Time passed, and the undead continued to pose a threat to the population of Sistrine. For ten years the clerics and the city's warriors fought against the undead, but their forces grew in strength. Although many attempted to go down into the strange ruins below the city to find the source of the evil, non returned. As the strength of the undead grew, they began to conduct raids on the city, exploding from the catacombs to attack the residents. This struck fear into the hearts of many, and they fled the city. Those who were left struggled to protect their homes. The clerics were blessed with new powers to turn the undead, but they could not find a way to seal off the catacombs underneath the city. Rumours started to spread that the skeletons were the result of reincarnation gone wrong, or the spirits of those who fell on the battleground without having found the favour of Sistrina. One cleric, Scelarus started to preach to the people, warning them of the horrors awaiting them if they did not adhere strictly to the codex of Sistrina. With the example of the undead crawling out of the catacombs at night he found a pliable audience, and imposed a strict pattern of prayer upon the people. He built up groups of militia, and joined with clerics who followed him, to patrol the streets. They forced the inhabitants to stay indoors, and soon the city became joyless. Scelarus claimed to have had a vision of Sistrina, promising the citizens release from their threat if they showed true obediance. The clerics who protested at Scelarus? measures disappeared. It even seemed that the light from the stones were fading, and tensions increased within the city. Scelarus closed the city gates, forcing the population to stay within the walls, justifying this with the claim that he was protecting those living in the outskirts who did not have the benefit of the protection of the clerics and the patrols. There were many clerics who knew Scelarus to be a false prophet, but he had the people in his thrall, and they could not see a solution.

One of these clerics, a young acolyte, Myrmidor, prayed fervently to Sirsitrina for guidance. While he stood in the inner Temple, the blue light of the stone fluctuated, filling the room with a light so intense, he was forced to close his eyes. The light quickly dimmed, and became weaker than before, the stone itself seemed to be growing darker. Myrmidor was filled with a great urgency, and a feeling of intense inner joy. It was after the curfew, so Myrmidor was forced to keep to the shadows as he made his way from the temple to the catacombs. As he neared the catacombs he saw a patrol coming towards him ? he quickly ducked into the shelter of the Watchtower. While waiting for the patrol to pass by, he heard whispers from above, and, mistrustful he went up the stairs. ?You can?t do this alone and defenceless? whispered a voice ? I have a present for you.? A priestess stood at the top of the stairs and placed in his hands a shimmering blue sword and a shield. Before he had time to speak, she indicated for him to go back down the stairs. The patrol had passed, and they hurried across the town square towards the catacombs.

They entered the hole leading to the ruins. The air that met them was clammy, as if a chill hand was attempting to stifle them. Myrmidor had no experience with the sword or shield, but the feeling that he was being guided never left him. His companion muttered a brief prayer under her breath, and the cavern was filled with a gentle blue light. He heard the scurrying of claws on the floor - the rats were running for cover. Just as his eyes adjusted to the light he saw, lurching towards them, a red glow, a skeleton, grinning horribly, a rusty blade in its hand. Myrmidor fought against the sickening feeling of fear as he parried to the best of his abilities the skeleton's attacks. Swinging his sword wildly and bashing with all his might in the general direction where he felt te evil to come from, he finally felt a light touch on his arm . . . and the panic melted away and he realised that what he had been fighting was now a dusty pile of old bones. "It will get easier - be the master of your fear, not a slave to it. We shall be here for some time - you will have plenty of practice." His companion kicked the pile of bones, scattering them across the floor with a loud, unnerving clatter, and walked on.

In the ruins Myrmidor lost all concept of time - they ate when hungry, slept when they found a relatively safe place to camp. His companion was mainly silent, save for the muttering of prayers or brief words of command, warning or encouragement. She was a cleric of great power, but Myrmidor could not remember having seen her in the temple. The deeper they travelled into the ruins the colder and damper the atmosphere grew. Shadows seemed to slink around the constant light of the cleric's staff and snicker as they passed. The feeling of malevolence grew with each step they took nearer to the heart of the dungeon, and the skeletons seemed to grow stronger. Myrmidor's head pulsated with a feeling he was unused to. It started as a dull headache, but grew and grew till he felt he would burst - a gnawing fear, a resentment towards his companion who had brought him into the situation and a pent up aggression that desperately needed an outlet, swelled up inside him. His attacks on the skeletons grew more and more frenzied, and he began to look forward to meeting the next opponent, simply for the feeling of power he would recieve from seeing their bones burst to shards, the arms explode into decaying matter.

As he saw a group of shuffling undead, their frames wrapped in puss-stained bandages coming towards them, he screamed with deeply felt hatred, and joyfully threw himself into the fight. Slashing wildly with his sword he hardly bothered with his shield in his blood-lust. He relished the feeling as one maimed corpse after the other collapsed on the floor, a pile of dust and stained rags. "Halt!" he heard the command in the voice and felt a cool touch on his arm, but all he could think about was where the next victim was, and lunged with his sword at the figure who would restrain him - suddenly she was not there - and the caverns plunged into darkness. As quickly as the darkness flooded the room, a deep grief and desperation flooded his soul, and the aggression and anger seeped away. He threw the blade from him, and collapsed upon the floor. His companion was gone, probably killed by the blade she had given him in trust. He hoped for nothing more than a speedy death.

"Now you know the true threat that faces my city, Myrmidor. It is not Scelarus - although he plays his part - it is the anger, the fear, the mistrust that has been smuggled in. Humans are creatures with divided hearts - they must choose their path and there are those who would rather walk the way of pain for their own power and gain. People like you, Myrmidor, pure of heart, honest and brave, are the people to uphold the balance, to protect those who cannot protect themselves, and to strike, but only in defence." At these words Myrmidor looked up, and saw that the sword was being held out to him by an invisible hand. "But - I'm not worthy, I turned on you in anger, I'm only an acolyte, I failed . . . " he hung his head. "You are my chosen one. You will free the city. You will lead the people in a new age. You will prepare them for that which is to come. But you will be alone from this point on. You go with the light of Sistrina, and my blessing." Myrmidor felt a tingling sensation. The anger and grief that had just seeped out of his soul, leaving him feeling hollow and empty inside was replaced by a serene joyfulness, a confidence in his safety and his strength. "Be warned - you have yet to face the worst, and though you must take a sign to those above, do not take the sign of violence. And do not touch the bloodstone - even I will not be able to help you then."

The voice faded, but the sense of Sistrina's presence did not. He carried on through the tunnels, letting his feet do the walking. In the distance he heard chanting, deep, low, unnerving, sounds without words, meaning without form. The light around him dimmed and he felt the words form near his ear"Go forward, look, be silent and walk on. This you must do alone. Take with you my blessing, and sheath your sword!" The light dwindled completely, but he found he could still see. He moved quietly towards the chanting.

The voices came from a chamber, and through the opening a red light pulsed - blood red, spilling into the corridor. The sight of it filled him with nausea, and he skirted around it, taking care that the light did not fall upon him. As he looked into the room, he saw four figures, praying over what seemed to be an alter - the alter was red in hue, and not just because of the light. Blood glittered in a patterned net upon the floor, tracing arcane symbols. Nearest the alter the light still appeared blue, but as it travelled its course it turned red flickering like fire. The chanting had reached its bloodcurdling depth, Myrmidor's ribcage reverberated with the thrumming voices, till it seemed it would burst, when suddenly - the voices stopped. The air filled with a tense, anticipating silence - Myrmidor held his breath. The blue light near the altar flared and died. In that moment, the bloodless corpse on the altar raised itself up, and seemed to let out the hiss of what would have been a deeply horrified scream had the corpse had the life to release it. Myrmidor fell back against the rock of the cave - he recognised the corpse as one of those clerics who had gone missing. Before his eyes, he watched the corpse's skeleton tear itself free from its flesh, and clamber from the altar. The clerics followed it. The rite had obviously met its gruesome conclusion.

Gagging, Myrmidor uttered a prayer to Sistrina for the soul of the victim, and forced himself to follow the clerics. Here the darkness gathered itself around him - a malicious cloak of cold that threatened to choke off the dank air from his lungs. The group turned round a sharp corner and Myrmidor almost lost them, they seemed to have doubled their speed, without having the appearance that they were running, and Myrmidor had to jog to keep the in his sight. Finally, they turned one last corner, and Myrmidor knew that they had reached their destination. There was a palpable taste of malevolence in the air, it seemed that he was breathing in blood. The opening through which they had disappeared was bathed in the unholy red hue he had already seen during the ritual, but this time, the light was stronger and had almost a physical presence. His soul turned within him, and his hand reached for his sword and removed it from its sheath.

As he turned the corner, his hand was trembling with fear. Immediately a hollow laugh rung out. The room was lit by a blood-red stone, pulsating with a light in which forms seemed to writhe and dance. Before it stood a figure, silhouetted like the pupil of a cat's eye against the red light, the figure from who the unearthly laughter came. The clerics fled the room. "Another soul for my army." The words were whispered directly into Myrmidor's brain, somehow by-passing his ears. "And this one has brought a toy with him" So quickly that it startled him, the figure moved towards him, and brushed his cheek with its hand. The light touch brought Myrmidor to his knees, screaming in pain - but above his own voice he could still here the mocking laughter of the figure. He whispered a prayer to Sistrina. "Pray!" mocked the disembodied voice in his head "in here, in my domain, that won't help you. Don't you fools realise that Sistrina is already here? You all run down here, to the slaughter, praying to your 'Goddess'" - his quiet voice spat out the word - "you have no idea of the truth" Myrmidor tried to block out the voice of the wraith, he looked up - the dark transluscent figure bore a crown on his head, his arms were folded in an impious manner. Gathering his courage together, he lunged with the drawn sword at the figure - and met. The sword passed through the body. He felt the jolt of the blade as it connected with solid matter, he felt the ice cold touch of . . . despair as the blade penetrated the wraith, and then the wraith was no longer there. There was a moment of silence, and then a ferocious forewarning of fury and malevolence and Myrmidor barely had time to turn around and parry the blow from the wraith's blade that would have pierced his heart, had he been fraction slower. His head was filled with a high pitched hissing noise - the rage of the wraith as it lunged and lunged again with its blood red blade, trying to find a way through his defence. The power of the wraith knocked Myrmidor back and further back until he felt an unnatural heat at his back - the Bloodstone. In a panic he remembered Sirstrina's parting words to him, do not touch the stone. He fought back - trying to gain space to move away, but the wraith?s attack came faster and faster furiously forcing him back. He was no longer capable of following the blade of the wraith - it seemed to be coming at him from all sides. Suddenly, he felt a searing pain in his shoulder - the red blade had passed through his body and plunged into the blood stone behind him. A blaze of anger mounted in him, and he thrust his sword into the wraith's body. The wraith writhed and shrieked - as it fell backwards, it pulled the blade from him, releasing him, and as soon as the anger had flared up it died away, leaving him empty, drained. The wraith had staggered back - obviously badly hurt, its eyes blazing in fury. With the last of his strength, Myrmidor raised his sword, and brought it down on the wraith's neck. With a hiss, the form of the wraith folded in upon itself, and the crown and it's sword fell to the floor.

Myrmidor sank to his knees. He felt cold emanating from the wound in his shoulder, and saw his blood dripping on the floor. He knew he was dying - forever. The unholy blade had taken some part of him with it. His eyes closed, and he felt himself falling, as darkness closed over him.

"Take it" whispered a voice. "Take it and live." A woman's hand stroked his face, a hand so perfect it could not be real. "If you take it you will have the power over my minions - the world will be yours to rule - take it be my slave and the conqueror of this world" The voice sounded familiar, but was bereft of life, bereft of hope. His eyes lighted on the sword, the sword the woman was inducing him to take. He slowly reached out his hand towards the blood red blade. "Think of the terror in your underlings eyes as they behold you! Think of the violence you could unleash!"

At the word violence, Myrmidor snatched back his hand. "Never!" And the woman's features twisted into hate, the hate of a Goddess. Myrmidor hid his face from her "Then die!" she snarled, and raised her hand to strike him. Myrmidor grabbed the sword Sistrina had given him and thrust himself upon it. The anger of the Goddess seeped away into nothingness.

Myrmidor's disappearance was barely noticed - a young acolyte did not excite such attention and disappearances were anything but rare in those dark times. Seven days after his unnoticed disappearance, the stones of the temple and the watchtower began to glow brighter and brigther, until they sent a beam up to the skies. The people gathered in the streets, regardless of Scelarus's troops attempts to bully them back indoors. A crowd made its way to the square in the temple, and stared up in wonder at the beam. Nobody in the crowd had felt so much at peace for as long as they could remember. Scelarus himself appeared at the entrance of the temple, and called for the people's attention.

"Sistrina is angry with you - this is her sign to show you she wants your obedience. Your presence here is an insult to her! What are you doing, darkening her doorstep with your presence? Return to your homes - report for prayer at the usual times, or else the consequences will be dire!" He shouted, gesticulating in his fury. Behind him appeared a figure. The crowd noticed him immediately, and hushed, expectantly. Scelarus noticed that the crowd seemed to be turned in his direction, but that it was strangely unfocussed "Heed my words! The Goddess will avenge herself upon your disobediance - " "Scelarus?" The figure behind Scelarus spoke his name in a weary voice, leaning against the temple doors. "You are a false prophet." His voice grew stronger with as he spoke. "You have brought great evil to this city. You have defiled our religion. You have oppressed us, you and your lackeys. Leave! Now! And never return!" Myrmidor spoke the words with clarity - they rang out through the morning air, accross the heads of those listening. Myrmidor leant closer to the cleric. "Leave, or they shall know the truth - and then nothing shall stop them from tearing you limb from limb."

The crowd began to cheer - they called for Scelarus to leave - the chant got louder and louder - Scelarus fell back, and threw Myrmidor a look of venomus hatred. "This is just the beginning, my friend" he hissed as he hurried back into the temple.

V: Those Below

VII: The History of Sistrine