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By Root 375 0

this city," a booming voice said. Geildarr spun around to see that the world had shifted around him. He was standing in a vast meeting hall, stars peeking through huge holes in the ceiling. Geildarr stood in the middle of a vast mob of humans, all staring forward at a man with coal-black hair, broad shoulders, and a warrior's physique. Some in the crowd wore the brightly colored robes of Netherese arcanists, the spellcasters of old, but most were plainly dressed. The general populace visibly shunned the arcanists, doubtless blaming their kind for the current lot of the world. No one acknowledged Geildarr, either not seeing him or not regarding him as anything out of the ordinary.

Geildarr was thankful that this vision was not coming to him in the Netherese language.

"Throughout what was once Netheril, crops are failing, and orcs and other beasts are massing to destroy the last shreds of our civilization," said the man. "We repelled this latest attack, but at too high a cost. More attacks will follow.

"And the citadels are falling. We can expect no aid from them. We are alone, and we cannot hold Runlatha for long." With a heavy voice, he said, "Our home is not worth saving any more."

Heads bowed all over the room. Geildarr looked around at the thousands of souls around him-men, women, and children-all desperate, all saddened. All looked to this man-the Bey of Runlatha-for guidance.

To Geildarr, the Bey did not resemble a barbarian chieftain like Sungar, but rather a disciplined military general of old Netheril, a strategist, warrior, and leader of armies.

"Karsus's hubris has freed us from the yoke of our Netherese oppressors," said the Bey. "We are free now, and it is our first duty to find and rally others in nearby lands who have also survived. Through luck and companionship, we shall survive and forge a new life far away from this place. Throughout the empire, groups are banding together and seeking out new lands. Some go east, some south."

"Where will we go?" yelled someone from the audience.

"West," the Bey declared. "We shall try the Lowroad. The underground route will have perils of its own, but the dwarves have always been our friends, and they will shelter and protect us, if we prove ourselves to them. Already they have agreed to give us sanctuary in Ascore, and from there we shall proceed west across the North kingdom, searching for some unclaimed land to make our own. The road will be hard and treacherous, and our enemies will be many. We face even more than orcs and bandits-our leader Shaquintar kept many creatures magically caged for his experiments, creatures freed by Karsus's spell. The most powerful of them, the demon Zukothoth, desires revenge, and he has rallied some of the others to this goal."

"But the tyrant Shaquintar is dead!" came the protests. "And we did not take part in these experiments!"

"It matters not to Zukothoth. He blames the folk of Runlatha. He is another reason that we must move, and quickly. Perhaps we will be able to slip away under his notice."

Not likely, thought Geildarr. He knew that the Bey would eventually go down fighting Zukothoth on the western border of Delzoun.

"Damn Shaquintar to Moander's stinking pit," someone in the audience yelled. "He is dead and gone, yet he will still bring ruin upon us."

"Perhaps he will save us yet. I scavenged the ruins of his manse, destroyed in the fall, and learned that not all of the magic of old has failed."

The dream spun again, and Geildarr was standing at the front of the room, watching as the Bey picked up a small wooden box and opened it. The Bey's stony face was bathed in red light as he plucked free the glowing artifact and held it high for all to see.

"It has survived!" a nearby arcanist cried. "I didn't believe it possible."

"Yes, believe it," said the Bey. "Those of you outside the Arcanist's Guild may not have been aware of the purposes of Shaquintar's experiments. Cruel-hearted tyrant that he was, in his way he loved Runlatha and all who lived here. He wanted to keep us safe, and sensing all this inevitable turmoil,