“What in the name of the Gods is going on?” demanded General Poll in confusion.

     He was peering through his field glasses at the Shadowarmy encampments half a mile away across the grassy plain. With him on the walls of Framlinbrooke Castle, less than twenty miles from Tara itself, were Colonel Fenn, Captain Dudley and a company of bowmen keeping a wary eye on the vast expanse of fallen zombies in case it turned out to be some kind of trick.

     “They appear to be fighting amongst themselves,” replied Colonel Fenn, lowering his own field glasses as if unable to believe what they were showing him. “The shologs are fighting the humans for the most part, but some of the shologs seem to be fighting each other as well. It’s a total breakdown of discipline!”

     “What do we do?” asked Captain Dudley, breathless with excitement. “Attack?”

     “No,” replied Poll. “That would just make them unite against us. No, I think we’ll just leave them to it for the time being and see what’s left when they’ve finished. That’ll be the time to attack. In the meantime, Tara must be informed.”

     He moved towards the steps leading back down to the streets, leaving the others to continue staring at the fighting Shadowarmies in growing hope and excitement.

☆☆☆

     Twenty tired and weary pairs of eyes looked up in annoyance as the door to the conference room opened and an excited young messenger edged his way cautiously in. He closed the door quietly behind him before making his way towards where General Sondegaard sat with a look of extreme annoyance on his seamy red face. The guards at the door had been given orders that no-one was to be allowed to disturb the staff meeting, so this had better be important. The other high ranking officers sighed impatiently and whispered derogatory comments to each other regarding the competence of the General’s staff, but then some of them noticed the expression that was spreading across Sondegaard’s face as the messenger whispered in his ear and an abrupt silence fell. What was going on?

     The General dismissed the messenger, while holding on to the papers the young man had brought in with him. He waited until the door had closed once more before standing, then looked back down at the papers again as if to reassure himself that he hasn't misunderstood what they were telling him.

     “Gentlemen, I have astounding news,” he said. “Apparently, we’re getting reports from all across the empire of Shadowarmies falling apart in chaos and fighting amongst themselves. The unifying force that has been welding the various tribes and companies of the Shadowarmies into a single fighting force seems to have disappeared. All zombies all across the empire have collapsed, and the discord that has broken out amongst the living Shadowsoldiers is now so great that they are no longer capable of standing against our armies.”

     There was a moment of silence as the other officers digested this information. “We have confirmation of this?” asked Field Marshal Haines at last.

     “We have dozens of reports from units scattered all across the country,” replied the General, holding up the papers the messenger had given him. “They all say much the same thing.”

     Haines had grown old during the course of the war, but now a new light came into his eyes and he stood straight again for the first time in almost a year. “I want a first hand account of this,” he said. “I’ll get in touch with General Poll by scrying mirror and we’ll see what he has to say about it.”

     Before he could move to summon a messenger, though, the door opened again and another messenger entered, hurrying straight to the General’s side. He bent to whisper into his ear, but Sondegaard pushed him away. “Tell the whole room” he said. “It’ll save me having to repeat everything you say.”

     “Yes, Sir,” replied the messenger nervously, looking around at all the high ranking faces gathered around the table. “It’s from Kronos, Sir. A couple of hours ago they witnessed a tremendous release of energy in the vicinity of Arnor, so violent that it was visible to the naked eye, without using the lenses, and now the Shadow is breaking up. Just evaporating away!”

     Silence fell again as the significance of the message sank in, and then all eyes fell on Haines as they waited for him to speak. “Gentlemen,” he said at last, “I think this is the miracle we were waiting for.”

☆☆☆

     All over the continent the Shadowarmies collapsed as the zombie legions fell to the ground, once more nothing more than inanimate rotting corpses. The free willed undead suddenly discovered that they were no longer bound to obedience and fled in droves, hiding in the nearest shadowy corner or pulled back to the places where they’d died as though tied there by elastic bands.

     The living Shadowsoldiers fought amongst themselves, slaying their former commanding officers, and the humanoids broke up into thousands of small tribes led by the strongest or most cunning. Most of the newly formed tribes made their way to the nearest wilderness area to carve out a territory for themselves, often finding themselves in conflict with the tribes that already lived there, but in a handful of cases a powerful or charismatic Shadowcaptain managed to maintain control over the humans and humanoids under his command, forming them into the nucleus of new, rapidly growing armies. These would be the cause of a lot of trouble in the years to come.

     The news spread rapidly, and joyful celebrations broke out in all the regions that had been threatened by the Shadowhosts. For the army, though, there was a lot of work still to be done. There were nearly a quarter of a million former Shadowsoldiers still within the borders of Belthar alone, representing a terrible threat that might still tear apart what was left of the empire, and they had to be destroyed before they had a chance to organise themselves. The rak Generals, in particular, were the greatest threat. The Beltharan authorities visualised a nightmare scenario in which the raks rallied the Shadowsoldiers behind them, re-creating armies of tens of thousands that would finish the job of destroying the empire, and they were determined to nip this in the bud before it could happen. The Beltharan empire was by no means safe yet.

     The common people didn’t want to think about that just yet, though. All they cared about was that the threat to the world was ended, and they were determined to celebrate. As the news reached them, spread slowly across the continent by merchant caravans, army patrols and wandering minstrels, parties broke out in the streets and stores of food that had been laid up in preparation for long sieges were brought out for celebratory feasts. Inevitably, of course, there were some out of the way places that didn't receive the news until months later, and the distant outpost of Belkondia was still fighting the Fourth Shadowwar more than three years after the closure of the Puncturium.

     There was one place, though, where the news of the victory was greeted with only muted joy, strongly tinged with sorrow. The priests of Crystalwade fortress monastery had a sad and solemn duty to perform. As the yellow sun rose on the morning after the successful assault on Arnor, Abbot Captain Mase led the assembled priests, acolytes and postulants in a long prayer of gratitude and devotion as he held Resalintas’s golden griffin in his hands. He begged the God of Righteous Warfare to receive the old priest’s soul with compassion and mercy, and then he exerted a little pressure with his fingers on the holy symbol which Resalintas had used as his ark.

     The golden griffin, rendered brittle by the spells that had been cast upon it, shattered like glass, tinkling as the fragments fell to the floor and giving a strange whispering sound that reminded them eerily of a sigh of relief. Then there was nothing but a sprinkling of powder on the ground, sparkling and shimmering with the remnants of the magic it had once contained.

     “It seems obscene that such a mighty life as his can be ended so simply,” said Archwarder Grovis, shaking his head sadly. He was standing beside and just behind Mase, in order to assist him with the ceremony. “He’s faced vampires, dragons, raks, and yet he is ended by a simple squeezing of a hand.”

     “It has to be so,” agreed the Abbot Captain, gazing down at the settling dust with awe and respect. “Let us give thanks that his soul remained pure to the end. He has earned himself a glorious place at our Lord’s right hand.”

     The priests then spent a few moments in silence, contemplating the man whose legendary career had just come to an end before Mase reached for the next ark.

☆☆☆

     When the ceremony was over and all the arks had been destroyed, Elmias left and walked forlornly along the corridor, wondering what he was going to do next. He was still a fugitive from the University and his secret hideaway in the plane of stone had been found by the proctors. He had nothing to his name except what he was standing up in, and nowhere to go.

     The priests would give him sanctuary for as long as he wanted, he knew, and even if the proctors found out where he was, as they would sooner or later, they wouldn’t dare anger the priesthood by trying to extricate him by force. He was safe enough, but he didn’t want to stay cooped up in the fortress monastery for the rest of his life. He was as much a prisoner here as he would have been locked in a University magic proof prison cell and that was an intolerable situation for someone used to roaming the planes of existence. Something had to be done! He had to find a way to sort this stupid situation out!

     With uncharacteristic determination he came to a sudden decision. He would go back to the University. Tell them everything that had happened and prove to them that he and the others had been right to do what they had. All the raks were dead, their arks destroyed, so the terrible danger of University raks plaguing the world would not come to pass, and they had succeeded in destroying the Shadow and saving the world. The proctors would drop all charges against him. They had to! He would probably have to resign as head of extra-planar studies, but he would be able to enjoy a comfortable retirement and he’d be able to go on exploring the planes of existence until he finally dropped dead from old age or was gobbled up by some extra planar creature. And if the proctors refused to drop their charges and imprisoned him, then to hell with them! He’d be a hero to the rest of the world and a source of never ending embarrassment to the University authorities. He grinned to himself. He thought he could learn to enjoy being a martyr.

     He turned, therefore, and headed back the way he’d come, back to where the priests were still meditating solemnly over the remains of the raks. He only had to tell them what he’d decided and then he’d be off to his room to pack his belongings. He intended to be on his way before the rising yellow sun had cleared the treetops.