toward the castle at breakneck speed. Blue robed riders, in frantic desperation, spurned the flanks of their galloping mounts. A herd of Athfarian steeds and mares bolted into the thoroughfare in great strides, hoofs pounding, nostrils flaring, black hides sheening with sweat. The gallant beasts streamed into the earthen roadway, sending a column of dust into the air, urging something ominous in their wake.

All eyes went wide with terror at the hooded wraith that chased the horse-driven pillar of dust. The living nightmare took on the shape of a shadow dressed in a tattered cloak and tall wispy hood. Darkness emanated from the wraith’s ragged robe and depthless cowl, a darkness that resisted the light of day, a darkness deeper than the blackest shade of wintry night. A throng of terrified faces watched the menacing shape descend from treetops and loom over the galloping horsepack. The terrifying, insidious shadow thickened, then thinned, then

disappeared inside the trailing cloud of dust. The billowing plume boiled with unearthly turmoil, churning blackly, obscuring the roadway. The onlookers in the thoroughfare screamed in terror and fled to the safety of their homes and cottages. Soldiers along watchtowers and ramparts stood rigid at the unearthly chase.

Not Ethwin.

“Open the gate!” the king shouted to the lookout tower.

The iron-spiked gate groaned to life as thick chains lifted the heavy door. A long row of Ally archers stood beneath the entrance with arrows fitted to their strings. Behind them, built for battle, waited the Royal Guard, taut and anxious, braced for unknown arrival. Suddenly, to the dismay of many, both armies lowered their weapons.

Clear and distinct, before rising plumes of dust, King Kydon of Athfar led the