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Now time had turned and now time had come full circle. A new battle was being fought...many years after the old. And as the moon climbed into the sky above the camp of Ruben Ferol he sat back and read through an account of the last battle, he shifted his hand to his chin and sighed, turning his thoughts inwards - The heavy linen of his tent ruffled in the night's heady breeze and he cricked his neck closing his eyes, he'd read book after book and account after account of battles long since won or lost. But they gave him no real indication of how he could fight this new war...the old manuscripts seemed to hint that the allies had triumphed by luck and hit and run tactics, this was not helpful to the Warmage and descendant of Hark Ferol the man who began the war with the Damned.

He reached forwards and took a heavy swig of his tankard, for his sources had informed him that a drawn out, face-to-face fight with the Lord of Chaos and his minions would be an impossible task, a futile endeavour and one that would see more death than he could handle. The Damned, they were back and he and the League would face them in the morning - he could find no solace or succour in the thoughts or readings of others...it all seemed to be as black as pitch. The Chaos Lord was another problem that weighed on his soul; it drove him to take another drink from that tankard. His spies, and scouts had informed him that the dark army was much stronger this time and the Chaos Lord had more magelings and demons that before - it seemed to the Warmage that this fight would not go well. The Damned must have captured many slave women to have bred such a force in that time, curse the mountains for offering such a hiding place and retreat...curse them to the pit. Those slain Damned were found to have a much younger appearance than the League expected...could this be a stone-hard fact that the Dark One granted eternal youth to those who were depraved enough to follow his treacherous ways.

One last drink from his tankard served to cause him to cough slightly; he narrowed his eyes and shivered in the cold from the tent. His lids flickering as he blinked, there was another problem that presented itself that needed careful consideration; the Damned now had a leader; an arch magus known as Ulthring. And if that did not hammer a nail into the coffin that might soon be his, the Lord of Chaos - that formless spectral being from the last war, largely powerless but still to be feared, was now fully physical and stalked the ruins of Rivellon in the form of a being, twice as tall as any man and as strong as a dozen or more of their hardiest warriors. He sighed deeply; he was going to need some kind of miracle. His tankard was set down and it caught the edges of a tray...

If they were to win this war at all they were going to have to find a way to defeat a being who seemed to be a deity incarnate, it was something he was not relishing the thought of...his food lay uneaten, partially nibbled and cold on the plate. He had till the end of the day to find a chink in the immortals armour, if they failed in this; enslavement or worse was their fate - a cold sweat broke out on his forehead and he took a direct swig from a crystal wine-jug off to one side on the table. Then he made to rise, and obediently behind him his apprentice, Ralph followed suit and draped his master's war cloak around his shoulders - the young man fastened the garment around his neck and Ferol walked out of the tent, the flaps parting as he passed. Leaving his sleeping tent, bodyguards at either side, their boots crunching the grass beneath their steel-shod tread. They headed towards the larger and more dominant marquee that served as the council meeting place for the League. His eyes lifted to the sky above, from the waning stars and the coming change in the air he noted that he had barely enough time; it was a few hours before the dawn.

He decided to spend these last few hours of his life, informally, so when he entered the tent the first thing he did was sink into the large 'grand chair' and put his booted feet up on the council table. Soon the others arrived with their entourages and their own bodyguards. First to enter was his cousin, several times removed - Duke Dylan Ferol, the leader of the human realm in Rivellon. After him followed Jemthorn of the elven people and Ulf Twohuts for the dwarves, though their people rarely saw eye to eye, these pair were almost inseparable and stout allies - not to mention great friends. Grondtha of the Lizard people and Zakx of the imps were the next to make their presence known; finally Go-Dar of the orcs joined them, entering with his usual proud and confident stride. He was clad in his war cloak, multi-hued and feathered…one by one they took their places, settled and all eyes turned onto Ruben Ferol.

He waited a moment, as the eyes searched him, reflecting on who he was - why he was here. He was one of the wizards of Rivellon who had taken a stand against the terrible Lord of Chaos. They were not an actual race, but a group of powerful individuals who were drawn from the other races…they were given a seat at the council and given the same respect and rights as any member of the League. But more than this Ferol had always been looked upon as a high advisor when matters turned to those of a military nature. He was human, he was a battle mage of unsurpassed power and skill, and humans had always been looked upon as the most creative when it came to strategy, thought and planning. It really gave him no heartening comfort to know that his own kind made up most of the Damned, since humans had a reputation of being easily corrupted and capable of almost anything - now here he was, standing before the assembled and the centre of their attention. A cold shiver ran down his spine for a moment, it was nothing new - so he endured it with a sardonic half-smile.

He flirted with the idea of a rousing speech, the kind that should lift men's hearts and gird their souls for battle, but when he saw the people before him - the idea evaporated like new morning mist. They had been embroiled in this battle for the last six months and they were tired, so was he, the savage fighting had burnt all thoughts of romantic heroism from their hearts…Go-Dar of the orcs, once renowned for his comic poetry (Ferol had always found him too saccharine for his tastes) was sullen and sat there with a dark cloud over his heart. He found himself thinking that the warnings of the Damned's savagery in the last war had come at too late this time; they had perhaps underestimated their demonic foes a little. For rather than a small army, the darkness now numbered in the thousands and was supported by many hundreds of demons. The cost to this end had been high, and bloody…not a single member of the Council had escaped personal tragedy over the last half-year, as the Damned had ravaged the lands, freed of any scruples they might have had. He would be a fool to offer his allies such false hope, so he began in his usual speaking voice, edged with tiredness and a desire to see this over.

"Friends and allies." He sighed softly. "I have found nothing in the histories that can give us an edge, the foe seems to have no chink in their armour." His hands now fell to the table and for a moment all was silent. "We have never faced such a terrible, unstoppable foe before - I fear that our fight will be futile and that we cannot win against such as this."

"Bah! You're too grim Ferol." Grumbled the leader of the dwarves. His eyes alight with the passion for battle his people shared, he placed his own hand on the table. "You speak as though we're already finished." He looked to them all. "Why banded together we field at least six thousand more fighters than the Damned!"

"And we lose three dead, for everyone one of theirs in a straight fight!" Came a disgruntled reply.

"So we are truly finished then?" Go-Dar said sadly, and collectively their eyes fell for a moment.

Another voice rose alongside Go-Dar's own and proclaimed frankly. "We might have a chance if it were just the Lord of Chaos leading the Damned, but now they have that thrice cursed Archmage Ulthring with them, armed with the foul blade the Chaos Lord forged for him…he's as powerful as that stinking Lord himself!"

"All well and good, but I see it as no reason to let that spoil our morning." As Ferol had let this entire debate sink in, he'd watched the others and his own eyes now shone with a wicked intent. They all turned once more to look at him, some mouths agape and jaws slack.

"You have thought of a plan have you not, you old fox?" Jemthorn broke the silence with his own question and a matching smile, to Ferol's now growing one. His voice, light and soft was tinged with the beginnings of laughter.

"Not quite mine." Said the War-mage with a half-smile. "Let me explain." He began to pace a little, turning to regard his allies with a generous look. "Three night's ago, I had a dream…almost as if the Gods themselves had spoken to me, but as with all divine gifts - I know there is a price."

Again he was fixed with those searching eyes, he turned for a moment, crossed from one side of the marquee to the other and then returned to the table - seating himself and propping his chin with his hands, both thumbs supporting just under - while his fingers steepled under his nose. After a few short moments, he leant back in his chair and began once more.

"I beheld the hordes of the Damned breaking and routed from our army…we pursued them on the hunt as they hunted our ancestors." His eyes clouded for a heart beat as he recalled his dream clearly. "My dream showed the defeat of Chaos and Ulthring, panic spreading like wild fire through the ranks of their hellish army…I saw how it was accomplished and I beheld the price of that Victory."

The League sat for a while, some of them stunned, some of them plain disbelieving - but still Ferol spoke on, for they were riveted by his urgent voice and almost prophetic tone.

"I heard a voice from the heavens, and one can only presume it to be some kind of angel - it chanted a prophecy that might hint to some future battle against the Damned…" He then fixed them all with a clear gaze and in a final speech said. "In my heart I am afraid, but in my dreams I do not fear - so I know that on this day, we shall win." He stood and slammed his hands onto the table with a sound like a thunderclap. "For if we lose, how can our few enslaved descendants battle Chaos for a third time?"

Their eyes never left his and as the sun rose, they all knew what must be done - so it was with hearts as heavy as their armour, they left the marquee and prepared to meet their fate.

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