Dennis L. McKiernan

In a tall tower hidden deep in the Grimwalls, that long and ill-omened mountain chain slashing across much of Mithgar, a being of dark Magekind sat in his dire sanctum and brooded about retribution. In the time since the end of the Dragonstone War, the Ban had been rescinded and the ways between the Planes had been restored, though most of those crossings were now warded by Elves and Humans and even Magekind to prevent the passage of Foul Folk from Neddra into the High- and Middle Worlds. But none of these things were what occupied the seething thoughts of Nunde. Instead, his rage was directed at the vile Dolh—vile Elf—who had slain the Black Mage's god, to the ruin of all Nunde's plans. Well he remembered that day, when Gyphon's silent scream of the dying had sounded across the Planes; it had driven Nunde and all of Black Magekind to their knees in agony, the unbearable pain affecting all Drik and Ghok and Oghi and Vulpen, along with other fell beings, all the creations of the Dark God.

How to take vengeance, how to gain redress, occupied all of Nunde's thoughts. Aravan must die, that is certain, but the method of it is the question; for he is surrounded by staunch and powerful allies, and slaying him will be no easy task. Oh, there are ways the Dolh can be killed outright, but that isn't the point at issue; instead agony and grief and unbearable despair must overwhelm Aravan before he suffers a dreadful death. Hence, stripping him of all he values comes first, and doing so in a fitting—some would say unspeakable—manner must precede the Dolh's own demise.

How to do it, how to accomplish what most certainly had to be done, that was the question, that was the issue, and that was what the Necromancer pondered throughout the long tides of night. Indeed, I could bring an army from Neddra to Mithgar, but where would be the pleasure in that? No subtlety, no iron taste of cold revenge? Pah! With the ways between the Planes now open, it isn't like that time I slew ten thousand on Neddra to gain enough < fire > to bring a rout of Chûn and others through the temple in Drearwood despite the Sundering. Ah, what surprise upon the faces of those who sought to purge the 'Wood of Gyphon's minions. They did not know that a small measure of Mithgarian blood flows in my veins along with the blood of Neddra, as well as that of Vadaria. Nor did any know that I could capture the rout in my < fire >, my aura greatly expanded by those I had slain. And we fell upon those Humans and Elves in a great killing; had it not been for Aravan's crystal-bladed spear and Riatha's cursed Darksilver sword, we would have slaughtered all ere Silverleaf and the others arrived, and we would have butchered them as well. But with the Gûk and their steeds and the Vulpen all brought down by Aravan and Riatha, the remainder of my Chûn were no match for them, and I had to flee. Even so, Riatha's blade nearly was my undoing. Nunde's fist smashed down upon the arm of his dark chair. This is another reason to render vengeance upon Aravan and all of those he cherishes.

As dawn broke in the eastern sky, Nunde rose from his seat at the slit of a window, preparing to descend to his quarters. It was not as if he had to flee from the light of day, for, thanks to that fool of a boy Bair, the cursed Rider of the Planes, not only were the in-between ways now open, but Adon's Ban had been lifted as well, and no longer did the Black Mage and his ilk suffer the withering death.

No, instead Nunde, by force of ingrained habit—a habit many millennia long—was a creature of darkness, as were his minions, all beings of Neddra.

Down the stone steps of the shadowy stairwell Nunde descended to his torchlit quarters below, and there he fell into a restless sleep, his mind still churning with thoughts of revenge, as it had done for weeks on end, ever since word had come that it was Aravan, wielding a Silver Sword, who had put Gyphon to death.

But as the sun came up on this day, Nunde would set aside his scheming and rest, for in the dusktime morrow night he would begin the long journey to the crossing to Neddra to meet with a small conclave of Black Magekind, where, if his immediate ruse came to fruition, the conclave would be under his heel. After all, he had plans to wrench their power from them.

Aravan could wait.

Excerpt from
Once Upon a Dreadful Time
(from Chapter 1)

With the deaths of her three sisters, the witch Hradian—sometimes a crone, other times not—had fled across many twilight bounds of Faery to a distant realm, this one a swamp filled with Bogles and Corpse Candles and other beings of hatred and dread and spite. And in that miasma-filled mire, she lived in a cottage perched upon stilts barely above the slough and its crawling sickness, her dwelling nought but a hovel deep in the grasp of dark shadows cast by a surround of lichen-wattled black cypress trees, their trunks wrenching up out of the slime-laden bog, their limbs covered with a twiggy gray moss dangling down like snares set to strangle the unwary.

And Hradian ranted and fumed and spied and plotted and contrived, yet rejected scheme after scheme, for it seemed all were too risky to her very own life and limb. After all, her three sisters—Rhensibé, Nefasí, and Iniquí—were more powerful than she, and they had all lost their lives. So her malice and bile and frustration and rage grew for over four years—as the days are counted in the mortal realm—for she would have her revenge against those who had done her and her sisters wrong. But it seemed no matter her craving for retribution, her designs would come to nought.

But then . . .

. . . Once upon a dreadful time . . .

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Last Modified:
January 19, 2012

Updated the opening page