Two minutes later, they had their first glimpse of the enemy, strolling down the shrub infested street like day trippers on holiday.

There were twenty of them, and the older soldiers gave hisses of indrawn breath as they recognised the hated enemies from three previous Shadowwars, each of which had threatened the very survival of civilization itself. They wore white painted armour with rib cages moulded into their breastplates and lengths of white bone shapes strapped to their arms and legs to make them look like walking skeletons. Even their helmets were moulded into the shape of skulls with the lower jaw missing, and one of them bore the curved white horns that marked him as an officer. Fifteen were humans. Surly, evil looking characters that any of the Beltharans would have recognised as bad types even if they'd seen them in civilian clothes in a mundane city setting. Another four had the bestial look and stooping gait that marked them as half shologs, their armour adapted to fit their not quite human bodies, and the last one, the largest and most powerful of the group, had the look of a half ogre, a creature with one human and one ogre parent. They stamped on the shrubs and bushes as they passed and slashed at them with their swords, apparently enjoying the act of destruction for its own sake.

"Too many of them," muttered Resalintas as they passed by. "Have to find a smaller group.

"What?" asked Drake.

"We need to capture a couple of them to interrogate," said the old priest. "Hopefully, we'll find one or two wandering around alone that we can catch without alerting the rest of the city."

They waited until the Shadowsoldiers were out of sight before continuing on, and after another hour or so they left the ruined outer areas of the city behind and came to the inhabited inner area that the Shadowhosts had rebuilt for their own use.

Drake had known what to expect, but he still couldn't help giving a gasp of horror at the sight that greeted them as they passed the last ruin and saw what Westington's new masters had done to the once noble and beautiful city. Not one of the buildings in the city's centre retained anything of the grace and beauty that had characterised the glory days of the Empire. They were now distorted and hideous. Grim, grey and black, with the only brightness coming from the occasional splash of bone white that made the rest seem even darker. Looking closer, they saw that some of the bone white was, in fact, real bones, both human, humanoid and animal, pressed into wet cement on the walls as a gruesome decoration and often arranged into skeletons with the skulls of animals swapped for those of humans. The buildings leaned menacingly over the streets, pressing heavily down upon the intruders who crept timidly along beneath them, making the feeling of futility and hopelessness that pressed down on them even greater.

Walking the streets, and entering and leaving the buildings, were a bewildering variety of people and creatures who, had they been anywhere else in the world, would have been at each others' throats in an instant. Here, though, they seemed perfectly at home with each other, united by their common evilness. Humans and shologs walked side by side, swapping grisly jokes and laughing horribly. Trogs, goblins and hobgoblins chatted amiably, and ogres and buglins took turns to 'play' with a group of mindless slaves. At the sight of what ogres considered to be a fun game, Drake turned away in disgust, feeling his breakfast rising in his throat.

"Bloody Hell!" cried Gallit in horror, indicating the mixed throng. "Who would have believed it!"

"It is the power of the Shadowlord that enables them to overcome their mutual animosity," said Resalintas. "Without him, they would soon start fighting amongst themselves, and the mighty Shadowarmy would dissolve in chaos."

"Who or what is the Shadowlord?" asked Rivan.

"No-one knows," replied the old priest. "He is very likely to be a demonic power of some kind, however, and my personal feeling is that he is a Demon Lord, from either the Pit or one of the other hell dimensions. That's not important now, though. I see a couple of humans heading this way, and with a bit of luck we should be able to grab them without anyone else noticing. Get ready."

Sure enough, a pair of humans were heading for the alleyway in which they were hiding, and one of them wore the uniform of a Captain, his skull helmet bearing a pair of forward pointing gold tipped horns. Other identifying marks and insignia of rank, all equally gruesome and imaginative, covered his body, but the real giveaway was the way all the other creatures in the street scurried away and hid until he'd passed by. Even the trolls and ogres were terrified of attracting his attention.

This was better than Resalintas had dared to hope for. A Captain would be able to tell them a great deal. As the two men neared the Ilandians' hiding place, they leapt out and overpowered them before they had a chance to cry out, dragging them into the nearest building. While Gallit detailed some of his men to keep watch, Resalintas called upon the power of Samnos to pacify his two captives and make them obey any command he gave them. Normally, this enchantment could be relied upon to last a couple of hours when performed by a priest of Resalintas's power, but here, in the Shadow, Samnos's power was partially blocked off and the prisoners' power to resist the spell was increased, so there was no way of knowing how long it would last. The old priest lost no time, therefore, in starting the interrogation.

"What is your name?"

"Captain Arris Sanion," replied the prisoner dreamily, staring blankly out into space.

"Are the Shadowhosts planning to invade the Civilands again?"

"I think so."

"What do you mean, you think so? Don't you know?"

"No. Arnor doesn't confide their plans to mere Captains."

"Then what makes you think you're about to invade?"

"They're planning something big. They're moving thousands of troops to bases like this one near the edge of the Shadow, obviously launching points for a huge military operation of some kind. An invasion seems the most likely reason."

"How many Shadowsoldiers are there in this city?"

"Twenty thousand, so far, and at least another thirty thousand on their way."

"By the Gods!" exclaimed Rivan, his face suddenly pale.

Resalintas shot him a venomous glance and he shut up. "What kind of creature is the Shadowlord?" he asked.

"I don't know. No-one does, except perhaps the ark raks, his Generals."

"If there is an invasion, when will it be?"

"Any time after two months from now, but probably not for at least six months yet. Spring would be the best time."

Resalintas started to ask another question, but saw that the enchantment was beginning to wear off. "So soon," he muttered. "He must have a strong will for such an evil man." He killed the captive before he could regain control of himself and questioned his aide, just on the off chance that he knew something the Captain didn't. He didn't, however, so the priest killed him as well, slipping a knife up under his ribs to pierce his heart.

"What now?" asked Drake. "We could try to capture a higher ranking Shadowsoldier."

"Too risky," said Resalintas, however, wiping his dagger with a rag. "We've learned enough, and we'd be tempting fate by staying here too long. Let's get back to Sanpaya."

They beheaded the two bodies, so they couldn't be raised as zombies, then concealed them where they wouldn't be found for a while before leaving, following the exact same route by which they'd come. They successfully left the inner, rebuilt areas of the city, but as they were making their way through the surrounding ruins they heard the distant clanking and clattering of a large number of soldiers in full plate armour coming towards them. They hid in the ruins of an old school and waited for them to go past.

The soldiers came into view as they turned the corner of the street about two hundred yards ahead of them, and the first thing the Ilandians noticed, as they peered cautiously through a hole in the wall, was the strange diversity in clothing and uniform. Some wore the bone armour and skull helmets of the Shadowarmy while others were in Beltharan uniform, and others were dressed as civilians, in the woollens and leathers of townspeople and woodsmen. They were all marching in perfect formation, however. Too perfect. Disturbingly perfect, their pace strangely rigid, almost mechanical, like life sized wind up clockwork soldiers. Each man kept his eyes looking straight ahead, never even flicking a glance to the side to look at the ruined buildings they were passing. Every arm swung as regularly as a pendulum and every foot was exactly in step, with not one of the hundreds of soldiers putting his foot down even a fraction of a second before or after the others. It was a display of military precision that would have brought tears of admiration to Gallit's eyes had it been performed by ordinary soldiers. Here, though, it sent a tingling chill running down his back, as it did all the others. Such perfection wasn't human. There was a monstrous, inhuman quality to the approaching soldiers that profoundly disquieted all those watching and which the older soldiers, those who'd taken part in the last Shadowwar, recognised with sick horror.

At first, Drake thought the soldiers were hypnotised, or perhaps mindless, like the slaves that worked the fields around the city, but not even that would explain what he was seeing. It was almost as if they weren't living creatures at all. They might almost have been...

"Zombies," said Resalintas grimly. Drake gasped in horror, and as the soldiers got closer, he saw that the old priest was right. Those wearing helmets had their visors open, and as they got to within twenty yards of the horror stricken Ilandians, they were able to see their faces. Some were puffed up and horribly bloated, the skin livid green with mould and broken in places to reveal masses of writhing maggots beneath, while others were shrunken and mummified, the skin stretched tight over the bones, depending on how long ago they'd been killed and the conditions in which they'd lain before being raised by the spells of the Shadowwizards. The flesh of some had completely rotted away, leaving nothing but a bare skull, their empty eyesockets staring straight ahead as they marched with the others.

Walking alongside them were a number of living men. Filthy, stinking creatures dressed in rags who seemed more dead than alive themselves. They had wooden flutes hanging by cord around their necks on which they blew notes now and again, whereupon the zombies would turn in order to follow the curve of the road. "Zombherds," muttered Gallit under his breath, and Drake nodded, remembering being taught about them in his apprentice classes. Zombies, being mindless creatures, do absolutely nothing unless told to, and then keep on doing it forever until told to stop, and so have to be constantly supervised if they are to do anything worthwhile. Drake remembered rumours he'd heard suggesting that there might be a higher breed of zombies that had a limited amount of free will and the ability to make simple decisions on their own. They were supposed to be used by wizards and the worshippers of dark Gods as guardians of treasures and strongholds, but their existence had never been confirmed and was hotly denied by the wizards of Lexandria University.

Resalintas and Gallit had both seen zombies before, having served in the last Shadowwar, and so watched impassively as they filed past, successfully hiding their revulsion from the others. Most of the others, however, were seeing them for the first time, and their horror and revulsion mounted steadily as the seemingly endless column of undead soldiers went past. Pars covered his eyes and felt his stomach lurch, the grikon hissed quietly to itself, and Drake, the only one present with the exception of the old priest himself not receiving any benefit from his powdered blood and enchantments of protection, was only able to maintain his self control by calling upon every ounce of dignity and discipline he possessed.

Some of the other men were in a bad way, however, despite the enchantments of protection, and Bushel, in particular, was sweating and trembling piteously. He was all right, however, until the wind suddenly changed, blowing the sickly, putrid smell of rotting flesh towards them. They gagged and retched, and Bushel suddenly snapped, leaping to his feet and screaming in terror. "Dead! Dead! Dead! Even the dead march against us!"

Resalintas looked around in fury as the men on either side of him tried to pull the soldier down and shut him up, but Bushel broke loose and, scrambling over the loose piles of rubble, fled the hideous scene gibbering in terror.

The zombherds saw him and raised the alarm, and the nearest blew on his flute to send a dozen zombies after him. Seeing where he had come from, the other zombherds then ordered the rest of the zombies to surround the old school, and Resalintas led the patrol out of there before they were surrounded. They slipped out into the street and ran down an alleyway, just as one of the Shadowsoldiers saw them and sent zombies in pursuit. Fortunately, however, zombies are, by nature, slow and clumsy, and the Ilandians were easily able to outpace them and lose themselves in the ruined city.

Bushel wasn't so lucky. Running in blind panic directly away from the column of undead soldiers, he tripped over a fallen floor beam and twisted his ankle badly. He fell screaming in pain, scrambled to his feet and hobbled desperately away from the walking horrors approaching him, driven almost as mindless as they by terror. The zombies wouldn't have been anything like as terrifying if they had run after him, but they just walked slowly and sedately, with the patience of the dead and as unstoppable as time itself. They weren't worried that their quarry might get away, they were incapable of even thinking about it. They were prepared to march slowly and patiently after him even if it meant following him all the way across the continent. They would march for ever if that was what it took, and their quarry would live the rest of his life wondering when they would appear over the horizon, finally catching him when he was too old and infirm to run any further. Poor Bushel wasn't to last that long, however. With his twisted ankle, they slowly caught up with him and surrounded him, and he couldn't even bring himself to draw his sword to defend himself. He fell to his knees and hid his head in his hands, weeping and whimpering piteously as they bent down over him, reaching out with their rotting, mouldering hands...

The others heard his final scream, cut off suddenly, and Drake said a brief prayer for him under his breath. Resalintas, however, seemed devoid of any trace of pity or compassion, and was still in a blazing fury that scared even Gallit. "Damnation!" he cursed. "Now the whole city will be out after us! Our chances of getting out of here alive have virtually disappeared! Damn him!"

"They'll be expecting us to go west," said Pars. "Most of them'll be heading that way to cut us off."

"And east is out of the question," muttered the old priest. "Even with all the power of Samnos I can channel, there's no way we can go any deeper into the Shadow."

"That leaves north or south," said Gallit. "I suggest north, since south would take us towards the Blackwater Marshes and we don't want to be caught with our backs to that place."

"We could go through the marshes," suggested Pars.

"Through it?" asked Gallit dubiously.

"Yes, why not? They wouldn't expect us to go that way."

"With bloody good reason!" said the Sergeant. "That place is certain death to the unwary, and extremely dangerous even for experienced travellers. Have you ever been there before?"

"Just once, yes, and you're right, it is dangerous, but it may be our best course for that very reason. They won't expect us to go that way. What do you think, Boris?" He tickled the grikon behind the wing and it chirped noncommittally.

"You're our guide," said Resalintas. "If you say that's our best course, then that's the way we'll go. Is that what you advise?"

The ranger thought carefully for a while, then nodded. "Yes. I think that's the best way."

"All right, we'll go south. Come on."

"Wait a minute," said Drake. "What about the griffin riders back in Sanpaya? If the Shadowsoldiers are going west to cut us off, they're bound to find them."

"Yes," agreed Resalintas. "We've got to warn them, but how?" His eyes settled on the grikon sitting on the ranger's shoulder. "How bright is that pet of yours?" he asked. "Can it take a message back to Sanpaya?"

"He's not a pet," said Pars coldly, but then he softened. This wasn't the time. He nodded, therefore. "I mean, yes. I think he could do that."

"Good." The old priest took a pencil and a sheet of paper from one of his pockets, and wrote as small as possible in the corner. "Leave immediately and return to Fort Battleaxe. Shads definitely going to invade, probably next spring but possibly sooner. We'll make our own way back." He signed it, tore it out of the sheet, folded it up as small as possible and tied it to the grikon's back between the wings with a bit of twine while it stared back at him in disgust and chattered in annoyance. "There you are," he said when he'd finished. "Send it off."

Pars picked the grikon up off his shoulder and held it up to his face. "Boris," he said seriously, "You've got to go back to the town where the griffins are and give them this message. Do you understand? You can come right back afterwards, but you must deliver this message first. It's very important. Will you do that?" The grikon chirped as if in answer, and when the ranger tossed it into the air it circled around them a couple of times as if getting its bearings, and then flew off to the west. Pars watched anxiously until it was out of sight.

"All right, let's go," said Resalintas. The eight men got back to their feet and, keeping a constant watch for Shadowsoldiers, began to make their way through the overgrown, rubble strewn ruins of the old Agglemonian city.