Daniel Peridue, newly appointed Captain of the Guard as a result of his heroics at the battle of Langtathon where he had single-handedly held the main keep of Castle Langtathon against a determined strike force of magically strengthened ape-men called Grathraks, felt uneasy. It had been three months since the Southern Enchanters had broken the centuries-old treaty and launched their attack under cover of night, only to be foiled by the swift actions of Eli Shiningheart, who had revealed himself to be the long-lost heir of Lord Langathon and thus fulfilled the Prophecy of the Protector, as passed down from generation to generation of Ingturon scholars and eventually into the teachings of Yath’l Cth’dang, last of the Ingturon, who had nobly sacrificed himself at the Mountains of Rehethihimah to save Eli’s life and grant him the mysterious power of the Ancient Ones. Now everything was quiet. Too quiet.
‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ he asked his companion. Remi Longshanks, reformed thief whose skill with throwing knives had proved to be invaluable when he and Daniel had infiltrated the Enchanters’ inner sanctum and stolen their magical hearthstone, thus severing the link that allowed them to command the Grathrak army, looked up.
‘Don’t know,’ he said. ‘Were you thinking that peace has settled uneasily on these lands and that the dark shadow of the return of the Old Magic still lurks somewhere far to the South, despite our success in repelling the specific threats that previously faced us?’
‘Pretty much,’ said Daniel.
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