An artificial plateau ran parallel to the road for three miles, ending perhaps a mile before Little Bowl. This stretch of raised earth bore the remnant of some massive, ancient site built by a long gone civilization. The stumps of pillars measuring thirty feet across dotted the landscape, and partial walls made from blocks the size of houses hinted at the layout of whatever the place once was.

  Utterly complex symbols were etched deeply into the stonework. Fragments of enormous statues, astonishingly articulate craftsmanship, depicted strange creatures and monstrous beings.

  Some said it must have been a temple, for what other structure would require such elaborate, seemingly impossible feats of construction. Others suggest it was once a city in a time when the giants of the land were civilized and orderly. Nobody knew for certain. Even the dwarves insisted they had no hand in the building of the awesome complex.

  Rumors of dark magic and lingering spirits kept all but the boldest adventurers from exploring the ruins. Many tales circulated of an underground facility, still very much intact and filled with treasures and mysteries.

  Relatively few people had ever laid eyes on the place in this sparsely populated region. Wary travelers often remarked the duke must have been bribed by a guild of bandits or highwaymen to set the road perfectly adjacent to the ruins; the partial walls and rubble piles were perfect for lurking robbers to hide behind.

  “I don’t like it Allistar.” Hōz said as he opened his eyes. “For the third time I tried to have a look through the astral at yon ruins, and for the third time something obscures my vision.”

  The horse snorted.

  “Exactly.” said his rider. “Someone is hiding in those damned ruins and they’ve had the presence of mind to throw up a charm to befuddle my psychic efforts.”

  A light breeze passed through the area. Allistar shifted nervously, sniffed the air, then snorted.

  “I smell something.” the ranger replied. “Can’t say what. My nose isn’t as harp as yours old boy.”

  The horse whinnied.

  “I won’t argue with you there.” the blue elf shifted in his saddle. let’s get on with it.”

  The Khelt stallion took two steps then broke into a fast trot.

  Tjevrisk adjusted his grip on the hilt of his massive square-bladed sword. His muscles rippled as he shifted from left to right on the balls of his feet. With his free hand he slid what looked like an oversized pair of spectacles with black lenses over his eyes; the glasses were held snug against his face by a thin cord that wrapped around the back of his head.

  Zizzim peered around the edge of a gap in a ruined wall that stretched out along the rear of the plateau. He too wore a pair of black-lensed, over-sized spectacles. The Nokturum leader turned back to face his group, the enormous flightless bird upon which he sat shifted its weight and clawed at the ground.

  Standing twelve feet tall with a crown of hardened feathers resembling a mohawk atop its head, the crimson-feathered beast had the uncaring eyes of a predator and a beak that was both long and broad. The latter feature prompted the common name iron beak for its incredible sharpness and hardness, but the birds were called tchaka in Dirus Foedus and on the Khelt where they were common.

  The other Nokturim wore the same peculiar eyewear and sat atop their own red-feathered monstrosities, except for Tjevrisk. His tchaka stood behind him, looking this way and that and twitching the way birds often do.

  “Mount up.” Zizzim instructed the big dark elf in a tone that wasn’t harsh but still invited no discussion.

  The muscular warrior clicked his tongue off the roof of his mouth twice, and the bird-beast behind him lowered its neck. Tjevrisk hooked an arm around the neck behind the skull and the giant bird hoisted him up, and back onto the saddle.

  “These are incredible.” Drelan referred to his eyewear. “I can see perfectly and without the slightest pain. Is it magic?”

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  “No.” Zizzim replied. “Obsidian and Miruz’heb ingenuity.”

  “The pit gnomes.” Drelan remarked. “I’ve always considered gnomes to be worthless creatures. Perhaps I have wronged the dark side of that family by including them in that assessment.”

  Gefaldin sat still as a stone perched on his bird, On his lap rested a mini-bow – a dark-elven specialty weapon made like a shortbow but a mere twelve inches in length. His left hand supported the shaft of a wicked lance with a tri-blade tip; the long weapon was attached to the saddle through a ring that allowed it to swivel but kept it always pointed forward,

  Eyes closed, Harajé clasped her hands before her, all digits interlocked except the two index fingers which extended flat against each other pointing straight up. “This is a good thing. It should have been handled long ago.”

  Zizzim twirled his scimitar casually. “The Nokturim at the Market have governance over actions taken in the city itself or by way of its pavilions.”

  “Screw their governance.” hissed the black elf sorceress.

  “In doing so start a war.” Zizzim replied. “One we are in no position to win. You forget my dear, we no longer have the backing of any nation or city – Mael’ Zo k’zahk rises or falls in accordance with what it is able to achieve with the force and resources it has.”

  Silence.

  Sjurik Half-Ghost sat poised and waiting with a hand on his own lance.

  “A formidable h’manus are we.” Drelan observed. “With a half-squad of elite hobgoblins. All for a solitary blue elf.”

  “Yes.” Tjevrisk replied.

  Drelan shrugged.

  The Nokturim fixed all eyes on a hovering disc of shimmering purple liquid in their midst; a viewing pool courtesy of Harajé. Through this film of rippling purple they could see the raised floor of part of the ruins, the hobgoblins hiding behind massive blocks of stone littering the area, and beyond those the figure of a rider on horseback drawing near their kill zone.

  The rider was a very tall Caleum Kari, or blue elven. His face was concealed by the hood of his cloak. The tan Khelt stallion provided confirmation of the target’s identity; this was Hōz’b’nahzioh.

  “Something is not right.” said Gefaldin.

  On the other side of the wall about sixty feet from the dark elves on their tchaka, a group of four hobgoblins with crossbows crouched behind a lone mortar block the size of a small shed. The hobgoblin commander kept the sights of his crossbow just ahead of the rider, aiming for the horse.

  Closer came the rider, now within two-hundred yards of the artificial mound upon which the ruins rested. Closer – one-hundred seventy-five yards.

  “What does that mean, something is not right?’Zizzim hissed.

  “I sense the blue elf.” explained Gefaldin. “But not on the road before us.”

  The rider continued to pass in front of the ruins, now one-hundred fifty yards from the hobgoblin crossbowmen.

  At Gefaldin’s words the six dark elves shifted their eyes to see with heat vision.

  When the rider reached one-hundred twenty-five yards from the hidden hobgoblins he entered the kill zone. The angle was short and easy to lead with a crossbow.

  “Strike.” ordered Heglart.

  Four crossbows loosed their bolts.

  Four tharnwolves sprang from behind a nearby block, each having two armored hobgoblins on its back. These massive wolf variants stood almost five feet at the shoulders and stretched out to around seven feet excluding the tails.

  Zizzim saw only traces of red light moving along the road; his heat vision picking up trace energies of the magic used to create the illusion of a horse and rider. The other five dark elves snarled and cursed, seeing the same thing with their heat vision.

  As the four lupine beasts with their eight hobgoblin riders bore down on the horse and its rider the first volley of crossbow bolts whistled into the grassy plain on the opposite side of the road.

  Heglart stopped working the crank that drew his crossbow string back. He knew he hadn’t missed the target but saw no blood, nor did the horse make a sound as four bolts sailed through it.

  “Blue elf bastard!” Harajé spat.

  Zizzim closed his eyes and searched the nearby plane with his mind’s eye. “You said he was nearby?”

  Gefaldin expanded his awareness outward. Through his mind’s eye he rose above the ruins, affording himself a view of the surrounding plain. He reached out in all directions in search of the blue elf’s mind.

  “It’s a trick!” Heglart half-roared.

  The first tharnwolf intersected with the horse, pouncing at its driver’s urging. The monstrous canine soared right through the image of the tan stallion and its blue elf rider, its snapping jaws catching only the air.

  The wolf mount landed hard, nearly tumbling then skidding sideways to a halt. The remaining three tharnwolves passed behind the first as their attendant hobgoblins slowed them to a halt.

  The riders watched as the illusion continued along the road away from them, the sound of hoofbeats fading gradually as it moved. They even saw dust clouds rising up behind the image.

  On the higher ground Heglart and his crossbow unit marveled at how real the magical decoy looked and sounded. The hobgoblin commander looked about nervously and wondered where their dark elven employers were at that moment.

  From far across the plain behind the ruins Hōz watched the magical image of himself and Allistar steadily move east along the road. He saw the hobgoblin assault fizzle out before it began.

  The fact that he had not spotted a single dark elf made him slightly nervous. Concealed by his favorite invisibility cantrip he and the real Allistar resumed travel to the east.

  The blue elf glanced back over his shoulder. The Nokturim could still spot him with their heat vision, if for some reason they were looking deep into the plain for him. It would also be possible for them to locate him via psychic or magical means.

  He would simply have to remain diligent and be ready to run or fight should the need arise.