The devil beast gave a squeal of pain as the ironwood sword slipped under one of its dorsal armour plates and sank deep into its flesh. Its antennae, which resembled the horns of a devil and which gave the creature its name, flickered with the halo of magical power that could twist and reshape any metal object into a bewilderingly complex sculpture of branching, fernlike fronds. Other soldiers, armed with bronze swords and wearing slennhide breastplates, moved in to join the attack, being careful to stand clear of its wicked yellow claws and swinging, clublike tail. Soon the once fearsome monster was just a pile of armour plated dogmeat steaming gently in the morning sun and the soldiers stepped back, making way for the wizards who’d want to hack off various parts of its body for their potions and spells.

     The Corporal in charge of the detail saluted smartly as the Major came over to join them. “Another one dispatched, Sir,” he said smugly, indicating the large corpse behind them. “That makes fourteen this week.”

     “Well done,” replied the Major, casting an experienced eye over the corpse to make sure it really was dead. The last of its magical halo flickered and died and its lidless eyes, each the size of a tennis ball, were slowly clouding over a pale, smoky yellow. Just to make sure, though, he plunged his steel sword deep into its neck, almost decapitating it, and then withdrew it, looking with satisfaction at the blade, still smooth and straight.

     “Good,” he said. “Keep searching. There’s another dozen of ‘em somewhere out there.” He waved a hand at the towering slopes of Bula Pass, rising like the walls of hell on either side of them.

     The Corporal saluted and the Major left, heading back to the huge tent city housing the sixteenth, seventeenth and nineteenth divisions of the Imperial Beltharan army. The second usage of the Sceptre of Samnos had done a marvelous job of clearing the Shadowarmy from the mountain valley, but hundreds of monsters of every conceivable kind, brought in by the Shads to wear down the valley’s defenders, were still roaming free and had to be hunted down and destroyed before the next Shadowarmy arrived. The one that would force them to use the Sceptre’s third and final charge.

     He sighed at the thought. That was when the fun would really start, he thought. There were an estimated one million Shadowsoldiers still waiting in the Shadow, being held in reserve, and as soon as they no longer had the Sceptre to fear they would pour into the valley and sweep away their defences like sandcastles. What they would do then, Major Sorrell had no idea, and he preferred not to think about it. Today's problems are enough for today, he always said. Let tomorrow look after itself.

     Before he could return to his unit, though, he was stopped by a messenger. A young wizard, he was surprised to see, making himself useful until the next morning when he’d have regained his magic. “Captain Resalintas wants to see you,” he said, saluting clumsily. “In the command tent.”

     He pointed, unnecessarily, to a tent larger than most of the others, as if the Major might not have known which tent it was. It was surrounded by Senn guardsmen and had the colours of the three divisions present fluttering proudly above it along with the oak tree standard of the Beltharan Empire itself.

     Despite his courage and years of service in the army, Major Sorrell felt his guts tighten with apprehension. He was a Major and Resalintas was a Captain, so technically he outranked him, but only a fool would confuse the technical with the actual. According to the rules of the priesthood of Samnos, a priest could only advance above the rank of Captain when he was too old to carry on fighting, or permanently crippled, beyond the help of any healing power to return him to fighting fitness. Even then, a wheelchair bound Colonel or General of Samnos was still capable of wielding tremendous power, routing whole armies with the power of the God of War channeled through his frail mortal body. Sorrell had no doubt that Resalintas was his superior by far in everything except technical rank.

     “Thank you,” he said therefore, returning the salute. “I’ll see him immediately.” He cursed under his breath as he made his way to the command tent, though. He’d been looking forward to a long soak in his bathtub, having his back scrubbed by a local beauty. Now it would just have to wait.

     He was a hundred yards from the tent when he entered the permanent Reveal field cast by the wizards, their latest attempt to defeat the ever present clay man threat. His sword, which carried a mild magical charge about equal to that of the Sword of Zebulon, carried by Shaun Winterwell, began to glow softly as its magical field was made visible, in exactly the same way as would a clay man’s magical defences against having its mind read. Looking around, he saw the same glow surrounding other pieces of equipment. That officer’s sword, that man’s pike. The amulet worn by that ranger, the helmet worn by that guardsman. And then a wizard walked past, looking like a christmas tree as almost every article of clothing on his body lit up with various wards and charms, making him frown uncomfortably at the attention he was receiving. Sorrell understood his disquiet. Enemy spies might be watching them even now, taking careful note of every item of magical equipment betrayed by the reveal spell, but it was worth it if it helped defeat the threat of the shape changing monsters.

     “Would you please remove your sword, sir?” said the guard with the glowing helmet when he arrived at the command tent. The Major obliged willingly. The guardsman then looked him up and down, looking for any other glow that would betray the presence of magic in his clothes or in his body itself, and then he read his mind with the Helm of Telepathy. “Very good, sir,” he then said, standing aside, and the Major picked up his sword and entered.

     The tent was empty except for Resalintas, poring intently over the maps and situation reports spread across the long table. The old priest looked up as the Major walked across to stand next to him.

     “You wanted to see me, Captain,” said Sorrell.

     “Thank you for coming so promptly, sir,” replied Resalintas, looking back down at the maps. “It’s good news from Ilandia, isn’t it?”

     “Very good,” agreed the Major. “The Gods know we need some good news to boost morale. The situation everywhere else is pretty dire.”

     “You don’t know the half of it. Fort Lance fell yesterday. Fort Bow is expected to fall before the end of the month and if Fort Mace hasn’t been overrun before the end of the week it will go down in the priesthood records as an authenticated miracle. As for our own position, well, you know that as well as I do.”

     Sorrell sighed wearily. “Is that why you asked me here, Captain? To moan about the state of the war?” Resalintas’s face turned as hard as granite and the Major immediately regretted his words. “I’m sorry,” he said, rubbing his eyes wearily. “I’m a little tired, that’s all. I know you wouldn’t have asked for me without a very good reason.”

     “Yes, sir,” agreed Resalintas. “I’d like your permission to send an expedition north, to the howling glacier. A dozen men if possible.”

     “Of course,” replied the Major. The request was merely a formality. The old priest could simply have sent the expedition on his own authority, but protocol required him to go through the motions, no matter how meaningless they might be. “May I ask why?”

     “Ganapha Keep stands beside the howling glacier,” replied the old priest. “One of the possible resting places of the Scrolls of Skava. We need those scrolls. Need them badly. The outcome of the war may depend upon it.”

     Sorrell’s eyes widened in surprise. “The outcome of the war?” he said dubiously. “The Sceptre of Samnos is proving unable to affect the outcome of the war, so these scrolls must be really powerful. So how come I’ve never heard of them?”

     “Few people have,” replied Resalintas. He hesitated, considering once again his decision to tell him about them. He would have preferred not to tell him anything at all, as this was the one piece of information that the enemy must not, at any cost, be allowed to obtain. Everyone who knew about it increased the risk, but he, Resalintas, could fall on the battlefield at any time, in which case it was imperative that someone else know about the Scrolls so that they could carry on the search. Keeping the secret would be pointless if they didn’t have the means to take advantage of it.

     Over the past few days, Resalintas had used mind reading spells on all the officers around him, selecting the man best suited to be entrusted with the secret, and Sorrell was the man he’d chosen, but now that it came right down to it he found he was extremely reluctant to speak. It wasn’t just the sensitivity of the secret, he knew. It was the nature of the tale surrounding the Scrolls of Skava. The tale of what a priest of Samnos had once done and what he, Resalintas, would have to do if they were to have any hope of winning the war. It was one of the secrets of the priesthood. To talk about it to a non-priest was like a married man telling a stranger all the secrets of his sex life. Still, it had to be done, so with a last look around and a scan with a mind reading spell to make sure no-one else was listening, he cleared his throat uncomfortably and began to speak.