The first people to know of it were the observers up on Kronos, and they almost missed it. Now that the Shadowhosts had broken through into Belthar itself, the observers were working around the clock charting and plotting their movements and advising the vastly outnumbered Beltharan army so that it could put up as good a defence as possible.

The Shadowarmies had split up into dozens of separate divisions, just as Skulnya and Resalintas had predicted, and each division had moved to a separate region of the kingdom to bring carnage and terror to the shocked inhabitants who'd become dulled and weakened by several generations of peace and security. The Beltharan army, on the other hand, had remained as a single unit in order to defend the most densely populated region of the kingdom. The region around Tara, the capital. They had, in effect, abandoned the rest of the kingdom to the enemy in order to concentrate on just one of the many separate Shadowarmies, and as a result they were doing rather well against them. If they could destroy this division of the Shadowarmy utterly, the remains of the Beltharan army would then move on to attack another, and so on for as long as they had enough men to form an effective fighting force.

Once again Corporal Young thanked the Gods for the stupidity of the Shadowhosts. If they had kept their own force as a single unit and made the destruction of the Beltharan army their first priority, then all hope would indeed have been lost, but instead they were indulging in a great massacre. Putting as many civilians to the sword as possible in order to create a massive army of zombies. The aim was to create an army large enough that it would be able to overwhelm what was left of the kingdom by sheer weight of numbers. It made sense from a certain point of view, Young thought, but if the Beltharan army could hold together for just a few more weeks it was just possible, just barely possible, that each separate Shadowarmy could be singled out and destroyed, one at a time. It was the only chance they had, or so he thought.

His eight hour shift had come to an end and he was just rising from his seat to go to the crude canteen for a bite to eat when his eye was caught by the glorious and beautiful globe of Tharia, visible through the long observation window. Only the vast white expanse of the Shadow marred that beauty, strengthening his determination that the undead blemish would be wiped out; that the threat to the world's life would be eradicated. He cursed silently at the obscene patch of whiteness, made a sign of protection that his mother had taught him and started to move on, but then he froze in place as he noticed something he'd never seen before.

There, right in the middle of all that brightness, was a tiny little patch of midnight black. Small compared to the total extent of the Shadow, that is, but to be visible to the unaided eye from the surface of Kronos it would have to be miles across and he would have sworn on his grandmother's grave that it hadn't been there yesterday. What was it? He walked right up to the window, as if he'd get a better view from being just a few feet closer, and stared in amazement, standing as if entranced.

The observers were intent on the scenes of violence and destruction visible in the lenses and paid him no attention, but his relief, Corporal Connor, paused in the act of sitting and looked up curiously. "What is it, Young?" he asked. "What..." Then he saw it as well and joined his colleague at the window, scratching his head in puzzlement.

Young ran back to the lens and sat down on the padded leather seat, spinning the control wheels as he tried to focus the lens on the patch of darkness. If he'd succeeded it would very probably have cost him his eyesight, maybe his life as well, but the Gods were with him that day and the brightness of the top surface of the Shadow was completely without form or feature, giving the Corporal no reference points to navigate with. Was he to the left of it? To the right? Above? Below? He had no way of knowing and could only move his point of view this way and that in the hope of eventually stumbling over it.

"Young!" cried Connor, and the Corporal looked up, annoyed at the interruption. Then he saw what the other man had seen and he rose slowly from his seat, his mouth hanging open in astonishment. The area of darkness had vanished, and in its place was a tiny, starlike point of brilliant light, so bright that even from the surface of Kronos it hurt the eyes to look at it. Young's mouth went dry and sweat broke out across his body as he wondered what would have happened if he'd had the lens focused on it when it, whatever it was, had happened. A memory came back to him from his childhood days; his father letting him borrow the regimental spyglass as a special birthday treat. He remembered his father's warnings never to point it at either of the two suns, and his graphic description of what would happen to his eyes if he did. He gulped nervously and gave silent thanks to the Gods for his narrow escape.

All the observers were staring now, their duties forgotten, and those with the sharpest eyesight saw a growing circle of brighter white centred on the point of light. A shockwave, perhaps, racing outwards. "What is it?" one of them whispered. "What does it mean?"

"That's near Arnor," said another. "What new devilry are they brewing up for us?"

Hearing them, Connor was reminded that he was on duty here and that they had a job to do. "All right, back to work," he snapped. "Our boys down there are depending on us."

The observers obediently bent back over their lenses, but even the most dedicated of them couldn't help but look up from time to time, to see what was going on in the Shadow.

The brilliant point of light faded away and vanished after a few minutes revealing the area of darkness again, but the darkness had grown and was visibly growing larger even as they watched. Soon, features could be seen within it. Faint lines and patches of colour that might have been dead cities, dry river beds and the northern coastline of Great Lake Megra. Gradually the astonished observers came to understand what they were seeing.

It was a hole in the Shadow revealing the landscape beneath, appearing dark in contrast with the brilliance of the Shadow all around it. The Shadow was tearing open, disintegrating at an ever greater rate. After five minutes the hole was a hundred miles across, and five minutes after that its diameter had increased to three hundred miles. Soon the hole had reached the southern edge of the Shadow, breaking its outline and leaving a fat crescent of brightness to the north. Young felt his heart hammering in his chest, and knew he was witnessing an event of such magnitude that it would shake the whole world. And so far they were the only people in the world who knew of it!

"We'd better tell Tara about this," he said dreamily, hardly able to believe it was really happening.

"Right," agreed Connor, his eyes still fixed on the disintegrating Shadow. "Go on then."

"You're on duty," pointed out Young. "I came off shift ten minutes ago."

Connor shot him a look of venomous hatred, glanced up at the globe of Tharia one last time, and dashed out of the room.

☆☆☆

"Faster! Faster!" shouted Shadowcommander Belloch, riding impatiently up and down the long line of humans, shologs, goblins and hobgoblins, all dressed in the bone armour and skull helmets of the Shadowarmies. "I'll have no dawdlers in my company! We've got a war to win! So move! Faster! Faster!"

The shologs grumbled and glared at him with their bestial, doglike eyes but didn't dare disobey. They'd seen what happened to those who dared step out of line. Some of them were still marching with the ranks of the Zombies, their eyes staring glassily and their flesh rotting on their bones. In many ways, zombies made better warriors than living soldiers, being totally obedient and very difficult to destroy, and the Commanders were very keen to create more of them with every opportunity they got. Death and reanimation as a zombie was the standard punishment for all but the most trivial offences, therefore, and so the Shadowsoldiers swallowed their complaints and marched, even the proud and warloving shologs.

Their destination was the Beltharan town of Westerry, twenty miles ahead, and Belloch intended to reach it before sunrise the next day. DarkThorne, the rak General commanding all the Shadowarmies in Belthar, demanded the massacre and re-animation of as many civilians as possible in preparation for their final push south, towards Tara itself, where the still largely intact might of the Beltharan army was waiting for them.

DarkThorne had decreed that the Beltharans would be overwhelmed by a tidal wave of zombies created from their own civilian population, all those who hadn't fled south in the vast refugee convoys, and Belloch was determined to fulfil the quota he'd been allotted. The Shadowarmies had suffered many casualties among the higher ranks in the latest round of infighting, and he intended to be among those promoted to replace them. If he did well he could be a full Shadowcaptain before the end of the war, his rank marked by a pair of ivory white horns protruding forwards on his whitewashed skull helmet, and he fully intended to be one of those elevated to conscious undead status when the war was finally won. Power! Immortality! An eternity as a lord ruling over an enslaved population! That, at least, was what he'd been promised. Like the vast majority of the Shadowsoldiers, he had no idea what the victory of the Shadow would really mean.

His daydreaming was interrupted by a strange feeling that suddenly swept over him, like a gust of cold air. Or rather, it was the sudden absence of a feeling that had been with him for so long that he'd stopped being aware of it. He looked around in surprise, just in time to see the zombies marching with them suddenly collapse like puppets with their strings cut. All of them, all at exactly the same time.

The zombherds cried out in anguish, bending over them like mothers over sick children, and a hubbub of alarm broke out among the living Shadowsoldiers, as if each one expected his neighbour to know what was going on. Belloch strode impatiently across to the nearest zombherd and pulled him roughly to his feet. "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded, trying hard to ignore the stench rising from the filthy man, but the herder could only shake his head helplessly, tears springing from his eyes as he mourned for his fallen charges.

"Imbecile!" swore the Shadowcommander, and he swept his eyes across the surrounding countryside, suspecting some kind of enemy magic. "There must be a wizard out there," he muttered. "Somehow cutting off the flow of the Shadowlord's power. Spread out and find him. I want him caught. Now!

The humans moved to obey, but the shologs just stood there, a strange look in their doglike, bestial eyes. Some of them smiled, revealing long, razor sharp tusks. "Ya fergot ter say please," one of them snarled nastily.

"I'm giving you an order!" roared Belloch furiously. "Now move!"

"I'm getting just a little fed up taking orders from you," replied the sholog, though, stepping forward. "We're shologs, an we don't take orders from no human."

The humans glanced uncertainly at each other. Shologs were always insolent and belligerent towards the other races, but the power of the Shadowlord normally prevented it from getting out of control. Kept it damped down to a safe level that wouldn't cause disharmony in the ranks. There had been something in the sholog's voice this time, though. Something that made all who heard it shrink back nervously. Something that told them that he meant it. There was a dangerous gleam in the sholog's eye, a gleam that few people had seen and survived.

The Shadowcommander evidently didn't see it, though, or else he disregarded it, confident that the power of the Shadowlord would protect him. "Why you filthy fleabitten..." he began.

His eyes widened in stunned disbelief as the sholog thrust his sword into his belly, just under the ribbed and whitewashed breastplate. The other humans froze in horror as their Commander collapsed at the sholog's feet, and then they ran in terror, expecting to be massacred by the huge humanoids at any moment. The shologs just watched them go, though, sneers of contempt on their bestial faces.

The largest and strongest of the shologs then turned to the goblins and the hobgoblins, huddling together and quivering uncertainly. "We're done with the Shadow," he declared proudly. "From now on, we're on our own. Who's with us?"

The smaller humanoids howled enthusiastically, throwing away their skull helmets and tearing the emblems of company and regiment from their uniforms. The hobgoblins hesitated for a moment, then did the same.

"Good," said the sholog approvingly. "Come on then."

The newly formed humanoid tribe set off back towards the Copper Mountains. They would need to find a good place to make their lair, and then there would be rich pickings in the smaller Beltharan towns and villages they had passed on the way.