The wayfarer and his companions trudged in solemn procession through the murky wood. A crimson sun loomed on the horizon, casting a myriad of pale rays through the overhanging treetops of gold and auburn. The steadily approaching twilight gave the winding forest path an almost mystic aura, albeit quite a foreboding one. The ancient alders and ghastly yews, combined with the thick dark underbrush and the pungent odor of dead leaves made the entire area seem stifling, oppressive, and intimidating to the party. All this, coupled with the gripping chill of the Far North, did nothing to lighten the spirits of the already exhausted travelers. In fact, a morbid fear of impending doom was slowly encroaching upon them.

"I do believe we should make camp, milord. 'Tis becoming rather late." The sudden, trembling voice of the druid cleric startled the companions. She leaned heavily on her oaken staff, driving it deep into the damp earth, her downcast visage concealed by her long hooded puce robes.

"Aye, thou art right, Aryndiel‚l yet behold yonder sky, " stated the tall and swarthy elven ranger as he pointed his crossbow toward an ominous mass of low grey clouds to the east; "storm clouds draw nigh. We cannot tarry here." Turning to his fellow mage, Isildur added: "What dost thou say, Morkaidus of Myrddin? Surely thy arcane power can tell thee something of import?"The bald blue-robed wizard gazed at him intently for a moment, stroking his long red beard. He then uttered speculatively: "Mayhaps we should hurry, for I sense.... " he paused, suddenly bewildered. "'I.... milord.... I believe a dracolich is approaching!"

A silence followed, in which the rest of the small party gasped and glared at the mage in sheer, macabre horror. Jaws dropped and bellies writhed at the hideous thought of confronting the awesome terror of a skeletal dragon. The leader of the group, a grim and heavily armored paladin, finally regained his composure and shook his long black mane defiantly.

"Thou art mad!!" he bellowed in fury. "Thou canst be serious! Such monstrosities are exceedingly rare, and even so, lore tells us they despise such frigid climates, as ice is the only known substance that can destroy them!"

"Quite true." stated the mage, after which he exploded in maniacal laughter. "I was merely jesting. It was, shall we say... a test of thy knowledge!" he added with a sarcastic smirk. "I.... apologize."

"Damn thee!!" shouted Isildur, his green eyes and cloak seemed ready to engulf the frail wizard in rage. "Art thou mage or fool?! We should leave him here to rot in this hellish wood, Ranthor!"

"I cannot believe we have hired a mad fool and a weak herbalist to accompany us on our quest," the dejected paladin spat, "nonetheless we need them. Take no heed of his antics, my friend, for their control over the arcane may yet prove invaluable to us.

"Or bring about our downfall." muttered Isildur under his breath.

"Please cease this quarreling, we have important matters to attend to!" pleaded the druid.

"Indeed," stated Ranthor, "the storm brews, and the Forest of Ghwirnast holds many dangers for the unwary. We must press onward." He pulled out an archaic yellow map. "I believe there is a small hamlet in a clearing somewhere to the north. We should reach Gengaeden in a few hours. Make haste!" The paladin replaced his steel helm and brandished his longsword. The company once again began their tedious march down the decrepit path as night began to lower its dark tendrils over the world. Horses would have been quite welcome, but they were an expensive luxury for the party, which possessed less than one hundred gold pieces among them.

The majority of their journey through the bitter chill of the night and the stabbing hail was more or less uneventful. Amidst the sinewy branches and thicket they could hear the bizarre screeching of owls, as well as the more eldritch intonations of the other forest denizens. Their only source of light came from a glowing enchanted sphere on top of the mage's stave, yet it barely pierced the gloom. The storm soon ceased, yet the companions were still ill at ease. It had been foolish of them not to purchase any good torches at the supply shop in Sarmi-Zegetuza, the last major outpost of civilization before they entered desolate realms collectively known as the Northern Wastes of Nevrast.

The king of Nevrast himself had assigned Ranthor and Isildur, his wisest and most proficient commanders, with this quest to locate the ruins of the ancient Castle Gothad, which mortal was said to have seen for over 700 years. Its location and the grisly legends it had spawned throughout the centuries led many to believe that the castle was but a children's tale, yet scholars knew otherwise. The party was to search this diabolic keep for a most important artifact: a black glove once worn by the fabled necromancer Sir Tyrn Gothad. The gauntlet had originally been returned to the capital of Deephoarder after Gothad's death at the hands of the legendary Prince Rhiannon Taliessin, but it had long since vanished..

The Prince, equipped with the magian Sword of Fearn, he infiltrated the castle and dispatched the evil sorcerer-knight, after his frightened servants had reported many diabolic actions from the once valorous Gothad and called for help. Rhiannon was to arrive too late, for Gothad had already slain all his servants, and was just about ready to devise a spell which would have annihilated half the realm. After an incredible battle, Tristan triumphed. (Gothad could have won easily, had he known how to use all the glove's abilities.) He then burned Gothad's body. However, he noticed that his black glove would not even char. Curious he returned to Deephoarder with it and inquired to the Council of Mages as to its significance. They took the glove from him and said only that it was enchanted relic which they would put away for safekeeping. Soon thereafter the gauntlet disappeared from the Council's labyrinth of vaults. No one had seen it for over half a millennia, and it was forgotten until an archaic tome had been discovered a century ago in the depths of a mountain cavern. Only the king and the Council was allowed access to this work, entitled the Thaumaturgion, which told of this ancient artifact and its powers, among which was the ability to return to its owner, even in death. All the king stated before their departure was that it was an object of ultimate evil, and that its safe return would yield an enormous reward: half the royal treasury of Nevrast. The pair left Deephoarder immediately and traveled hundreds of miles north by sea, finally arriving at the port city of Sarmi-Zegetuza, where they hastily hired the services of Aryndi‚l and Morkaidus for a small fortune. After a fortnight of travel they were now close to their destination, for they had seen the summits of the Spine of the World on the horizon that day, and knew that beyond lay the great nameless frigid plain where the castle was rumored to be located.

Two hours later the party was still plodding along the same path, or what they thought was the same path, for it was now pitch black. There was not a single star or moon in the sky above them, which was quite unusual. The darkness was overwhelming, it seemed to swallow even the tiniest ray from wizard's orb. Still, they groped onward, guided mostly by the ranger's keen sense of tracking. Eventually they came upon what appeared to be a glade, the trail ended and there were no trees surrounding them. The light globe was insufficient to illuminate it.

"Morkaidus, cast one of thy spells so that we may see." commanded Ranthor.

"Very well, though 'twill not last long, I'm afraid. I am in dire need of more reagents." The mage withdrew his spellbook from his backpack, turned to the correct page, and proceeded to incant the scrawled runes. "Shirak lume entemoss ra!"

Gradually the entire area was enshrouded in a white luminescence. It was a glade, and at its center were the remains of an old campfire. This however, was not what caused Zokathra to shriek, rather this was caused by what lay around the campfire: two human skeletons, with empty sockets that stared into the night sky with lifeless resignation. Oddly, the corpses were devoid of any remaining flesh, as if they had been picked clean by something, There was also a pair of antique rapiers and a dirty, forlorn pack, inside of which Ranthor found nothing but stale food, 11 gold coins, and worms.

"We should be wary lest we reach the same fate. What manner of beast could have done this?" asked the sage in wonder. His uneasiness was more than slight.

"Orcs perhaps... or goblins..." replied Ranthor uncertainly.

"Nay," interjected Isildur "they usually take the skulls as trophies, it must have been a wild animal or perhaps a pack of ...."

Suddenly they heard a deep and malevolent howl in the thicket to the west. "Worgs!!" he exclaimed. Within seconds the companions were confronted by wicked and foreboding growls coming from all directions around the glade. Peering about, they beheld a medley of eyes glinting at them with a very malicious intent.

"The devils are surrounding us, prepare thyselves! We must battle!" warned Ranthor.

As he said this an increasing array of vicious ululations filled the air. The stalwart party formed a tight circle around the ashes of the campfire and readied their weapons..

"Vordaen have mercy!" the druid prayed to her god, "there must be fifty of them!" Zokathra raised her staff horizontally over her head. As she did her hood fell back, revealing dark eyes that burned with fierce determination. She mumbled something in the Old Tongue and her staff acquired a faint blue glow. Twisting it in her hand, she then impaled it into the ground with savage force and chanted: "I summon thee, shadow of the earth! Arise!" Her staff disappeared and the ground began to quiver. In the place of the wooden shaft, a monolith of stone quickly rose to a height of seven feet, and mutated into the vague shape of a human.

In that instant one of the immense black-furred carnivores, the size of a mule, lunged from the thicket toward the stone elemental. The golem swung its huge fist at the wolf-like beast, killing it instantly in midair. At the scent of freshly spilled blood, the rest of the creatures lurched into the glade, assailing everything in sight. Isildur fared well against the menacing onslaught, firing his bolts into the heart of many a beast. Ranthor, too, practically invincible in his massive plate mail, dismembered the creatures left and right with powerful melees of his longsword Although unarmed, Morkaidus had some tricks of his own. Pulling a short wand from his belt, he pointed toward one of the charging worgs and uttered: "Fulgera!" A bolt of blue lightning sprung from the wand and blasted the worg head on, instantly burning it to a crisp. He repeated this until the wand ran out of charges, filling the area with acrid smoke. The wizard then removed his silver ring and threw it into the trees. It exploded, unleashing a massive fireball which scorched nine of the worgs at once, their dying yelps only adding to the evil cacophony. Zokathra, however, did not possess such an arsenal. All of her powers were spent in the summoning, and she now had only her sabre to protect her. Still she fought valiantly, slaying many a foe, but the golem in front of her was slow, and could not block the giant horde of swift creatures from reaching the center of the glade.

"There are too many of them, we cannot keep them at bay much longer! We must retreat soon! Curse thine offspring! Return to the nether planes from which thou hast come!" shouted Ranthor, a trace of apprehension in his voice. His fear was not unfounded, for Zokathra was tiring. She let her guard slip for a brief moment: a fatal mistake. Espying a good opportunity, one of the predators quickly pounced on her, its huge maw gripping her throat in ecstasy while the wickedly sharp fangs sunk in, tasting her hot blood. The druid let out an inhuman gurgling scream as the weight of the worg toppled her to the ground. On instinct Isildur let fly a flurry of bolts into the beast, but it was too late. As the dead worg fell away, he witnessed nothing but a bloody gap where Zokathra's neck had once been. Without the druid's mental guidance the stone golem, which had already slain a large number of the creatures, shattered and fell to the ground. The mound sarcastically resembled a burial cairn, as though the very gods themselves were mocking the group's misfortune.

"Damn! Damn!" bellowed Ranthor, "We must flee or we are surely doomed!" His anger turned to pure animosity toward the creatures, and he jumped into the fray with renewed vengeance. He entered a berzerker fury and sliced at the beasts in mindless rage and bloodlust, making good progress.

"Cover me!" yelled Morkaidus, "I shall attempt to cast a few remaining spells!"

The warriors took position on either side of the sorcerer. Isildur, running out of bolts, dropped his crossbow and unsheathed his broadsword in the blink of an eye, determined to extirpate these monstrosities down to the very last. The trinity was now devoid of all fear, for they knew they must either kill or be devoured alive. The former quartet had valiantly slaughtered over forty of the deadly horde, yet there was no dearth of them, close to twenty still remained, and the three were reaching the end of their strength.

Once more the wizard pulled out his grimoire and turned to the very last page, the most potent spell he still was able to cast. From his pouch of reagents he removed a generous quantity of nightshade and mandrake root and spread it around the central ashes. Then, studying the runes in total concentration despite the carnage around him, he began to read loudly: "Dees mees douemas rhovanion nihilis gru!" The incantation complete, an expanding ring of fiery chaos burst from around the companions and spread quickly into the forest itself, igniting everything in its path. All the remaining worgs were consumed in this devastating inferno. With the eradication complete, the spellcaster fell to the ground exhausted. The pair of knights could do nothing but stare in numb shock at the blaze and the utter desolation surrounding them.

Eons seemed to pass before anyone dared speak again.

"We have triumphed, yet the cost is great." remarked Ranthor morosely. His appearance resembled that of a zombie. Eyes glazed, blood and dirt anointing the heralds on his armor. Isildur was just as grotesque.

"Aye," he said, indignation clearly showing on his features, "she died valiantly. Revive the mage while I erect the cairn. Then we must be off, lest more of those demons besiege us."

Morkaidus awoke just as Isildur placed the last stones on Zokathra's makeshift grave.

"Curse our luck! Our healer is gone!" he spat upon standing. "Thy liege should have sent an entire division of knights to accompany thee!"

"King Menegroth is not noted for his intelligence. All he seeks is the gauntlet, and if we fail to acquire it, he shall send others to their doom as well." Isildur remarked dryly. "I thank thee, mage. You have saved us from a most unsavory death. Let us depart, who knows what else lurks betwixt these timbers."The subsiding fires soon revealed a small trail leading north. Leaving the dead beasts to rot, they followed it for a few minutes, Ranthor spotted a few faint glimmers to the northwest. "Must be the hamlet." He was most relieved, as were his companions. Soon the low fortifications came into view. Seeing their battered condition, the guard let them through the gate without question.

"Hail! Art thou in need of assistance?" he asked.

"Nay! An inn would suffice." responded Isildur, a bit perturbed.

"I see. Thou mayest find refreshment at the Serpent Inn." He pointed to a large lit building closeby. "Good night to thee." he spoke, and went about his duties.

Walking among the simple wooden houses, they soon came upon the inn. Soft yellow light poured from the windows. The double doors were adorned with a sinister carving of a coiled serpent swallowing its tail. Cautiously opening these, the party stepped into a large room, warm and inviting, which was strewn with tables and chairs. Hanging from the paneled walls were various plaques and trophies, as well as bright sconces. A small bar filled the right side of the tavern, while ahead was a large stone hearth. Next to this was a stool, upon which a stoic bard gently strummed his lute, completely ignoring the party. In the far left corner a gaunt hooded figure hunched over a tankard of mead. Apart from this the inn seemed vacant.

Ranthor took a seat at the central table, the others did likewise. Suddenly a petite tavern wench dressed in orange leggings emerged from a side room and hastily approached them.

"Greetings sir," she said in a melodic voice. "Thou mayest call me Chrystenthia. What is thy wish at this late hour?" Her crystal blue eyes seemed to smile sweetly at Ranthor.

Enthralled, he could do nothing but stare back at the exquisite being in front of him. Exasperated, Isildur finally ordered ale for them. As she left, Ranthor continued to stare after her.

"Come to thy senses man!" Isildur said sharply, smacking him over the head. "This is no time for love, we're on a quest!"

"Yes but..."

"She's already taken," added Morkaidus, "didst thou not see that silver ring she wore? Besides, her home is a thousand miles away from thine!"

"I suppose thou art right, 'tis depressing, yet there is naught I can do." he stated as the ale was being served. The companions relaxed in the comfort of the inn, conversing about the day's misfortune and their quest. At one point Isildur sensed movement behind him. Turning around he noticed that the shadowy figure in the corner was now gazing at them intently. Suddenly he spoke gratingly.

"Come hither travelers, I wish to speak with thee."

Curious as to what the old man might want, the three went to sit down at his table.

"I hath overheard thy conversation. I surmise that thou hast come from Deephoarder, seeking the accursed Gauntlet of Baal."

"Thou dost know!" exclaimed Ranthor amazed.

"I know many things, as I know that thou art the seventh party which the king has sent in search of the Gauntlet. I warn thee, thou may not be the last. He dares not send a larger band in fear that that the Great Council of Mages shall discover his attempts. Yet he does not know that the Council itself is corrupt, and now once again desires the artifact for more devious reasons than simple safekeeping. Menegroth knows that once in possession of the Gauntlet, he can destroy the Council and almost anything else in the entire realm. His power would be unfathomable. The Council covets it so that it may extend its influence to the other planes of existence as well. Little do they know the price they must pay in return. I am telling thee all this for I sense that thy party may actually succeed where others have failed."

"Who art thou, and how canst thee know such things? And what of this gauntlet? Such great evil cannot be allowed to fester in the world, no matter the price. What good is half the treasury if we will not be around to enjoy it!? Menegroth would become a tyrant, and if the Council is truly corrupt, it would spread havoc to other realms. This cannot be allowed. The gauntlet must be destroyed!" replied Ranthor, clearly agitated. His companions could only nod in acquiescence.

"If you must know I am an emissary and high priest of Vordaen, the God of Life." responded the sage. "My deity has imparted this knowledge to me, and has sent me to find someone worthy to return this gauntlet to him, for it cannot be destroyed even by its creator. Your intentions show that you will be the ones chosen, as I am old and weak. Vordaen and his allies wish to combine their power and cast Baal's gauntlet into the Void, from which it could never again be recalled. Without his glove, Baal is in a weakened state, and cannot stop them. Vordaen must attain before Baal does or we are all lost! As you know, Baal is the God of Death. He created this gauntlet in times primordial, and bestowed upon it most of his powers. With it, it would be easier for him to conquer the worlds, as he would give it to a loyal priest in that realm who would then be able to carry out his commands practically without resistance. But the gauntlet was cast from the heavens by the other gods who feared Baal had grown too powerful. It was thereafter thought to be eternally lost. However the wisdom of our lord Vordaen recently led him to discover it on this planet among billions. Return this gauntlet to me and you shall earn Vordaen's favor, as well as great riches. Here, take this stone. It will teleport thee to the vicinity of the Castle when thou art ready, and spare thee many days journey through bitter cold. I shall await thee here." With that the sage instantly vanished. The companions were completely overwhelmed with what they had just heard. They were now on a quest which was of cosmic proportions.

"We will go tomorrow to retrieve this gauntlet, then return it here, and our troubles shall be over!" said Ranthor at the end of his strength. The others could only agree. They rented a room at the inn for the night. Their sleep was quite fitful and filled with nightmare visions. They dared not contemplate what may lie ahead of them.

After leaving the inn the next morning and purchasing some warm furs, they went to a remote location outside of town and took out the strange stone which the sage had given them.

"What must we do with this?" inquired Isildur.

"I am quite baffled." stated Ranthor perplexed.

"Perhaps we should place it upon the ground." said Morkaidus.

Isildur placed the stone upon the ground and stepped back. Within seconds a tall rectangular glowing portal of crimson rose from the ground, humming with mystic energy.

"I do believe we should step through." Ranthor stated confidently.

He did so and the others followed him, passing through the portal as if it were not there. For a while all was black, then suddenly it became deathly cold. Continuing to walk, they stepped into the light again as the portal closed behind them. Ranthor picked up the stone and looked around. They were on a vast grey plain, totally flat, with not a mountain or trace of vegetation in site. Peering to the east they beheld the most enormous structure they could ever have imagined. Even though it was hundreds of yards away, the dark and frigid stronghold loomed over them menacingly. The four granite towers, speckled with tiny windows, reached hungrily toward the heavens, and the empty ramparts cast a sinister grimace over the desolate plain. Ahead of them lay massive oaken doors, splintered and broken as if by a blast. The trinity cautiously approached the entrance. There was large mound next to this.

"This must be the cairn for the servants, erected by Prince Decebalis. Tyrn Gothad was surely a madman to build this monolith here in this wasteland and then slay his servants!" commented Ranthor.

"Perhaps the glove took control of his mind, I would not doubt it." added Morkaidus.

The castle itself looked profoundly deserted. As they stepped through the gate they felt a queer tingling in their bones, which they could not explain. The myriad of windows allowed the castle's interior to be well lighted from outside, and this allowed the party to view the large antechamber in which they found themselves. Ruined and faded tapestries still draped the walls and besides these the room was bare, with a set of double doors to the north. These too were blasted apart. The next room was identical to the last, but this appeared to be a dining hall, for there long tables and many chairs present, all crumbling with age. Yet another blasted pair of doors awaited them. Stepping through these they came to a hallway spanning east to west as far as the eye could see, with hundreds of doors on each side.

"Which way should we travel?" asked Ranthor "It could take days to find the Gauntlet! In this frost, we shall surely perish!"

"Yea, but notice the broken door on the right of the west hallway. We should head in that direction." said Isildur.

They approached the next broken door and looked inside. This room appeared to be some bizarre place of worship. The ceiling was arched and paintings upon the walls depicted various scenes of dragons and battles. At the back of this chamber was a marble altar with various inscriptions which even Morkaidus could not decipher. On top of the altar there were still bloodstains, clearly indicating that it was used for sacrificial purposes. Quickly exiting,, the companions made there way down the long hall, passing many identical doors and alcoves on either side of them. The entire castle was unnaturally silent, not even the outer wind could be heard.

"We shall surely become lost within this uncouth tangle of passageways!" whispered Isildur sharply. "I wonder what lies beyond the portal up ahead?".

Reaching the end of the hall, they were confronted by an arched entrance, which was blocked by a set of immense steel doors. Surprisingly enough, they parted easily with a slight push and a deafening creak. Behind these doors was a small room which was completely barren, except for a short banistered stairway in the center. This led down to another set of doors, which were very smooth and onyx black. They were locked, apparently unbreakable.

"The glove cannot be in there. Tristan would have battled Gothad in some open room or corridor. We should head back." said Ranthor.

"Wait! What was that?" asked Morkaidus alarmed "I thought I heard something!"

"Nonsense! Nothing stirs within these walls but the air itself." refuted Isildur.

"There it is again! It is coming from beyond the door!"

"Preposterous...."

"Listen!"

Indeed as Isildur placed his ear on the door he did hear something. An ominous and irregular ticking and tapping which became progressively louder, as if something were coming towards the door from the other side!

"What it in the nine hells is that?" asked Ranthor, an increasing dread eating away at him.

Suddenly a fiendish bellowing laughter filled the air around them, seeming to come from all directions. The three unsheathed their weapons and slowly backed up the stairs, still facing the onyx doors. They heard the thing reach the door. Instantly they slammed open, and the party was confronted with a sight which instilled pure terror in their hearts. They froze, as silent as the walls themselves, for in their midst was one which was dead and yet lived. A skeletal figure garbed in flowing robes of ebony. An ornate crown graced its skull, while the depths of its empty sockets possessed a cold blue glow. And as if this were not enough for the companions to endure, the right bony appendage of this figure was enshrouded in a black gauntlet.

"A lich!!" gasped Morkaidus as the undead being rose silently above them, hovering in the air ahead. "Flee!" he screamed and whirled around. As he took his first running stride, the lich pointed at him and a yellow cloud quickly descended upon him. He stopped without a word, and as the air cleared, Ranthor and Isildur beheld a statue of solid stone.

It laughed again and growled: "So! Thou hast come to do battle with Tyrn Gothad."

"Fools!" he yelled deafeningly "No mere mortal can destroy me. I shall survive your magics unscathed, your weapons cannot even scratch me! Come attack me if thou art feeling suicidal!" he laughed again, then gazing at Ranthor, he stopped short.

"You." he whispered accusingly "You resemble Tristan Decebalis, the knight who slew me a millennia ago with that accursed Sword, then stole my glove! Well it has returned to me, and has made me immortal! Behold!" The lich pointed the glove toward the ceiling. A sea of water suddenly covered the ceiling, waves crashing onto the walls upside down. Yet not a drop of it fell to the ground.

"That is nothing compared to my other powers, yet none of them extend beyond this castle! Tristan somehow cast an energy field around this structure which even the gauntlet cannot break! I am trapped!! Trapped for eternity!!" he bellowed in rage. "And now you who come to challenge me shall taste my vengeance!" he said as he started to approach them.

"Stop!!" cried Ranthor in desperation. "We have no wish to battle you! All we desire is thy gauntlet!"

"Ah, thou art covetous! Dost thou attempt to deceive me, little one? Without the glove I shall crumble into dust!" he uttered as he continued his approach.

"Yet think," added Isildur hopelessly, "without the glove you will be freed! Surely thou dost not wish to roam these passageways forevermore?!"

The lich stopped. "I..... yet.... alas, my destiny is already sealed! I shall never be able to enact my wrath upon the one who has wronged me. And being eternally omnipotent in one's own abode grows quite boring after but a single millennia. All I have left is seething hatred, yet the curse of being unable to avenge myself is too much to endure. I do believe I will agree to thy offer: the glove in return for an end to my wretched existence. However, there is a problem...."

"What?" asked Ranthor, shocked back from his incredible relief.

"You must remove the gauntlet thyself." Gothad said.

With courage that surprised even himself, Ranthor stepped forward to the descending lich and reached out to grasp the foreboding black glove. As he touched it the cold burned his flesh, and he quickly ripped the glove off the skeletal hand. Instantly the lich fell to the floor in pile of grey dust, its crown clanking to the floor on top of it. This was followed by an immense splash as the water from above came crashing down upon their heads.

"Confound it!" yelled Ranthor, soaking wet. He placed the frigid glove in his backpack and turned to Isildur. "I cannot believe it, but we have acquired the glove, and we are still alive!"

Then they both felt a tremor. "Not for long." uttered Isildur in resignation. The entire castle was shaking, and stone chips began to fall upon them.

"Oh great! We shall be buried alive!" stated Ranthor without surprise.

"The stone!" Isildur suddenly remembered.

Ranthor immediately took the small orb out of his belt pouch and cast it into the water about his knees. The crackling red portal sprang from the water.

"Jump through!" yelled Ranthor as the first large blocks began to plummet down on them. He lunged into the light, Isildur hastily following. A second later they found themselves sprawling and tumbling over the chairs and tables of the inn, smashing them to bits. Stopping just before falling headfirst into the fire of the hearth, Ranthor stood up dazedly. Isildur was not so fortunate, as his head was protruding through the bard's lute, he was quite unconscious.

Ranthor looked over to find Crystenthia staring at him with a blank expression.

"I take it though art very thirsty!" she exclaimed, even though he was drenched.

"Indeed!" he said. Looking to the corner he saw the sage hunched over his ale as if nothing had happened. Ranthor approached him and he looked up.

"I see thou hast returned, and quite a comeback!" he smirked.

Ranthor took out the gauntlet and threw it upon the table.

"I am impressed!" said the sage. "Thou hast done well. From now on thou shalt be known as the Destiny Knight! Thy virtue shines as a beacon. Here is thy reward." he snapped his fingers and a large wooden chest appeared at his feet. "Now I must depart, the gauntlet must be delivered to my lord. I thank thee. We may meet again." with this the sage once again vanished.

Opening the chest, Ranthor was overjoyed to find that it was filled with a vast amount of gold and gems, as well as a shining silver two-handed sword - the Sword of Fearn, which he had seen only in pictures. Returning to Deephoarder, Ranthor and Isildur told Menegroth that the glove was not to be found at the castle. Although doubtful, the king and Council concentrated their searches elsewhere.

With the gauntlet safely returned to the Gods of Order, they came together in council and after much effort, succeeded in casting the evil creation of Baal into the Great Void, where nothing could ever reach it again. Baal and his minions soon learned of the occurrence and were greatly outraged. Summoning the other Gods of Chaos, they devised various ploys to enrage those of Order, and endow evil and despair among many a realm. Thus the Balance was disrupted, and the realms plunged into a Dark Age, until the War of the Gods was to begin, yet that is another story........

by Flavius Goicea - 2/17/94