Isolde tumbled through the portal and landed with a dusty thump on the soft ground beyond. It was dark, this new place, but not the dark of the dungeon realm from which she had come. Turning over, she found she was back above ground, under a sky filled with twinkling stars. The moon shone brightly, bouncing off the thatched roofs of a timber walled town not unlike Lambley. The blonde-haired knight who had appeared with the portal was standing over her, offering her a hand up. Isolde took it and yanked herself to her feet, dusting down her leather breeches and checking her bow for cracks.
“Welcome to Dawnshire, Isolde Hart,” said the knight. He seemed to be trying to smile, but his face seemed to be preoccupied with more serious business. “I am Sir Hagen of the Holy Order of Light. Guardians of Luxis and sworn protectors of all the kingdoms of Midgard.”
“I know of your order,” said Isolde, “My father-”
“Your father is a great mage,” the knight interrupted, “It is him you have to thank for my timely arrival in the dragon’s lair.”
“I wouldn’t even have been there if it weren’t for my father. Him and one of those portal things. I’d have been better off staying at home, even with the bone soldiers attacking.” Isolde felt confused and hurt by her father’s sudden appearance and disappearance. And the fierce battle in the dungeons had shaken her more than she wanted to admit.
“You must trust your father’s judgement, Isolde,” said the knight, “He has proven his wisdom and courage many times over in this unholy war.
“When you called me from the portal,” said Isolde, suddenly remembering, “You called me chosen one. Why?”
Sir Hagen opened his mouth to reply, but before he could say a word, a troop of guardsmen crashed around the street corner, calling his name and he turned towards the commotion.
“What is it men?” he asked.
The guards carried a stretcher between them, fashioned from the long handles of their pikes and the thick cloth of their company’s flag. A wounded comrade lay on the stretcher, groaning terribly. Sir Hagen bent down beside the stricken guardsman to examine him closely. His skin was as pale as bone china, criss-crossed by a network of tiny black veins that looked like mould spreading through cheese. His eyes were yellow and dull and his groaning voice was no more than a dry rasp.
“Kill me,” he croaked, his eyes searching for Sir Hagen’s as he clutched at the tunic that hung over the crouching knight’s breastplate, “Please, sire. Please don’t let me become one of them.”
“What does he mean, one of them?” asked Isolde. She’d never seen anyone look so sick. She’d heard stories of the plague, though, was that what ailed this unfortunate man?
“We thought at first it was a plague,” said Sir Hagen, answering Isolde’s question for her, “But no illness takes a man this fast. Besides, it’s what happens after the sickness has sucked the life out of them that marks this out. It’s dark magic, Isolde. A curse. Keep your distance, child, you’ll see soon enough.”
“For the love of all that is good kill me!” rasped the dying man. Isolde’s eyes widened and she backed away. The soldier’s very flesh seemed to be peeling away from his body as she watched. It sagged like wet washing on the line, then ripped and fell away, revealing the bones beneath, smeared with sticky, blackened blood. “Kill me, now. Before I kill all of you!”
The wounded man’s swollen tongue fell from his head like a slice of meat and his voice croaked to a halt.
“Back, men!” cried Sir Hagen, drawing his broadsword and assuming a defensive stance, “I’ll send him to his rest.”
The stretcher bearers backed away, forming a wide circle around their fallen comrade, who was now little more than a skeleton with a few strips of sallow, diseased flesh hanging from his joints. Isolde was wondering what any of them had to fear from the bones of a man eaten before their eyes by some dark curse, when the skeletal guardsman leapt to his feet with surprising speed drew his sword, his jaw chattering as he paced jerkily back and forth before Sir Hagen. Of course, thought Isolde, the bone soldiers. The curse that had taken this unfortunate man was behind the army that had attacked Lambley.
The newborn bone soldier swung his sword and gnashed his teeth as Sir Hagen calmly held his ground. Then it threw back its head in a silent war cry and charged. Sir Hagen, judging the creature’s approach, stepped deftly to the left and lifted his mighty sword. The bone soldier lunged and Hagen brought his blade down in a swooping arc that cut through his attacker at the waist. The bone soldier fell to the ground in two neat pieces. The legs were still but the top half, still grasping its sword, clawed its way towards Sir Hagen as if quite untroubled by its new predicament. Sir Hagen clasped the handle of his broadsword in both hands and brought it down hard on the soldier’s neck. The neck snapped with a crunching sound and the skull, still trailing scraps of hair and scalp, rolled away from the body. Sir Hagen closed his eyes and offered a prayer of salvation for the cursed guard. Then he resheathed his sword and went to console the other men. Isolde watched him go, this tall strong knight, carrying so much responsibility on his shoulders; a pillar of authority and justice. What could a man like him, or a powerful mage like her father, ever see in her? Her mind was swimming with questions again; something Sir Hagen seemed to recognize as he sent his men on their way and rejoined where she stood, leaning against a tavern wall.
“You deserve an explanation,” he said calmly, nodding towards the tavern’s open door, “And I dare say you’re hungry. You can’t have eaten in a while and the dungeons always work up an appetite. Come on. I’ll pay for your supper.”
Isolde’s belly rumbled noisily, as if in answer to Sir Hagen’s kind offer. She really was hungry. Starving, in fact. She wasn’t even sure how long she’d been in the dungeon realm - it might have been hours - but she was suddenly very aware that she’d missed out on the feast of venison that the morning’s hunt had promised. She nodded to Sir Hagen and followed him inside.
They sat at a heavy oak table in a quiet corner of the tavern, their faces bathed in the light of a large open fire, while a smiling waitress brought boiled ham and fresh brown bread, apples and a flagon of rich, dark ale. Isolde ate heartily, until the rumbling in her belly gave way at last to a feeling of stretched fullness. She washed down the last of her food with a swig of the strong ale and flopped back in her seat, sighing with satisfaction.
“Your father told me once that Lambley folk can out-feast any in the five continents,” said Sir Hagen, pushing aside his own plate, “Now I think I believe it.”
“Sorry,” said Isolde, grinning contentedly, “I skipped lunch. I was in a dungeon fighting giant dog headed things. And a dragon.”
“And very glad am I that you rose to the challenge,” said Sir Hagen. “You asked me before what I meant by chosen one. If you think you are ready to rise to a greater challenge yet, then I will tell you.”
Isolde weighed her options. She had left Lambley in the smoke of battle and she dearly wished to know the fate of her brother, her aunt and uncle. But her gut told her to trust her father’s words. However distant he had been, she knew that he was a man of honour. He would only act or advise with her best interests at heart. And it was he who had led her here, via the dragon’s stony lair. The mystery had too great a pull to resist. Isolde clenched her fists and resolved to herself to make her family and her homeland proud. She would hear Sir Hagen and see the path on which her father had set her to its end, wherever it may lead.
“Go on,” she said, leaning forwards to rest her weary arms on the table.
Sir Hagen wove his fingers together and looked at the girl in front of him. Then he nodded and began.
“You know the legend of Gelderrin and the Dark Lord, no doubt?”
“Aye, of course,” said Isolde, “Every child in Lambley knows it. How Gelderrin the chosen one fought the Dark Lord and drove him out of Midgard into the dungeon realms. It was a story I thought nothing of before today. Now I know that the Dark Lord is real. I’ve met his minions and put them to sleep with my arrows, so If that’s the secret you were planning to tell me, save your breath.”
“Patience, Isolde Hart, that is only half the tale,” said Sir Hagen, smiling, “How can the child of an ice mage have such a fiery temperament, I wonder?” he chuckled to himself before continuing.”Gelderrin drove back the Dark Lord and with his own life he bought our long age of peace. But you’re right, Isolde. Evil has returned to the kingdoms of men and elves. The Dark Lord is free from his magical bounds at last and his agents sow mistrust among the people while he raises an army of the dead against us. An army of our own fallen comrades.”
“The bone soldiers,” muttered Isolde.
“As good a name as any,” said Sir Hagen gravely. “Once they were our brothers in arms. When one of our number falls in battle, his flesh rots away and his bones rise up against us, in service of the Dark Lord. It is a terrible fate, this curse that turns brother against brother.”
“And is there no cure?” asked Isolde, though having seen the curse take hold, she knew the answer already. Sir Hagen shook his head.
“None. The best we can do is end their suffering and send their souls to rest in peace. But how long we can keep them at bay is a matter of debate. With every one of our number that falls, a new foe rises against us. We must find the source of the Dark Lord’s curse and end his harvest of our dead if we are to overcome him.”
“What has any of this got to do with me, though,” said Isolde, “Apart from the general ‘the Dark Lord’s coming’ message, I mean. And I appreciate the warning. I really do. But what about all that chosen one stuff. Chosen for what?”
“I’m coming to that,” said Sir Hagen, lifting a finger to his lips to hush her, “In the first great war, after Gelderrin had received the wound that he knew would kill him, he channeled the last of his magic into one final spell. He knew that one day the Dark Lord would rise again, and that next time a champion like himself might not be so lucky. For though he paid for victory with his life, he was truly lucky to thwart the Dark Lord’s plans. Gelderrin realised that the power of the kingdoms united could be stronger than any champion or any threat. He scattered his magic on the winds of Midgard, and prophesied that in our hour of need, his spirit would find the worthiest young warriors of a new generation and inspire them to work together to cast out the Dark Lord and his misguided followers once and for all. The task of identifying these young heroes fell to the Angeli, wisest of all the races of Midgard, who guard the archives at Luxis. It was they who first sensed the shift of power in our lands, and saw the signs of the Dark Lord’s return. Now they are sending messengers out across all the lands to gather those in whom Gelderrin’s spirit rests. The chosen. Our greatest hope against the darkness.”
“And I’m on the list?” asked Isolde, dumbfounded, “I’m one of the chosen? Because honestly, there might have been some kind of mistake. I mean, I’m pretty handy with a bow, I’ll give you that, but-”
“In this box,” said Sir Hagen, interrupting her, “Is a token of your worthiness. A ring that bears a sliver of the amethyst that sat once sat in the hilt of Gelderrin’s sword. Open it.”
Sir Hagen slid a small wooden box across the table towards Isolde. She picked it up and turned it over in her hands. It was made of a darker wood than any she knew - almost black - and polished to such a shine that she could see her face reflected in it. There was a tiny golden clasp on one side. Isolde flipped it open and lifted the lid.
Inside the box was a golden ring with a shard of blue stone mounted in the band. It didn’t look like a priceless treasure, but Isolde knew that if Sir Hagen’s story was true, it must have been one of the most valuable objects in all of Luxis.
“Try it on,” said Sir Hagen, “It’s yours.”
Isolde fingered the ring nervously, then slipped it onto the index finger of her left hand. It fitted perfectly.
“It should fit,” said Hagen, reading her mind again, it seemed, “It was made for you.”
Isolde stared down at the ring on her finger and, as she stared, the sliver of blue stone began to glow and a warm, tingling sensation flowed out from her finger to reach every part of her body. Her battle-weary limbs felt suddenly lighter and less tired. Her muscles twitched. She felt strong and sharp and ready to rejoin the fight. Was it the ring’s magic, she wondered, or some power of her own awakening within her?
“Can you feel it?” asked Sir Hagen? “The rings’ magic can only be summoned by those who are chosen. It holds no power of its own, but the longer you wear it in battle, the more it will draw out the spirit of Gelderrin that you have always carried. You may not realise it yet, Isolde Hart, but you have the power to achieve a greatness your father could never dream of, for all his mastery of potions and talismans. You and your peers will one day lead us to victory in this war. You need only accept your destiny and follow the ring where it takes you.”
“I want to help,” said Isolde, still gazing at the glowing ring on her finger, “But how? The promise you see in me has not yet been fulfilled. What can one girl do with a bow and arrows against the forces that threaten us?”
“Do not underestimate your worth, Isolde,” Sir Hagen chided, “You have come through fierce fighting already where others, some far more experienced than you, have failed. And there are abilities you already have. Talents that the ring you wear will amplify. You will find that you have the power to move freely between our world and the dungeon realm. It is a gift of Gelderrin that enables you to take the fight straight to our enemy’s door.”
“So I won’t need to use portals?” asked Isolde, “That’s a relief. Those things leave me feeling like I’ve drunk a gallon of harvest ale.”
“Ha!” laughed Hagen, “I’m afraid you must learn to live with the discomfort. Your powers enable you to open a portal of your own at will that will carry you anywhere you need to go. The Dark Lord uses magic to shield his whereabouts, so you cannot find him, but you can travel anywhere that his forces are massing.”
“Then I must return home and find out what happened to my family!”
“The villagers of Lambley are in hiding, Isolde. There is nothing for you to see but burnt homes. Have faith that your family survive. For now, your abilities are needed elsewhere.”
“You said abilities. With an ‘s’,” said Isolde, “What else?”
“Less of an ability than an immunity, but a wonderful gift, nonetheless,” said Hagen, “The chosen are immune to the magical curses woven by the Dark Lord and his sorcerers. You can be slain, like any man, but you need never fear the terrible rotting death and mindless resurrection that swells the enemy’s army of - what was it you called them? - bone soldiers.”
“So,” said Isolde, puffing out her cheeks, “Get dead, stay dead. I suppose that’s something to be grateful for.”
“If you had seen what I have, you would not doubt it,” said Sir Hagen, gravely.
Sir Hagen settled the bill for supper with a single gold coin plucked from a leather purse at his belt.
“A perk of battle,” he explained as Isolde eyed the gleaming coin, “The dungeons are awash with stolen treasures. What we find we give to the elders to spread among the people, but nobody objects if we fill our purses. The men need encouragement to fight such a foul war day after day.”
Isolde wasn’t sure how she felt about looting, even from the Dark Lord’s dungeons, but she didn’t have time to dwell on the matter as at that moment, the tavern door burst open and an exhausted guardsman ran in.
“Sire!” gasped the guard, clutching his sides as he struggled for breath, “Captain Tal. Captain-” he grimaced and sucked in air.
