weapon,” the others replied, all eyes on the blacksmith, who was so flustered with pride and confusion that he swallowed his wine at a gulp, choked, and had to be pounded on the back by the Baron standing next to him.
All eyes went to a section of the Board shrouded in a magic cloud. Prince Xavier had a similar, cloud-hidden section on his side of the Board as well. Although the laws of warfare demanded that the majority of the combatants’ forces be in plain sight, players were allowed to keep certain forces hidden, waiting in reserve.
It was these reserves that could tip the scales of battle for either side, and the eyes of both commanders—Garald and Xavier—were on those cloud-shrouded hexes, trying to deduce from the position on the Board, the reports of spies, and a hundred other factors what menace lay concealed within the fog.
Xavier knew this must be the army of Sorcerers, but what weapons did they carry? What was their plan of attack? Most urgent question of all, did they carry the Darkstone?
Prince Garald little doubted what lay beneath Xavier’s cloud. A warlock, armed with the Darksword. The Prince had given his most powerful War Master a regiment of men armed with special weapons and one single instruction—at all costs, capture the Darksword.
Garald would have been astonished to know that Emperor Xavier had provided his own most powerful War Master with a regiment and the same instruction.
Capture the Darksword.
One other Order was searching for it as well. Prompted by fear of the Prophecy, the Order of
Duuk-tsarith
had come together in a rare, secret conclave the night
Finally, taking their places at the edges of the Board were the
Theldara
, the druid healers, who would immediately go to the aid of any human of either side injured in the fighting.
As Prince Garald worked, he could see the armies of Emperor Xavier materializing on the opposite side of the Gameboard. Keenly Garald studied the disposition of the forces of his enemy, knowing his opponent was doing the same. Occasionally he made changes, shifting a piece here or there depending on how Xavier was setting up his men. But Garald did not allow what he saw to influence him overmuch. He had his strategy planned out. He was confident in it, in his War Masters, and in his people.
Finally, all was in readiness. Looking down at the Gameboard—now populated with wizards, warlocks, catalysts, howling centaurs, grinning giants, flying dragons, snarling werewolves, and a host of other combatants—Prince Garald smiled in pride and satisfaction. Raising his hand in which appeared, suddenly, a glass of wine, Garald called for a toast.
His guests immediately followed suit, raising their own glasses in the air. The toast was shared by the spectators, many of whom were gathered in the sky above the Gameboard, waiting eagerly for the battle to begin.
“To victory!” Prince Garald shouted. “This day, it is ours!”
The toast was heartily drunk, the noblemen regarding each other and particularly their Prince with pride. Garaldhad never looked so handsome or regal as he did this day, dressed in his pure white robes trimmed with red and gold—the robes of the commander. His face flushed with excitement, his clear eyes gleamed with the sincere belief in the righteousness of his cause and his eagerness to engage his enemy in conflict. Once again, he lifted his glass, the red wine flowing into it through his magic. Radisovik, watching, was reminded vividly of blood flowing from a wound and, shuddering, made a hasty sign against evil, wondering as he did so why he was being plagued with these disturbing and unwelcome thoughts.
“To our secret weapon,” Garald said, turning to the Sorcerer and toasting him.
“To our secret weapon,” the others replied, all eyes on the blacksmith, who was so flustered with pride and confusion that he swallowed his wine at a gulp, choked, and had to be pounded on the back by the Baron standing next to him.
All eyes went to a section of the Board shrouded in a magic cloud. Prince Xavier had a similar, cloud-hidden section on his side of the Board as well. Although the laws of warfare demanded that the majority of the combatants’ forces be in plain sight, players were allowed to keep certain forces hidden, waiting in reserve.
It was these reserves that could tip the scales of battle for either side, and the eyes of both commanders—Garald and Xavier—were on those cloud-shrouded hexes, trying to deduce from the position on the Board, the reports of spies, and a hundred other factors what menace lay concealed within the fog.
Xavier knew this must be the army of Sorcerers, but what weapons did they carry? What was their plan of attack? Most urgent question of all, did they carry the Darkstone?
Prince Garald little doubted what lay beneath Xavier’s cloud. A warlock, armed with the Darksword. The Prince had given his most powerful War Master a regiment of men armed with special weapons and one single instruction—at all costs, capture the Darksword.
Garald would have been astonished to know that Emperor Xavier had provided his own most powerful War Master with a regiment and the same instruction.
Capture the Darksword.
One other Order was searching for it as well. Prompted by fear of the Prophecy, the Order of
Duuk-tsarith
had come together in a rare, secret conclave the night
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