Three days later, as Thomas Gown and the other members of Centaur team were leaving the island of the Emerald Oracle, the rak Dath Ritas was relaxing in his tent in the middle of the huge war encampment where the north eastern Shadowarmy was stationed. They had been there for several weeks now while they kept up the pressure on the Fu Nangian fortress city of Mi-Tang, and the supposedly temporary encampment was showing more and more signs of turning into a proper city. When the fortress city finally fell and they had to move on, there’d be a lot of grumbling among the common soldiers when they left behind the comfortable wooden barracks and the well made latrines that they’d spent days getting just right. Even Shadowsoldiers could grow weary of war, it seemed, and if it hadn’t been for the power of the Shadowlord, constantly driving them on and firing them with hatred and energy, the offensive might have ground to a halt long ago.

     Dath Ritas glowered and simmered as he contemplated these facts. The living were so weak, so unreliable! Only the undead could truly be relied upon. Only the undead were truly committed to the cause. How he admired the zombies, who obeyed their orders without question or hesitation and carried them out with single minded (or, to be more accurate, mindless) determination until either the job was done or their bones crumbled into the dust. That was obedience! That was loyalty! If only all the Shadowarmies could show the same blind, mindless devotion to the Shadowlord as the zombies, they’d have conquered the world months ago.

     Sounds of activity came from outside the tent, as another division of the Shadowarmy prepared to move out to relieve the men besieging the Fu Nangian fortress. As in Ilandia, the Shadowsoldiers outnumbered the defenders to such an extent that some of them were free to remain in the warcamp, resting and amusing themselves with captives brought from the outlying towns and villages, and by rotating them every eight hours the besiegers could be kept constantly fresh and alert while the defenders were gradually worn down by fatigue, disease and malnutrition.

     It was a tactic the Shadowsoldiers had practised to perfection during this and the three previous Shadowwars, and was so devastatingly effective that the defenders of Mi-Tang knew themselves to be already as good as dead. And that knowledge, of course, contributed just as much to their inevitable defeat as everything else. Maybe more.

     Yes, on the whole, all things considered, things were going reasonably well, and he looked forward to giving an upbeat and optimistic report to whoever was currently sitting on the Bone Throne. Since the disappearance of Algol, devoured by the Shadowbeast along with the new recruit, the three most powerful rak Generals had fought amongst themselves to be the one to sit in for him until his return, and so bitter had been the rivalry that for a moment it had almost looked as though the Shadowhosts would be torn apart by a full scale civil war. Common sense had prevailed in the end, though, fueled mainly by the fear of what Algol would say and do when he saw what had happened in his absence, and the three raks had grudgingly agreed to share the throne, taking turns to rule the Shadowlord's’ possessions on Tharia. According to the rumours that reached him all the way out here on the front line, though, hostilities between them were continuing ‘by other means’ and he expected to hear at any time that one or two of them had disappeared under mysterious circumstances, leaving one rak in undisputed control of the Shadow.

     His musings over these things reminded him that his next trip back to Arnor, to report on the progress of the north eastern campaign, wasn’t due for another two weeks, and that in the meantime he was stuck way out here, thousands of miles away from the real action. Sitting in a tent while his men carried out their well rehearsed operations. And when Mi-Tang fell there’d be another city beyond, and another after that and another after that. Months of boredom in which the only variety would be the change of scenery, one expanse of rocky, windswept wilderness replacing another. It was so boring! So utterly, totally, mindnumbingly BORING!

     It wasn’t as if he didn’t have anything better to do, either. When he’d answered the Shadowlord’s call a hundred years before, he’d only had a vague idea of what would be involved. He’d had a vague idea that there’d be a lot of time spent in high level research with other raks, crowds of lesser undead throwing themselves at their feet to pledge their eternal loyalty and obedience, and expeditions to strange new planes of existence to confer with creatures the like of which he’d never imagined. He’d thought it would be an exciting challenge. An experience that would stretch him and force him to grow in new directions. If he’d known he’d spend so much time stuck in a bloody boring tent doing absolutely nothing, he’d never have joined up.

     I’ve got to do something! he decided at last, springing to his feet. I’m going to attack the city personally. Never mind the Shadowlord’s command about raks never endangering themselves. I’d rather be blasted out of existence by a defending wizard’s spells than die of boredom in this bloody tent!

     He strode out of the tent, therefore, and paused for a moment, casting his terrible gaze over the huge war camp. Cropazombie guards standing in a circle around him, kept the other soldiers away and maintained a clear space around his tent, but outside crowds of Shadowsoldiers were milling aimlessly. Humans, shologs, ogres and goblins talking and laughing like the best of friends, their natural animosities suppressed by the Shadowlord’s power. From somewhere came the sound of a number of young women sobbing, screaming and begging, sounds that the rak ignored as he’d have ignored the sounds of birdsong in a forest, and overhead a flight of wyvern riders passed in rough formation, making sure that the Shadowarmy maintained their mastery of the skies. Everything was normal, in other words. Everything was as it should be.

     Seeing him emerge from his tent, a wraith drifted over, the wisps and curls of streaming moonlight of which it was composed momentarily arranging themselves to form the suggestion of a human face, a face that lasted for just a few seconds before breaking up again, as if whatever forces now controlled the spirit didn’t want it to be reminded of what it had once been. “You have new orders?” it asked meekly.

     “Call out Harst, Barken and Stoll,” ordered Dath Ritas. “We’re going to attack the city.”

     “At once, master,” the wraith replied. “And I’ll rouse the army.”

     “No need,” said the rak, though. “We won’t be needing them. This is just the five of us.”

     The wraith, consisting of nothing but ribbons and streamers of light, gave no outward sign of the astonishment it felt, but Dath Ritas sensed it anyway. “Just the five of us?” it asked carefully. It knew all too well how the rak could punish it, having suffered such punishment many times before, and it was anxious not to do or say anything to displease it. “At once, master. I go to obey.” The wraith vanished to carry out the order.

     At some level of his undead mind, Dath Ritas knew he’d get into big trouble for this, that he’d he punished terribly when news of his escapade got back to Arnor, but he didn’t care. He was doing something, taking action. Anything was better than staying in that bloody tent, slowly going mad from boredom.

     He stopped dead in his tracks as a thought struck him. Boredom? He was suffering from boredom? But raks never got bored! He was six hundred years old, and looked forward to several centuries more of his current existence before his evolution took him on the next step towards, towards whatever it was he was evolving into. Anyone who suffered from boredom could never survive such immense periods of time, usually going mad and destroying themselves within their first century. So how was he getting bored? So he was stuck in a tent for a few months. So what? What were a few months to a being such as he, who took centuries in his stride? What in the name of hell was happening to him?

     He stood in bewilderment, thinking it over, and all of a sudden it didn’t seem important to him anymore. Who cares? he thought, dismissing the problem with a shake of his shrunken, mummified head. I’m taking action, that’s what’s important. I’m going to enjoy myself!

     The three other undead creatures, two ghosts and a spectre, were brought over by the wraith a few moments later, along with the rak’s frightful, undead warhorse, and they all made groveling gestures of obeisance to him, terrified of the rak’s power and his unpredictable temper. The rak, full of purpose and determination, told them what he had in mind; a strike by the five of them into the central, administrative regions of the fortress city, spreading chaos, terror and destruction and then getting out quick before the city’s wizards could organise a counterattack. The others agreed that it was an excellent idea, of course, and so, after telling their Captains to continue the siege as normal until they got back, the rak mounted his warhorse and galloped away, the four spirits flying alongside him and trailing long tails of shining ectoplasm like terrible, demonic comets.

     Two figures, peeping out from behind a large boulder high up on a rocky ridge, watched anxiously as the five powerful undead creatures left the massive war camp and set off down the mountain road towards the fortress city. Phileas Garno was muttering to himself, saying the same few words over and over again, his eyes squeezed tightly shut in concentration. “You are bored. You are very bored. You want to get out of the camp. You want to attack the city. You are bored. You are very bored...”

     “Okay, I think you can stop now,” said Tragius. “They’re on their way.”

     His companion stopped speaking and stretched his whole body in relief as he opened his eyes. He took a sip of water from a water bag. “About time,” he croaked. “My throat’s killing me. I thought it would never work!”

     “We almost lost it once,” agreed Tragius. “I had to increase the power of the spell to hold onto him. Never mind, he’s out of the camp now. Vulnerable.”

     “Damn!” cried Phileas as he looked down the valley. “There’s five of them! He’s got an escort!”

     “Can’t be helped. We’ve done all we can.” He cast a Farspeaking spell. “Hanus? Tragius here. He’s on the way. The bad news is he’s got an escort. A wraith, a spectre and two ghosts.” A blistering oath was carried back by the spell. “We’ll come and give you a hand.”

     “No,” replied the younger wizard, though. “Your fighting days are past. Leave it to us younguns. We’re more than capable of handling a few spirits. Has Elmias got the cell ready?”

     “I just got his confirmation,” replied Tragius. “He swears it’s capable of holding a dozen raks. I hope he’s right. Do you need anything else? Any way we can help you?”

     “None I can think of. We’ll let you know when we’re ready to go back.”

     “Understood. May the Gods be with you, and good luck.”

     Tragius let the spell end and then sat back against the rock, a pained expression on his wrinkled, leathery face. “Damnation, I should be with them!” he swore, slapping his open hand against the rock. “I’m a warrior wizard!”

     “You used to be a warrior wizard,” corrected Phileas sympathetically. “Now you’re just a grumpy old fart, like me. If you were there, you’d just be in the way.”

     “I know,” agreed Tragius, grumbling unhappily. “Gods, I hate being old!”

     “Never mind,” replied his companion with a toothless grin. “You’ll be a rak soon, and you’ll never have to worry about growing old again.”

     Tragius shot him a look of pure venom and cast the spell that re-activated the portal back to Elmias’s mansion. He ducked in, leaving the other man all alone on the bleak mountainside, cackling like an old woman, before following.