The Order of Midnight (Prologue) by James L

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The creatures stopped short just five or six yards from Ameran, a chorus of guttural growls rumbling in their throats. Other figures were emerging from the trees now and Ameran's eyes were drawn to them as he fought to steady his breathing. As they stepped into the moonlight he saw that they were men, as wild and feral in appearance as the wolves before him. Clothed in an assortment of furs, leathers and chainmail they regarded him with cold eyes set in rugged, bearded faces. All were armed, wielding an assortment of crude weapons – clubs, axes and various blades forged from shoddy iron.
One of the men – barrel-chested with a shaven head – approached the wolves and stood amongst them, patting their backs and ruffling their dark fur. A heavy mountain bear pelt hung around his shoulders and his thick arms were covered in black tattoos. He leered at Ameran, revealing sharpened teeth, but the Phaeron held his gaze impassively.
He then barked something at Ameran in a harsh, unrecognisable dialect and made a crude gesture, causing the other men to laugh and cheer. Snorting derisively, he spat on the snow before turning and rejoining his companions.
For the briefest of moments Ameran considered leaping forward and skewering the man where he stood, but he knew that if he did the wolves would be on him in an instant.
Closing his eyes, he thought of the waterfall in the Gardens of Hellua. The gardens were long gone, having been burned to ash centuries before during the war, before even the splitting of the continent. Ameran, however, had never forgotten the glimmer of the water in the morning sunlight and the melodic tinkle as it trickled over the rocks. Focusing on the peaceful image, he let his anger and fear ebb away, leaving only the resolute determination that had helped him this far. He embraced this feeling, letting it invigorate his body and soul. His final moments were drawing close, and he was determined to meet the end with dignity and honour.
A murmuring from the wild men caused his eyes to flicker open. Three shadows, tall and slender, moved smoothly through the trees. His heartbeat quickened, drumming in his chest as the newcomers emerged from the wood. In that moment, any flame of hope that still flickered within him died. The wild men shrank back uncertainly as the three Ghalgarith swept past with an air of intense authority. Even the wolves drew back reluctantly, casting longing glances at Ameran.
The three newcomers – clothed entirely in black - stopped before him, appraising him dispassionately. Ameran held their gazes, hoping his own eyes exuded calm and collectiveness. Inwardly, it was all he could do to keep his fear in check.
He knew the three Ghalgarith well. He had spent the better part of the last century fighting them, chasing and fleeing in turn. Two of them he had no fear of, but the one that led them – Varesan – was the last of his enemies he had hoped to see.
As the four of them – Ameran, Varesan and his two accomplices – stood silently in the moonlight, the similarities between them were evident.