They had ridden long and hard the past night. They had not slept, nor even rested longer than it had taken to change mounts on their mad ride from Gotham to catch the army marching towards Metropolis and war. In truth they had barely even paused when they split rank and Sir Timothy had ridden into the forest alone. The younger Dark Knight had not been happy with that decision, but the very fact that he had done his duty with little protest proved that he was the best man for the job. And Lord Bruce Wayne would not suffer another death in his family.

Wayne sighed, standing tall and stretching the kinks from his back and shoulders. He was getting old, and was out of shape from the years of leading the quiet and pampered life of a Lord in Gotham. True, there had been distractions and troubles that had merited his attention, but Gotham had had many protectors worthy of the task of defending the great port city. Not the least of her defenders were those very Dark Knights that Sir Timothy was a proud member, along with their noble leader, Sir Richard commanding the unique, darkly armored legion. Too, there was the Order of St. Dumas and its warrior Priests dedicated to defend and protect the streets within the walls of the city from threat. They were gone now of course.

Lord Wayne stared blankly at the burning fire of his camp, watching the flames crackle and spark, the sound of burning pitch snapping, sending a shiver down his spine. The sound reminded him of death, the cracking of bone. The sight of the raging fire too, reminded him of death, of watching his city burn. Even the darkness...

He could hear her screams still when he clenched his eyelids shut against the cruel night. Worse then, he could see her again, her eyes pleading as Strange- the great hulking bat thing that he had become ripping his long talons into the soft flesh of her stomach. He could smell the blood; the rank scent of filthy, matted fur as the transformed warlock tore his unborn son from the womb and body of his wife, the lady Talia. He could hear the sound of soft bone snapping as the creature had devoured the stillborn, his wife’s screams finally fading and lost to the disgusting sounds of the feast. Hugo Strange had ravaged the babe, laughing as he- it had devoured the tender flesh before turning his attentions to Wayne himself.

And Bruce Wayne had done nothing. The great Lord of Gotham had cowered in the corner, watching with wild, staring eyes as his world crumbled about him. It had only been the intervention of Sir Timothy that had spared Wayne that night, and later, it had only been the words of Ra’s Al Ghul, Talia’s father and Supreme Sorcerer of Lazarus, which had spurred Wayne to action at last.

Lord Wayne turned from the blaze, watching as his army; the Army of Gotham went about preparations beyond the fringe of his own camp. They were ready, anxious even for the coming battle, ignorant of all that it pertained. Little did they know what the outcome might mean, should they lose. He could hear them laughing there in the dim shadows, flickering and flitting silhouettes amongst the trees of the great Opal Forest. But the laughter was just a façade, he knew, a mask to hide the determination and steel of the true anxiety that rippled through the massive army. They were still coming in he knew, the foot soldiers and the trains of supplies that followed every army on the move; the tailors and cooks, the families and even the whores. By the time the last arrived here to this camp the lead commanders and cavalry would be settling into the next, leagues distant. Such was the way it went.

And that was why he and Sir Richard had managed to catch the lead so easily after a hard night’s ride. They had passed the army in their charge, barely slowing to accommodate the moving surge, riding right through the rank and file of the marching warriors. He had heard them of course, their whispers and remarks, their joy and marvel that Lord Wayne himself had come to lead them in this, their darkest hour. They did not know what lay ahead, and in truth there were few that knew what they had left behind.

Gotham was devastated. It had been a night of death and destruction when the Warlock Hugo Strange had escaped confinement in the great monastery of St. Dumas, which had been his prison for years. His might had sent the towering edifice crumbling into the sea with his freedom, the high towered church collapsing under its own weight as the cliffs had crumbled neath the warlock’s power. It was doubtful if any of the monks had survived, and they were but the first. The warlock in his new, demonic body had destroyed the fabled clock tower of the Oracles as well, shattering that high, unique structure and letting it collapse upon Gotham, killing even more in its wake. Miraculously there had been a few survivors in that carnage, and it had been Sir Richard himself that had freed the Priestess Barbara from the rubble, though it seemed that she was now shattered in mind and spirit as well as body.

They had struggled on though. He and Sir Richard had faced the Warlock, each in their own way, and even Sir Iason Todd had helped in the end. Another tragedy, that, as the boy had gone to the dark side himself with the madness and memory of the Joker and that Night of Smiling Death from years before that had plagued Gotham worse than any sickness. The Joker was dead however, he was certain, but that madman had left his mark, cut deeply into too many souls. In the end the madness had claimed Iason, his mind lost to the memory as he strode the night replaying the grisly death of his own father over and over. Cutting smiles into the bodies and faces of whores. Sir Timothy had suspected, and later had delivered the truth too late. Iason was dead now, hopefully at peace by Wayne’s own hand and blade. Another death in the family…

And Talia…

And their son…

Lord Wayne turned at the slightest sound from behind, the soft, light footfall that caused his hand to fall to the pommel of his sword. He relaxed just as swiftly, seeing the small, slim girl standing unafraid at the flap of his tent. She stared at him curiously, her dark, brown eyes probing as though peering into his very soul. And she probably was, being that she was the youngest of the Oracles, and a Priestess in her own right, though not yet bled. She was one of the few that had survived the collapse of the Clock, as she was housed in the bowels of the structure, one of the lowest in rank of the Sisterhood and still little more than a drudge in their eyes.

“Kassandra…”

Kassandra Kain did not answer of course, as she had been another victim of the Joker. She had been mute since the madman had cut out her tongue, and it had only been the intervention of her father, Sir David and his own sacrifice that had saved her life. Lord Wayne had taken the girl to the Oracles then, to be raised and nurtured ever since. She was an orphan now, like he and Sir Richard, and Sir Timothy and all the rest of the Dark Knights. A strange prerequisite, and one, which had not been planned in the fashion but seemed to simply be. Now she was back in his fold and under wing, so to speak.

With the death of Warlock Strange on the cold steel of the Sword of Plagues, Wayne had taken Sir Richard and Sir Timothy and gathered what they could, riding into the night. They had paused only long enough in their preparations to go about their individual needs. Sir Richard had seen to Barbara no doubt, and Sir Timothy to the disposal of Sir Iason in the end. They had been as brothers in the strange and extended family of Wayne, and that in itself had led the Lord to a later decision.

Wayne himself had seen to the task of his House and city. Alfred would deal with the prior, laying the Lady Talia to rest and state until the war had turned its course, hopefully for the better. Lord Wayne had said what tribute he could, that final farewell before duty called him to the city proper. He rode the devastation then, showing the people that all was as well as could be, making promises and tending what regard he could for the stricken. It was horrible, but he knew Gotham would return, eventually, if the war were won. In the end he left the task of rebuilding and authority of the Captain of the City Guard. Gordon was a good and honest man, a strong man and he would see the job done as best he could for the duration no matter how long. Gotham would be in good hands for the time being.

He had returned to the manor stables and found Sirs Richard and Timothy waiting, along with Kassandra Kain. Wayne had questioned her inclusion, but Sir Richard had said that Barbara had ‘seen’ that the girl might be needed in one diversion, and that was that. They had all learned long ago to trust the Oracle and her visions.

They had ridden then, the four, long and hard with none complaining until they had entered the forests and Lord Wayne had sent Sir Timothy to go and help in the guarding of his daughter and heir. They had sent Helena into the forests to be safe from the attacks of Strange, and now with war looming, Wayne decided that she would remain safe thus, and safer still with Sir Timothy at her side. The young Dark Knight had not been pleased, but too he did not protest, at least openly as he turned his steed and galloped off into the darkling wood. The rest had ridden on, silently, lost in thought.

Sir Richard was no doubt asleep now, after going amongst the army and rejoining the other Dark Knights. Too, he had no doubt removed and burned the painted head, which had been presented and paraded on a pike to give the men courage and to quell their misgivings of the dark clown’s alleged return. None would know that the head was false, as false as the killings that had spawned before the mobilization. None but the family would ever know the truth of Sir Iason Todd…

“Are you so certain, Dark Lord?”

Lord Wayne spun again at the sound of the hollow, mocking voice. This time there was a ringing of steel as he cleared his blade from the scabbard at his side, the silver gleam of metal sparkling in the firelight as he leveled the point at the new threat before him.

It was a mage of some sort by his appearance at least if not the tattered robes of azure, which hung loosely upon his gaunt frame. He wore too a cloak of gold held fast by a dazzling amulet, his face in the shadows of the tarnished hood. And what a face; sparkling of the golden mask that hid his true features save the crackling spark of power emanating through the thin slits where his eyes should be. And a mage of great power to know his very thoughts; a Mind Slayer perhaps. Wayne could not take the chance.

The Lord of Gotham cast a quick glance to the girl and saw she was already slipping into the tent at her back with silence and stealth. She had been charged with the task of retainer and squire during the march as Wayne knew that she was perfect for the duty of keeping the Sword of Plagues. He knew full well that the ebony blade was as cursed as it was charmed, and that if he wore it ever at his side its siren call would continually eat away at his very soul. He would only wield it in dire need and when faced with gravest opponent. Thus it had been hidden away for years, only to be rediscovered with the coming of Strange, and it had helped to slay the warlock. The warlock’s blood had awakened the curse however, and he had quickly used the dark blade to slay Sir Iason as well. It had taken great strength of will to bind and wrap the blade once again and give it over to the girl. He knew though that Kassandra Kain could withstand the call, being both woman and virgin, she was still too pure to be corrupted by the curse despite the horrors that had been her youth. She knew too that the sword was needed now, against this new threat.

Lord Wayne lunged, his simple blade thrusting towards the heart of the mage that stood before him on the fringe of his campsite. Some scion of evil, he had a nagging idea of recognition in the mage’s form, but the magician could not be an ally the way he had appeared without a word of decorum. There were rules, even in time of war. A Black Mage then, perhaps from the Southern Lands come to join the spreading darkness. He would die regardless.

But he was quick, and as his hands rose Wayne snarled, a golden shield appearing to block his thrust. His sword rang as it was deflected and he spun, the old ways coming quickly back to mind. He stepped lightly as the Dance of Blades overtook him, flowing with the beat and rhythm of battle, his sword flashing over and about as he turned with a sweeping grace. His blade swiped through empty air…

Sparks flew from the mage’s hands as his fingers waved in gesticulation. Lord Wayne could hear the whispered words of magic rolling from the hollow helmet, words that were naggingly familiar but quickly forgotten and lost as he was not trained in the ways of the Weirdling Word. Light blazed from the amulet about the mages throat as the campsite glowed in eldritch energy. He could hear the shouts of the soldiers beyond the fringe of his camp as they became aware. He could hear the clang of steel brought to bear, the surge and trample of running feet racing closer.

“Back!” he shouted, already rushing at the mage again, heedless of his own danger. “Stay back if you value your lives!”

He wondered why the mage had not actually attacked yet. Weakened perhaps by whatever spell had brought him thus. Of course, and so now was the time to end the battle before it truly began. He sped past, another sweep of steel that sparked off the mage’s shield of magic, but he was ready this time and dove down, his legs kicking out as he spun in the dirt. He heard the mage scream out as his leather-shod feet slammed into the warlock’s unprotected ankles. Luckily he had doffed his cumbersome armor in the safety of the camp or that would never have worked as the mage was warding against the metal of his sword. Wayne drove his sword into the hard earth even as the mage slammed onto his back, the blade slicing dirt a bare inch from the golden helm.

Lord Wayne spun and rolled, diving atop the mage even as his hands started to flit and flicker again in casting. Wayne slammed his bare fist into the warlock’s shoulder, at a spot that would render the arm dead- and did. The mage groaned as his arm fell limp, Wayne sliding up to jam his knee atop the other arm still squirming. He drew back his fist to strike the killing blow…

“Stop! Hear me Wayne!”

Wayne hesitated as the hollow voice boomed out, just a bit of panic lacing the edge, though not a lick of fear. It was odd, as Wayne knew that the scions of the dark were a superstitious and cowardly lot, soon begging for salvation if death and defeat seemed imminent. This one however… There was something…

Wayne reached down and ripped the helm from the man’s head none too gently. That golden glow wavered a bit as Lord Wayne stared at that face that he had been seeking, the one that seemed to haunt his memory and dreams.

“Fate…” he whispered, glancing away only as Kassandra stepped up beside the mage’s bare face, the dark blade in hand and ready. The old warrior mage looked to the Sword of Plagues and sighed, almost relaxing as his gray eyes turned misty.

“I am sorry, Wayne,” the mage said as Lord Wayne crawled from the old man and stood, finally offering his hand to help the other back to his feet. “You have lost much, but,” the old man began with a huff as he stood, “I fear we will all lose more soon enough.”

Wayne motioned the girl back even as he brushed the dirt and dust from his leathers, all the while keeping the mage before him and in sight. He held the helm however, and if the legends were true then the old wizard’s powers were lessened greatly without it. Still to be reckoned with, but Wayne remembered the tales of the Great War and the Darkness, and the stories of the Warrior Mage that had fought at the side of his father and all the leaders of the Great United Kingdoms. If this WAS Fate, then the prophecies had turned that dim path again, and the situation was even more dire than he had believed.

“Indeed,” the old man said, watching as the girl backed away towards the tent again, cradling the Sword in her arms. “The prophecies are foretold. You have drawn the Sword of Plagues. Laughing Night has past. Steel of Man has yet to stand with Spirit of Bat however.” The wizard held out his withered, trembling hand. Wayne gave him the dented helm of tarnished gold.

The old man held the helmet before him, looking at it almost lovingly before gazing up at Wayne. “I recall the old promises, made by your father and mother. I am gathering the warriors of the land once again, as the darkness stirs. The Lord of the Bats is needed, Wayne. The others strive forward even now, gathering the forces of good and opposition- the Light against the Great Darkness. You are the last, you and your ilk, to join…

“The League of Kingdoms!”

	League of Kingdoms.... War, Passion... JUSTICE FOR ALL!
JLA Annual 2004 September, Year Zero-a	by Curt Fernlund

ROLL CALL!
 

Lord Wayne Gotham	Prince Conn'r Star Citadel	Prince Kon-El Metropolis	Lady Dianna Thymscira	Jonn The Red Marsh	John the Steward The Lantern Legion
William Clan Marvel	Constantine Boulder Town	Koriand'r Tamaran	Fate	Orion

Desaaid was breathing hard. He was sweating profusely in his thick robes and feeling the strain of movement on his withered and animated form. He had thought that he had left all that worldly suffering far behind long ago with his first death. Apparently he had been wrong. He ached, but he knew too that no pain, no glory- and THAT was what he craved.

Glory and power! What else remained?

He struggled on, walking the long walk down the dusty trail, the weathered road that led to the future. He could see his guiding light, that beacon, which was his destination there in the distance and towering over the land. That great mount, which imprisoned his soul and determination, his lord and master…

DARKSEID!

He smiled, trudging on…

“This is madness…”

Desaaid cringed at the throaty gasp of Black Manta; the demonic Warlord’s voice echoing hollowly from the massive, metallic helm that he wore, which served both as protection and life in the foul air of freedom. As bad as the forced march was for Desaaid, it could only be worse for the Lord of the Waves, that demon who ruled the Blood Lake with an iron hand.

“You are a wizard, a dark necromancer Desaaid, and a Lich of great power. End this cursed march lest I die in this arid heat. You need me!”

“Not that much, merman,” Desaaid sniggered as he slipped his withered hands into the voluminous sleeves of his cloistering robes. The Manta did not know true suffering- at least not yet. “There are others to take your place. Dozens that might give their souls for the freedom you have attained at this late hour. You may be replaced, so be still lest I do so!”

The Blank Manta grumbled but fell silent again, at least for the time being. They were all grumbling, the four demonic forces that remained of the initial compliment, those that had not been defeated by Fate’s rag-tag warriors. Desaaid hated that he did indeed need them, simply as fodder when it was time for that final incantation, when he might insert the key and unlock the prison, which held their dark lord. He needed them to distract and to guard his back at that final moment. He needed them for their brutality and devotion to pain and destruction, their ability to lead the forces of Chaos against Fate’s Order. Desaaid knew that he would be busy in those final moments, too busy to deal with distraction. That final finale would muster all his knowledge and strength, or it would certainly fail.

“We are losing aren’t we?”

Desaaid turned again, his dark eyes narrowing as he glared at another of the raised Warlords’ complaints. Adam the Black stood tall and gray of skin, his jet-black armor almost sparkling in the bright sunlight, almost seemingly absorbing the golden rays and swallowing the light. He held his helm in the crook of his arm as his violet, piercing eyes seemed to penetrate into that hollow where Desaaid’s soul once resided. Desaaid’s eyes flicked down and away, staring at that one spot of gold on the Shadow Armor; the emblazoned bolt of lightning that seemed to ripple and glow with a hypnotic radiance.

“We shall not lose, Dwarf!” Desaaid smirked to see Adam’s grimace and sneer at the hated name. Desaaid knew that for all his height and muscle and façade of beauty, Adam the Black had once been one of the stout-folk, a delver in the dark underearth. But, with his burning hatred as the outcast of his Dwarven clan; a black prince indeed, ‘twas a simple matter to morph and alter that rage and even the twisted, stunted body into power, and devotion to the Dark Lord of the Shadows. “We march as my powers replenish in this blasted heat and light, but we shall not lose, black prince. Great Darkseid shall rise. It is preordained.”

Desaaid paused, his eyes crackling green as he felt his powers surging up, boiling back to a fever pitch within his withered, parched form. He swept his cold gaze about the four Warlords following him towards the Stone Heights; the Dark Lord’s prison and tomb, this fifteen score years. They were not the last of Darkseid’s trusted lords, nor were they the greatest in strength and cunning or guile. They were needed however, for just a little while longer.

“You… sense it… too…”

Desaaid stared at the swirling form of the spirit amongst them. It was a ghost, once a general, a human in the armies of Darkseid who fell writhing on the tip of the silver Star Sword of the original Star Knight of Opal. But Darkseid was wise and powerful, and that mere human became cursed, transformed into a specter to become an even more powerful Warlord in the service of the Dark Lord. The Mist had the power of the ‘Death Touch’ now, the ability to suck the life of mortals, to age and wither their form into dust. Too, being but a ghost trapped on the plane of Metarun, he had an affinity for the dead.

“A great… loss occurred here. Many… died.”

Desaaid grinned, nodding. “Of course,” he said, sweeping his arm to gesture at the huge mountain yet leagues distant but ever visible. Stone Heights, the prison of Darkseid loomed over all Metarun, for all to see and remember such was the arcane tapestry of its construction. “Fate was not so true, you see. He was not so pure or honest in his casting. Great was Darkseid’s might, so greater still had to be the faith and power of Fate. Greater yet had to be the sacrifice. Fate placed the faith in the Gnome Barreth the Fleet, and as that fast-footed creature drew the attention of the masses, the Magus invoked his spells and laid waste to the Gnomes; their blood and flesh, their very souls providing the mortar to bind and bond yonder mount. Thousands died here that day; mostly the fleeing Gnomes, but warriors of both armies as well, and peasants and kings. Any touched by Fate’s spell died within range, their bodies simply dissolving where they fell into the dirt at our feet. Fate lied of course, blanketing the slaughter with colorful tales of sacrifice, the heroism of Barreth for one, and with his already waning might he used a Glamour that the populace would forget, or at least accept his travesty. Only a select few of his inner circle, that original society and his League of Kingdoms knew what had happened, but for the sake of unified Metarun and the victory of their cause they remained silent.

“The world was torn and ravaged, you see? How would it be for the war-torn population to learn what their ‘heroes’ had done for the sake of peace? There in lies the true key to our own victory.”

“What do you mean?” the last of the Warlords asked, his pale face twisted in confusion. Desaaid looked at the queerly garbed and gaunt form of the Trickster. The clown was little more than a prestidigitator, a master of sleight of hand to be sure, but Desaaid had to question the wisdom of Darkseid in the creation of that one. If the demon had any true power beyond an impressive guile, he had yet to show it.

Desaaid sighed, turning fully towards the mountain. He raised his arms skyward as his gnarled fingers curled and writhed in intricate pattern, his bulky sleeves dropping to expose the withered, bony arms hidden beneath. Green flame danced at his eyes as arcane energy flickered, sparkling about his being.

“Fate’s victory shall become our own,” he said, his robes fluttering with the first licks of foul-smelling breeze. The dust on the road began to stir and swirl as the wind paced quicker still. He could hear the Warlords cursing at the sudden blow of grit even as the heat of day began to fade with a tomb-like chill, a dark tide of shadow washing across the barren land surrounding Keystone. “Let his dark mask be raised. Let the truth be revealed…”

And the ground began to rumble and heave beneath their feet…

And crack and split asunder. “Dark Lord preserve us,” Black Manta’s voice echoed hollowly in the confines of his helm. The Mist screamed, his hellish cries of anguish as though ripped from the grave. And they understood…

And slowly, painfully, the dead started to rise…

Fate gasped as his aged body shuddered with sudden pain. He clutched at his chest and heart as his skin beaded with sweat, awash in heat. His mind swirled as the ancient spells crumbled and fell away, the locks broken and the dancing images of runes long lost in the folds of his mind simply faded away.

“No…” he whispered, realizing at once what had happened, and just how close Desaaid was to final victory. The necromancer’s long march and quest was almost at an end, and they were almost out of time. He felt a hand rest tentatively on his shoulder. Looking up, he saw Orion standing grimly at his side, his face cast in confusion and for just a heartbeat Fate saw the father in the boy’s steely gaze.

“Magus, are you well?” the boy asked, his voice chill and stony. His face was darkening by the hour, Fate saw, becoming chiseled as his true heritage came to bear. His reddish-blonde hair was a mess of tangled locks, damp and clinging against his skin in the cloistered humidity within the tower, the closeness of all those gathered there. Still, even as his pulse slowed to normal and the flush escaped his skin, Fate could sense the heart and heroism within the son of Darkseid.

“I am old, Orion,” Fate said with a forced grin of reassurance, passing off the subtle attack on his being. “Older by the second and closer to my grave with every beat of my heart. Though the spirit is willing, I fear this old body betrays me at times.”

Orion stared for a moment, then finally removed his hand and nodded, turning back to the assemblage. Fate sighed and sagged just a bit with relief, his eyes scanning the crowd as he breathed deeply, gathering his strength again. Desaaid had broken the spells that he had placed upon his horror; the Glamour and Illusions, the Verdance and even the Swallowing. But of course he could, as his affinity to the dead came naturally, actually enhancing the true abilities of the Lich. Fate had hoped that he would have been bested before he came so far, so close, but of course hope was for the doomed and destitute. Fate saw the mage, Constantine staring at him with narrowed eyes, grinning about the rolled stick of tobacc smoldering between his lips.

The Constantine smirked and looked away, returning to his conversation with the monk, Dark John of the Green Flame. The commander of the Oan fires seemed ignorant of what had just occurred, and that was good. The less these fine and proud warriors knew of what had really happened, the horrible sacrifices necessary to bind the darkness, the better. Still, the Constantine knew, apparently, or suspected at least. Truly there was more to the hedge mage than met the eye. So to with all those gathered there within Fate’s most inner and secret sanctum.

The Battle Mage eased in his chair, calling on the slightest power to ‘see’ and ‘hear’ his guests all the better. He scanned the huge room passively, his body soaking in the latent power of the magical ornaments, which littered the floor and walls, seemingly every spare corner and inch of space along the warded edges of the room. The Silver Star Sword glowed minutely where it hung in honor near the barred and banded door. A crystalline amethyst sparkled in the light streaming through the one window, turning in a dull breeze. On a low table across the room, a sapphire flared violet for a heartbeat, fading even as a small rock of black obsidian sucked in light and darkened ever so slightly. They were trophies and more; stolen or won, each held a piece of the past and a fragment of the power that would be needed to salvage the future.

“I know your father, of course…”

Fate glanced in the direction of Lord Wayne. The Lord of the Bats seemed somewhat at ease in the protected sanctum, the general spells of tranquility allowing some of the burden of his recent losses to be lifted, at least within the walls of the tower. He was speaking with Prince Kal-El of Metropolis, the other just as tall and proud, if slightly younger or perhaps less blooded. The two might be brothers in appearance, though the King of Gotham was still clad in his dark armor and cloak, while the ‘Superman’ of Metropolis wore the honored raiment of deep scarlet and shining blue, the huge gold and red ‘S’ shield emblazoned proudly on his chest. They were both tall and fit however, with their raven-dark hair wild and their skin almost bronzed and taut across chiseled, determined faces.

“I have had more dealings with your Count Luktor however. He is in charge of trade with Gotham, for the most. Gotham and Metropolis are allies after all, separated by the vast expanse of the Opal Forest.”

“My father has spoken highly of you, and often, Lord Wayne. Always with a respect that I never hear when he speaks of others. I am both glad and honored to finally meet you, and look forward to fighting at your side, back to back against the great evil that threatens to swallow us all.”

Fate saw the slightest smile twitch over Lord Wayne’s lips as alliances were reformed. So like both of their fathers, and their fathers before them. The Magus glanced at Wayne’s Second, the field commander of his Gotham’s Dark Knights; Sir Richard the Nightwing. He too appeared cut from the same cloth, and he was protective of his lord, standing ever near and listening even as his own gaze drifted over the room. Lingering perhaps on the Tamaranian Princess, Koriand’r?

Fate had been surprised to learn of her inclusion into the assemblage. Pleased, but surprised, he had assumed that the Southern Realms would not join in the battle after the atrocities of the last war. Fate knew that the Warlords of Okaara had long memories and too, unmoving passion in their obstinance. They would hold a grudge and watch the world crumble about their precious, barren land, holding out until the shadows encroached on their very doorstep. Perhaps the Oans had changed their minds, or perhaps they had simply opened their own eyes and realized the danger that threatened the entirety of all Metarun.

Whatever, the Princess of Tamaran was a welcome addition, even as was the Pysk, Adam that she held protectively in the cup of her palms. Fate could see the fascination and innocence in the girl’s green eyes as she stared at the little man of Fairie. It was a pity that the Sallis had not sent more of his people to join the fight, but then the abandoned one was somewhat of an outcast with the Parliament of Trees, and only a few of that lofty and sluggish personage might take his word. Fate knew that Holland would never commit fully until the danger invaded his Green. Still, with the Pysk and the Ogre…

Fate looked to the farthest corner of his sanctum and saw the huge being standing apart, almost invisible in the shadows. The Ogre from the Red Marches simply watched, feeling different and forgotten no doubt. He was one of the few to survive the purge of the Marches that he had called home, no doubt losing family and friends. Why he had remained behind when the Swamp King had recalled his people remained a mystery to all but the Ogre, but Fate was glad that the creature had stayed. This Jonn had proven himself in that battle near Boulder Town, actually defeating the Demoness, Skorch in hand. He, like the Pysk would be a true asset if both might call upon their latent connection to the Green.

As would the others: The Monk of the Order of the Green Flame, Dark John the Steward who had come north with Koriand’r, wielding his mystical lantern, its green light as powerful as the Amulet of Nabu in its own way. They had joined in their journey with William, the Dwarven Commander of the Legions of the Eternity Mountain Holt, he who bore the mighty and magical mace named Shazam entrusted to him by the Great Wizard of the rock of Eternity. Captain William was called Marvel by his subordinates. His Dwarven peers that even now marched north en mass, an army of Dwarves to confront the darkness in their own realm while the Wizard had sent his best north to join the League.

They in turn had linked with the Hedge Mage Constantine and Jonn the Ogre near Boulder Town, where together they had faced the Warlord Skorch and her minions the Goblins. And won! They were a strange band of warriors and adventurers, outsiders almost in their own ways and realms, though together they seemed almost a League of their own.

“I’ve heard of Thymscira,”

Fate turned to the last of the assembled heroes, not surprised to find the Elf and the Amazon standing together. They were royalty both, prince and princess in their own right and proven warriors as well, though as different as night and day at a glance.

Prince Conn’r was the son of King Oliv’r of Sherwood and his Queen Dianne, Lord and Lady of all the Wood Elves of the Forest of Sherwood and the Star Citadel. But for the encroaching darkness, Conn’r would be king, a fate thrust upon his half-brother Roy’ian now by circumstance, and the daughter of Dianne, the princess Dinah the Lance would be the new Lady of the Wood. Oliv’r was dead, hopefully having joined his love and lady, the original Black Canary who had passed on years before, as she was only human after all. The Green Arrow had died only recently, battling the Warlord Merlyn again and his Fire Elves to save his land. In truth, it was only Fate’s timely intervention, which had saved the boy. A pity that Oliv’r had been blind to the danger until the last. His sure eye would have been instrumental as it had in the first war. Fate hoped that the son was at least half the man that the father had been.

“And I have heard of the Elves of the great Forest of Sherwood, and the Star Citadel. Even on far off and removed Thymscira there are tales of the Green Arrow and the Black Canary…”

Fate saw Conn’r hide a frown as best he could. The death of his father still weighed heavily upon him. The burden of the Green Arrow would be heavy to bear, it seemed. But no more so than the Lady Diana’s own burden. Fate did not know exactly what had happened to prompt Hippolyta to send her first born into the fray, into Man’s World as she had withdrawn her support after the last War of Darkness, secreting her Amazons and sealing them away in their ‘Paradise’. Whatever, again if the Princess of Thymscira was half the warrior her mother had been in that first war, then she would be a great addition to the League of Kingdoms.

And there were others of course, all across Metarun. Even now Walleth of Keystone rallied his people in memory of his fallen uncle, Barreth. In Bay City the witch Zatanna fought the hordes abandoned after she had killed the Warlord Wotan. There were rumors of a new Star Knight fighting in the forests of Opal. There were whispered stories of a smith clad in armor and beating back the hordes moving on Metropolis with naught but a hammer. There was a wainwright in Chitown riding a huge mechanical insect against the spawn coming across the Great Lakes from the Frozen North. The Magi of Atlantis too had at last taken a direct hand, massive leviathan at their beck and call to defend the seas from the Rovers of the South, both Arion and Orin leading the way…

All for naught should Desaaid free his Dark Lord. It was time.

“Warriors, attend.”

The room fell silent as Fate spoke at last. He sensed Orion at his back as he surveyed the assemblage, his new League of Kingdoms. They were mighty warriors all, but would they be enough?

“It is time. Desaaid moves and does not rest. Even now he calls forth a new army to deter us, and we must answer the call.”

“Then what do we wait for, mage?” William snarled, his hands wringing the haft of his great mace. “Send us to the fray that we might end this now!”

“Quiet, Dwarf,” Sir Richard spat with a disgusted look. “Let Fate speak without your prattling.” The Dwarven Captain stared daggers at the Nightwing. Fate knew there was enmity between the human and Dwarf, an age-old hatred that boiled up despite his spells of tranquility.

“Make me be still, human,” Captain Marvel snarled in reply. “We are here to fight. I can start with you easily enough.” William raised his mace even as the Dark Knight started to ease his blade from its scabbard before Lord Wayne stepped forward.

“Stop this,” he said, his steely gray eyes shifting from one to the other, staring them into submission. “We have more than enough to concern ourselves than ancient bitterness between our cultures. I expect better of you, Richard.”

Sir Richard reddened, looking abashed to be so embarrassed before the others. He glanced at the Tamaranian Princess before quickly looking to the ground. “Forgive me,” he whispered, but William simply snorted.

“Coward,” he grumbled, and Richard flared again, held back only by Lord Wayne’s hand on his shoulder. All eyes turned however as a solid thump was heard, and everyone saw Koriand’r twirl her Star Staff in hand, bringing it to bear as Marvel rubbed at his head.

“We’re guests here, Dwarf. Be still if you have no aid to add. Petty racial bickering will get us nowhere. Save your energies for the greater evil.”

“This is ridiculous,” Fate said to hear Kal-El’s complaint. He saw too the smirk on Constantine’s face, the frowns on the Lady Diana’s and even Jonn the Ogre. The entire ensemble was starting to bicker and argue where just moments before they were talking as friends. His spells were faltering somehow, he knew. Desaaid’s assault had shattered more than the old enchantments, apparently. He had to take a direct hand before-

“Enough!”

The room fell silent again as Orion’s voice boomed over the prattling mob. Everyone turned towards the youth, their eyes widening to see the barely contained rage within the armored form. The son of Darkseid stared back in return, his fierce gaze putting each in their place.

“My father,” he started, hesitating to see a few faces question that, “yes, my FATHER, Darkseid would laugh at this travesty! He would simply step in and slay us all whilst we squabbled like old ladies at the market. Where is your dignity and pride? What have I allied myself with? Children? Petty and ignorant farmers? You are not warriors!”

“Hold!” the Princess Diana said, stepping to the fore. She was dressed in red, white and blue with a long sword strapped to her hip, a shield and helm resting nearby. She looked regal and proud, her eyes blazing with a grim determination. “We are all different and varied in our cultures and ways. Friction must be expected. None of our peoples have responded well together in times of peace, as has been proven since the last war, however we are all warriors and stand ready to aid. This inactivity now has us all on edge, so stay your tongue, boy before casting stones of aspersion. And you, Fate… Get on with this. Lead us or step aside.”

There was a grumbling that ran through most of the group. Orion bristled at the Amazon’s words and Fate felt the son of Darkseid’s anger swell. The Ogre looked ready to cry, half-hidden in the corner still, and the Elfin archer simply shook his head in disgust. Fate saw the Pysk heading towards the door.

“This is a mistake,” the tiny being said, though only Fate could hear. “Darkseid’s won already…”

Everyone froze, turning to the odd noise and saw the Constantine striking a Lucifer to ignite another stick of tobacc. He waved the wooden match out, tossing it to the stone floor as he drew and blew out a cloud of bluish-gray smoke.

“Bloody ‘ell, people,” he said, his accent thick with disgust. “Ye don’t see what’s happenin’? Whatever that Lich jus’ did’s got us at each other’s throats. We don’t got time t’ be pissin’ on our own lot, an’ bringin’ up old rivalries. Suck it up, eh? Fate brought us ‘ere fer a reason. Let’s be about it.”

“The Hedge Mage is right,” Kal-El said, stepping forward. “This IS ridiculous. We’re the best of the best, and we need to band together to defeat the Great Darkness. Don’t give in to the shadow. That’s what Darkseid wants, what Desaaid’s expecting. Fear is the real enemy. Fear and distrust and bigotry is what Darkseid plays on. We must rise above that and put an end to this.”

“Please…” the Green Arrow said, adding his own words and pleas. “There’s been too much death already. Kal-El’s right! It can’t end here.”

“And it won’t,” Orion said, his face grim, his head hanging. “I’m sorry.”

“As am I…” Marvel said to Nightwing. The Dark Knight nodded in return.

“I also…”

Fate smiled. He stood, his strength returning as he looked at the assemblage, his heart filling with pride. He had chosen wisely.

“Desaaid nears Stone Heights and has set an army of undead to guard his passage. This is why the armies of Gotham and Metropolis are needed. The battle will be fierce as the bodies raised will be ignorant to pain and may only be killed by severing their heads, piercing their brains or hearts. Death stands on Desaaid’s right, and there will be Warlords backing his will and cause. We must account.

“Constantine will travel amongst the armies and ‘bless’ the weapons that they might deal better with the undead legions of darkness. He shall travel unhindered with this Star Sapphire,” Fate said, plucking the lavender jewel from its setting and handing it to the Hedge Mage, “and he shall have Jonn the Ogre, Princess Koriand’r and Captain Marvel at his side when the battle truly begins. You can do this, mage?” Fate asked, and the Constantine nodded.

“I dealt with the dark most a’ me life, Magus. Little blessin’s nothin’ on me. I’ll get the job done.”

“And we shall all protect the mage with our last breaths,” Marvel said with a booming voice, waving his mace over head.

“I’m certain,” Fate said with a grin. “As for the others, Dark John the Steward, Lady Diana of Thymscira, Conn’r the Green Arrow and Orion shall go to Stone Heights to confront Desaaid, and hopefully stop him before he might unleash his Dark Lord. Kal-El and Lord Wayne shall lead their armies forth, rallying the men and women under the banner of the united Metarun and the League of Kingdoms!”

“And what about us?” Fate heard the Pysk ask. “What are we supposed to do?” he asked, indicating Sir Richard with a jerk of his thumb.

“Sir Richard shall return to his troops, to help his Lord lead and inspire. And you, Pysk? You shall remain with me,” Fate answered as he sat back in his chair. He was tired, and he knew that this would be the last. The Beyond beckoned, and he was prepared to answer the call. “You shall protect me, for when… if Darkseid rises, I shall be the first to fall.”

There was a silence then, a still in the air for a moment that seemed to send a shiver through the entire group. Mortality had crept up on them all at last.

“Bloody ‘ell…”

The Road to Keystone…

Desaaid heaved. His breath was coming in ragged gasps as he tried to gather his strength there where he kneeled in the dirt. He was spent, sorely exhausted and drained of power again, but he had done what was necessary. He looked up and out from the comforting darkness of his hood at the assembled mass, the army of undead that he had called forth to do both his bidding and that of mighty Darkseid.

“Gods…” he heard Adam whisper from behind. Too he could hear the ecstasy of the ghost and the cackling of the Trickster. The Black Manta simply breathed, his efforts hollow.

“Here is the final army. The dark legions of our lord brought forth…” Desaaid rasped as he struggled to his feet again. He stood on shaking legs, staring at the mount, the prison of his lord and master. “Fate calls his minions together. The final battle approaches. Are you prepared?” he asked of the Warlords standing about him, staring in awe at the legion that had risen at his bidding.

“Of course,” Adam the Black finally said in the deathly silence. “We stand for Darkseid.”

Desaaid grinned. He could hear the treachery in the Warlord’s voice and knew that each held an agenda of their own should they fail. They were committed to the ultimate cause, but each had their own dreams of grandeur should the final goal fail. As if…

“Go then,” Desaaid said as he staggered forward, towards Keystone and the Stone Heights beyond. “Join the legions and bring about victory. The armies of Fate and Order even now prepare, soon to march forth. Meet them and make Darkseid proud! I go to free our lord. Teth Adam, you are with me.”

The other Warlords grumbled, but acceded. They knew that victory was at hand, and at least for the moment they could not chance that Desaaid would fail. They must be on Darkseid’s good side and ready when he was freed.

Adam the Black stepped up, his dark armor glistening in the sunlight as he donned his helmet then loosened his sword in its scabbard. “Lead on, Lich.”

Desaaid cackled as he staggered forward, towards destiny…

The Forests of Opal

The great stallion reared as Lord Wayne pulled back on the reins. The beast shivered with exhaustion, having run the gauntlet through the troops, the armies of Gotham spread far and wide on the road to Keystone. It snorted as Lord Wayne drew the bridle tight, pulling the steed to check before the gathered troops, his mind sorting through the speech he had delivered all along the line.

“Hear me, warriors of Gotham!” he shouted over the din, and slowly the men and women that comprised Gotham’s army settled and went still, listening to their Lord and King. “The time is upon us when your all is needed. You have heard the call and heeded, and of that I am proud. The armies of darkness rise up, driving forward to thwart us, and the great evil looms, but I know this: He shall not find his path easy! He shall find Gotham’s best standing in his way, and no matter the scum and dregs that he calls forth, those that do his bidding, we SHALL prevail!”

There was a mighty roar went up in the ranks, a cheer as the words of the Lord of the Bats spurred his steed into a gallop and charged along the ranks. He drew his blade, the ebon metal sparking and crackling to effect as he waved it overhead. The massed army only cheered all the louder to see their king in their midst.

Jonn the Ogre watched in silence as the Lord of the Bats ran the line. He felt a swell in his heart, his own blood burning as Lord Wayne shouted words of encouragement to his troops. The man was amazing- for a human- a natural leader and his people were apparently willing to follow him unto the end, to death itself.

The Marshian Manhunter turned as a sparkling shimmer caught his eye and the very air seemed to simply part. Fate appeared, with the Constantine at his side though the Hedge Mage quickly fell to his knees and vomited, hacking and coughing. Fate ignored his companion, stepping forth and watching as Wayne reined in his charger and turned, galloping back.

“You are prepared?” Fate asked, looking to the Ogre and then to Wayne as he approached.

“Lord Wayne is a demanding human. His troops love him, and will follow him into death I think. I shall as well.”

“Death?” Constantine spat, lighting a tobacc stick and struggling to stand and look competent. He was hurting though, Jonn could tell. The powers of Fate were far and beyond what he was apparently used to. “Wish it was gonna be that easy. Where’s the others?”

“The others opted to side with Metropolis. There is only me, I fear.”

“Hmmph,” Constantine snorted as Lord Wayne galloped up and reined in. The horse snorted, breathing hard, and Wayne was sweating.

“What now, Fate?” he asked, raising the plate on his helm and sheathing his sword with a snap.

“Now we prepare your troops,” Fate said, turning to Constantine. “Go forth…”

“Yeah, yeah,” Constantine said as he went to the army. He pulled an ornate blade from the folds of his cloak and ran it quickly over his palm with barely a moan or wince. Both Fate and Wayne watched as he started to carve runes into the blades and axes of the soldiers, touching arrows to the blood on his hand.

“I have transported the Army of Metropolis closer to Keystone. I must rest whilst Constantine enchants the weapons of your army that I might do the same with them. We have some time,” Fate said, but his voice sounded haggard and weak.

Lord Wayne nodded, looking from Fate to Constantine and then to his men and women lined up, waiting. He sagged in the saddle, just for an instant as though the exhaustion and pain of the last few days seemingly overwhelmed him for a moment. Then, just as suddenly he sat tall and heard the whispers of his troops to look upon him.

“Do we stand a chance, Fate?” he asked, careful to whisper that his voice would not carry. Fate looked up at the Lord of the Bats, his smile hidden behind the golden mask of his helm.

“There is always hope, Wayne. We are the destitute, after all. Hope is all we have.”

Outside Keystone
In the Shadow of Stone Heights…

The troops were getting restless. They were itching to march forward and engage the enemy. They could smell the legions of the undead, those that Desaaid had raised to stop them. The Constantine had come amongst them and enchanted their weapons on a grand scale; one for three before he was spent. The others had faith. Faith that they would triumph over the great evil.

Kal-El sighed as he walked his great white stallion along the pickets. His troops stood to attention as he passed, the army of Metropolis, the finest warriors that served his father’s kingdom. He saluted on occasion, or simply waved in passing, feeling the warmth and pride rise up in his wake.

He knew that the others; the Tamaranian and the Dwarf were out amongst the troops, trying to raise spirits, helping where they could. They were warriors true, and heroes. Inspiration indeed, and above all the armies needed that. Inspiration and valor would be needed to win the day. Kal-El sighed…

“Milord?”

Kal-El turned to the red headed scout that rode at his side. He tried to smile, but it was hard.

“Orders?”

“I’m sorry, James,” he said, turning his attention to the mount still far away in the distance. “I need reports. I need you and your men to scout the field and the enemy. I need to know what to expect.”

“Of course,” the younger man said with a salute as he pulled his own horse about. “I won’t be long, milord.”

“I know,” Kal said, returning the lad’s salute. He watched as James the Olsen galloped off at full speed, the scout's seconds joining in the race, vanishing in a rising cloud of churned up dust. The very land itself seemed broken and battered as though a great conflict had recently occurred. The dead no doubt. Rising from the earth to confound and confront.

“Godspeed, James,” Kal said, watching as his friend finally vanished with distance. He sighed, his legs pressing his charger to turn about.

“Be safe…”

Walleth ran through the streets of that city he loved so well. He ignored the buildings, the grand statues and stores, which he passed. He paid no heed to the normal paths that he knew so well, running blindly on. His heart was hammering in his chest as he heaved, gasping for air and breath with every stride. He had never run so far, or so fast in all of his years. Too, he had never been so terrified.

Up ahead in the distance, just at the edge of the lamp light’s glow he saw it again. The cobbled street started to buckle and swell, and even as he slowed with his eyes darting about to find safe haven he saw a skeletal arm rip through the stone. Mangled hands tore up through the broken street, clutching and raking for purpose as slowly the arm lengthened, turning into a ragged torso and skull-like head. He could smell the reek already as he veered away, down an alley to lose himself in one of the inner city’s rookeries. Tears were streaming down his face as he ran on.

It had been the same at every turn. At first no one had known or realized just what was happening. Quickly though it became all too apparent. With the screams of terror, those first horrible deaths of friends and family alike, they all knew exactly what was going on. The lands were giving up their dead.

Bartholomew had been the first; at least of his own family. The first to die. Ripped to shreds by the staggering dead as they shambled towards the mountain. Then Irisa and Maxwell died while trying to get them all to safety. And worse…

They rose.

Walleth slammed against the wall, hugging the shadows as he knuckled the tears from his eyes. He tried to catch his breath, to stifle the heaving sobs as he too listened for the dead coming near. It seemed quiet, mostly, as most of the city had fallen already. He heard the tired whimpering of a dog as it scrabbled past his hidey-hole. A cat hissed, yowling as something scared it to flight. The smell of smoke wafted past, stinging his eyes as he hunkered down, deeper into the shadows.

He heard voices…

“Keep them moving, Trickster,” a raggedy voice rasped, the first that Walleth had heard in some time that was not begging, or screaming. “Nothing lives! Nothing!”

“Of course,” another voice answered, just as rasping, but higher and nasal. Humans then, and not Gnomes.

Walleth shifted, sidling the broken and rancid crates that he was hiding amongst, easing just out of the shadowy corners of the alley to peer towards the street. He bit his lip, tasting blood as he tried not to gasp or cry out.

The dead still shambled by. Some he recognized as kinsmen or fellow Gnomes at least, denizens and citizens of Keystone Town. But there were others as well; humans of every size clad in tattered robes or bits of armor, Dwarves and Elves as well, and other things that he did not recognize. They were all gaunt and skeletal, few with flesh intact and some missing limbs or dragging along on bleached and shattered bones. It was horrible, but what set his heart to hammering with fear the most was the thing that seemed to be leading the dead, directing them towards the mountain.

He was tall and thin, his ragged velveteen robes draped and hanging loosely over his gaunt frame. He was a mage of sorts, but as he gestured Walleth could see his own bony arms and fingers as the sleeves fell away, and the Gnome knew just what he must be. Necromancer; a mage turned to the ways of the dead, and worse by his skeletal frame, a Lich. And with the first, the other with voice stood. He was tall and gangly and dressed in gaudy wild colors like a gleeman or clown. His skin was tainted scarlet though, and Walleth remembered the tales of the damned, those Warlords that served the Great Shadow and again he knew.

Walleth shrank back as the hooded Lich turned slightly and he caught a glimpse of the mage’s face. Little more than a skull it was caught in the rictus of his death gasp. His skin, what there was of it was dry and stretched taut, both pale and jaundiced. But his eyes…

Walleth shivered as the crackling green peered his direction. The Necromancer was scanning the darkness of the alleyway intently. Had he seen?

“Something, great Desaaid?” the other said, peering into the alley as well.

“I sense life…” the mage hissed, stepping closer, but just as quickly pausing as a warrior shambled by in the background. “Keep them moving,” he continued, watching. “With Adam the Black and the Mist directing the undead armies about the city, and Manta in the waterways, the streets of Keystone are yours. I will be occupied. Let none pass your guard, Trickster, or your soul be forfeit.”

“Of course,” the other said with a slight and obviously insincere bow. If Desaaid saw the action however, he ignored it, still peering into the alleyway. “Rats, no doubt. Gnomes were always filthy little creatures. They draw vermin.”

“Perhaps…” the Lich hissed, his eyes sparkling before he finally turned away again. “No doubt you are correct. Come then! I have wasted enough time here!”

And they were gone, moving on and out of sight, their voices fading with distance. Walleth sagged and sighed, letting out a long wavering breath that he did not even realize he had been holding. He sucked in a new breath, trying to hold back the tears again as a shiver of fear raced through his body again.

He knew what was happening now. All the death and destruction, the risen dead, and now the Lich and the Warlord. The eld tales were coming true again, and home. It was the darkness. The Necromancer was going to free the Great Darkness and loose the ultimate evil upon the world once more.

Walleth hugged his knees to his chest and rocked there in the darkness. He wanted to run as far and as fast as he could, and then to simply hide someplace safe. But if the evil was freed, where would he find safety. And more, if the tales were true, there would be others coming. If the Lich was there, and the Warlords walked the face of Metarun, then how far the heroes? The legends would return, and they would need someone to show them the way.

Like Barreth…

But Barreth was dead, sacrificed to stop the great evil, never to return. Irisa was dead too, and Maxx, and Barth, and he; he was not Barreth. Walleth was afraid. He was no hero. But…

He was all that was left. The others were dead. All dead.

Walleth sobbed, standing on trembling legs. He sighed, breathing deeply then of the rancid, smoky air of the alleyway, watching as dead friends staggered past.

He ran then. Fast and true, and he would keep running until the real heroes came. For Keystone and all of Metarun. For Barreth!

The mountain of Stone Heights seemed to be glowing. Dark clouds gathered near the peak, shrouding the monstrous tomb in shadows pierced only by the strange ruddy glow that seemed to spark and crackle sporadically as though charged with lightning. It was as though a storm were brewing, building in force, and Kal-El supposed that in a way, that were true.

He reined in his steed, pulling back perhaps a bit to sharply, causing the great white stallion to rear and snort as he turned it about. He hunkered low about the creature’s neck, rubbing and patting as he urged it into a trot, apologizing. The beast was scared, he could feel its heartbeat fiercely pulsing in its thick neck. He hated to admit that he was afraid as well.

“Make way! Make way, damn your eyes!”

Kal-El turned, rising in his stirrups as he squinted into the distance to the sound of shouts that his sharp hearing had picked out over the din of the army. He peered over the ranks of troops splayed out into the distance, hundreds of men and women that had marched willingly across Metarun, most likely to their doom. The air across the encampment was thick with smoke as the soldiers ate what they could or nestled close to the fires and trying to sleep, not knowing when they might get the chance again. Once the battle started, it might last days, driving in surges and spurts and there was no way of knowing when any of these might know the slightest peace or respite again.

Kal-El cupped his hand to his brow to block the glare of the sun, thick and radiant as it edged towards the horizon. He scanned the row upon row, the knots of army scattering the field until at last he saw the rider charging through the ranks. He was shouting, whipping his horse to a lather, driving it to death, barely slowing as the troops made a path, sometimes hurdling fires and groups of the men too slow to clear the way. His fiery red hair flew in his wake like the tail of a falling star, his face crimson with his urgent mission, and the strain of his shouting. He recognized the rider long before he galloped up into his guard and presence, leaping from his winded, weary horse even before it had come to a halt and dropping to a knee.

“Rise, James the Olsen. Now’s not the time for court protocol. Give me your report!”

The red-haired man stood, his legs shaking from his wild ride even as he slammed a fist to his chestplate in quick salute. Kal-El tried to smile, but his old friend and retainer’s eyes were wild, his face harried, and he knew the news must be grim.

“The news is not good, milord,” James began, his voice rasping as he struggled for breath to speak. Kal-El raised a hand, motioning for the other to stand easy and take his time.

“There is an army of thousands surrounding the Shire, the very city of Keystone Town, and probably the Mount as well. I could not press that far, they were thick as black flies, but I could see, and their numbers seemed unending, overflowing the walls of the city as well and beyond. They were a mix, a rag-tag and motley crew of every size and culture, every race imaginable; Human and Gnome, Dwarf and Elf, and not a few of the Fairie Folk as well…”

“Gods…” Kal-El whispered. He had expected the worst, but this? Where had Desaaid gathered such an army so quickly? Surely-

“But that is not the worst, milord,” James replied, his face pale and grim as he stared up at his Lord. He looked almost stricken, even fearful. “They are the dead. The dead walking! Somehow, Desaaid has gathered an army of corpses long deceased to guard his back as he is about his foul deed. He has raised the long dead- I’ve seen the broken land- and used those to slay more who rise yet again to fall in line. The gentlefolk of Keystone are his army now, mindless creatures bent on dying for his cause without rhyme or care. I doubt any live within the walls, but if so, their numbers must be few and in hiding. It is hideously evil. A desecration!”

“But of course,”

Kal-El turned even as he heard the tired, familiar voice from behind. He held out a hand to hear steel sing as James and his guard drew their blades, rising to his defense.

“Stand down,” he said, turning his steed towards the ancient wizard, marveling at the strange shimmering portal, which was rippling like water in the very air directly behind Fate.

“Desecration is Desaaid’s lot and way. He chose the ways of death long ago. He is the despoiler, and first of Darkseid’s lackeys for that reason.” Fate seemed weak, almost exhausted as he leaned on his long and gnarled staff of oak. He stared up at the Mount, the lights about Stone Heights flaring as though to deny him sight. He shook his head.

“This is bad…”

“My scout tells that the dead surround Keystone, Magus. My soldiers’ weapons have been enchanted by the Constantine, but will the risen fall again to their bite?”

“The dead are not the problem, boy,” Fate said with a frown. “As Desaaid nears the Mount, the Key he has gained from the Land of Lazarus gives him strength or at least enhances his foul magicks. Beyond the dead, the Fires of his power secure the city in his wake, and I am weakened. I had hoped to transport the armies and our warriors to the very base of Stone Heights. Now I fear I might barely force the Gates of Keystone. Our League will have to fight their way in. You and Lord Wayne must clear the way with the combined armies of Gotham and Metropolis.”

“As was the plan, Fate,” Kal-El said, looking to his soldiers, watching in awe the stuff of legends aborning. “We shall fight all the harder now, but we shall prevail.”

“I hope…”

“There’s more,” James the Olsen said, his sword still in hand and at the ready as he stepped forward, no longer willing to hold his piece. “There is a Warlord routing the dead outside the city; a flying man in black, shining armor and a brazen golden bolt slashed across his chest.”

“Adam the Black,” Fate said, shaking his head again. “One of the strongest. I had hoped that he had been lost.”

“And there is another within the city walls. I saw him on the walls in passing, gaunt and gaudy with a wild mane of blonde hair.”

“And the Trickster,” Fate sighed. “How many more?”

“A dozen, Magus,” Kal-El said as he dropped a hand to the hilt of his sword and eased the blade loose in its scabbard. “A hundred, or a thousand, it matters not. We shall prevail!”

He drew his sword, and raised high in the saddle, standing and holding his blade high for all to see. Like a wave crashing on the shore, they all heard the cheer rolling through the ranks of soldiers, stretching into the distance, growing louder and louder with every voice, which joined in…

“Victory!”

Kal-El shook his sword, thrusting it higher as he looked back.

Fate was gone…

The Castle of Fate
Afeika, Metarun…

“No evil…”

Dark John the Steward placed his hands at the sides of his ancient lantern, watching intently as the green fire within flared and rippled. He could smell the very air burning as his powers swelled, his mind and soul, his very will mingling with the flickering flames.

“No evil…”

“You place much faith in… Faith.”

Dark John glanced up to see the Elfin youth standing near. He had a cloth stained with oil in hand, running it the length of his yew bow with an almost tender touch. John smiled.

“What is life without faith? The Oan Masters have taught me that where there is a will, there is a way.”

Conn’r, the Green Arrow smirked, nodding as he rubbed oil into the wood of his bow. He had already checked and rechecked his quivers of arrows; the broad pack on his back, another strapped to his thigh, a third on the opposite hip. There was little else to do since the Hedge Mage had enchanted their weapons against the foul folk. Little to do but wait, and talk, and wait some more.

“My father often said the same, in a round about way.”

“King Oliv’r,” Dark John nodded, smiling, letting the fires in his lantern die to a slow smolder. “A great warrior, we have heard the tales of his prowess even in far off Oa. King of the Wood Elves, and one of the original League of Kingdoms…”

“He’s dead,” Conn’r said, returning his attention to his bow. “A stupid death, and unnecessary, died to kill his ancient foe…”

“But he saved his people,” the Lady Diana of Thymscira said, stepping up and taking a large bite of a big, juicy, red apple. She was dressed in her armor of red and blue, her golden helm within reach alongside her shield and the strange glowing lasso that she bore. She wore a long sword at her hip, dangling at otherwise bare legs save her crimson boots. Long, raven-black hair cascaded about her shoulders as she shook her head to free her face of stray ebon strands. She took another bite of the apple, and John felt his own stomach rumble. “Every Warlord that falls is one less to consider.”

“His death was useless,” Conn’r spat, tossing his soiled rag aside and leaning on his bow, testing the weight as he wrapped a strong leg about its length. “A waste, and now my people are in confusion. My half-brother and sister are strong, but…”

“You would rather be there with them, or in their stead, defending your homeland?” Diana said, taking a final bite and tossing the core of the apple into a refuse bin. “I know the feeling. But there is a greater cause, Wood Elf.”

“They also serve…” Dark John added, standing and looking to the corner of the room and the fourth of their group.

Orion sat alone and apart. He was dressed for war in his scarlet armor, holding his silver helm in hand before him and apparently contemplating it as he turned it about in his hands. His reddish blonde hair was wild and unkempt, and his face seemed dark and lined with concern as he sat there, deep in thought. He was the son of the Great Evil that they had banded together to defeat; the get of shadow and heir of Darkseid himself. What must he be thinking?

“Those who stand and wait…”

Dark John gasped to hear the voice behind him. As one they turned, Orion simply standing and donning his helmet as they saw Fate step from the Circle of Power etched into the stone floor. The Battle Mage seemed tired for a moment, but then he stood tall and surveyed the group.

“The situation is dire,” he said, striding across his sanctum and plucking items from a long, low table. “Keystone has fallen, and Desaaid had turned the denizens and free folk into his slaves…” he turned, “killing them, and then raising them. And others…

“The powers of the necromancer grow with each step closer to Darkseid’s tomb. Already we face obstruction. I may only teleport you four to the gates of the city. You must battle on yourselves beyond that.”

“Good,” Orion said, stepping forward. “I welcome the battle. I shall slay any and all that stand between my father and I.”

Fate grinned. “You shall have your chance, pup. There are Warlords about as well, so be warned.”

“We shall succeed, Fate,” Diana said, donning her helm, slipping her arm through the straps of her shield. “We shall do our duty. Do yours!”

The eld Battle Mage turned then, slipping a golden helm over his head. He seemed to stand a bit taller then, almost glowing with a golden light as he held his staff before the four.

“I shall,” he said, and he then whispered a flurry of words that the others did not understand, and quickly forgot.

The world shifted, and as Dark John got his bearings he stared, his eyes growing wide as he saw the multitude of milling forms that seemed almost to engulf them all. There was a fetid smell, like death, and a low moan of discourse as the creatures that were once alive simply staggered to and fro, swaying as they milled about, waiting…

“By the Flame…” He whispered, his eyes going wide as he slunk back against the cold stone behind him. There were thousands…

Wait for the armies to join the fight , Fate said in his head, then strike for the Mount…

And they were alone.

One by one they turned and saw the multitude, the undead mass, a sea stretching out before them. And above them a sparkling light, a man in obsidian armor, lightning slashed across his massive chest.

“Goddess…” Dark John heard Diana say, and the world exploded…

Lord Wayne pulled the parchment map aside, casting it to the dirt beside the makeshift desk atop the others piled there. He scanned the map beneath with a frown, an ancient and weathered thing that showed the land and city of Keystone as it had been some two score years before. The maps were all woefully outdated and all but useless, none showing any means that might aid in the upcoming battle.

He had deployed his troops as best he could, relying on the natural leadership of Sir Richard to command the field. They had both however seen the massive army of darkness arrayed before them, blocking their way and had despaired. Many lives would be lost in a battle that would hold no glory. Rather a wanton slaughter on both sides, bloody and savage, as it was pointless. Wayne sighed, revealing the next map beneath.

“Despair is a warrior’s greatest foe, Wayne,” Fate said from behind, his voice echoing hollowly from his golden helm. “Do not show your concern to your men, Lord of the Bats, or the battle will be lost before it’s begun. They look to you for strength.”

“We will fight, Magus,” Wayne said without turning, “hopeless as it is. Constantine has blessed our blades, and there are none that will quail or shirk their duty and cause despite the odds or foe. I despair at the sheer number that will die in vain on this battlefield.”

“Is life in vain?” Fate countered, wrapping his golden cloak about himself, suppressing a shudder. His recent magicks had drained him so that he was haggard and tired. He would not show the Lord of Bats his weakness however. They all had to be strong. ”Those who die this day do so for the very survival of all Metarun. They may not live to see their efforts through, but their live will not be thrown away.”

Wayne smirked, finally turning to stare at the eld Battle Mage. If he saw Fate’s hesitation he said nothing. “I lead my people, my soldiers to slaughter, Fate. The job will be done, but I do not need to be happy about it.”

Fate nodded: “Your feelings are noted, Wayne. The battle commences within the hour, within the final fading light of dusk.”

“You’re mad if you think we have a chance at victory, but we shall be ready.”

“Madness,” Fate chuckled as his body started to shimmer and fade into the dwindling light. “Madness is our only chance.”

And he was gone…

CHAPTER THREE

“The battle’s started without us.”

Princess Diana turned to Conn’r and gave him a quizzical look at his statement. She could see the armies of the risen dead shambling about the walls of the city of Keystone, but as far as she could tell there were no signs of fighting as yet. The Green Arrow touched a finger to one of his pointed and elongated ears and grinned broadly.

“I’m not just a pretty face, Princess.”

Diana returned the boy’s smile, glancing up at the walls of the city and the archers poised and ready to fire should the quartet stray within range and angle. “I should hope not,” she said, shrugging towards the force guarding the walls. “They would have our blood I think. And even should we pass them, how might we scale these walls?”

“I can deal with the latter,” Conn’r said, his hand dipping into a leather pouch at his belt, withdrawing a handful of wooden twigs and leaves. “I’m no Magus like Fate, or even the Constantine. Still the Elves of the Wood are not without their own magicks. The archers however-“

“Shall be dealt with.”

All eyes turned on Dark John the Steward as he raised his lantern high. The fabled Lantern of the Oan Guardians burned brighter and brighter with a verdant flame, casting all in a greenish, eerie glow. He cast his gaze upward, staring at the arrows aimed and poised, waiting.

“How long might you need, Elf, to work your magic?”

“Ten minutes,” the Green Arrow shrugged. “Maybe less.”

“The walls shall be clear, Lord of Sherwood.” Dark John lowered his head, the folds of his hood hiding his face in shadow. “Do your sorcery.”

“And whatever the guardian of the flame cannot defeat,” a voice boomed from the flickering shadows, “then the son of the Great Darkness shall fell, or die in the attempt!”

Lady Diana of Thymscira and Conn’r, the Green Arrow both turned at the sudden outburst from Orion, the son of Darkseid himself. He stood tall and proud in his armor of scarlet and silver, his dark helm tilted skyward, reflecting the crackling arcane energies of the Astro Force that was his birthright. His face was grim, and blood sparkled in his cold blue eyes. Conn’r smirked.

“Works for me.” And he set about his task…

Keystone
The West Gate

Sir Richard cringed at the screams that pierced the night. Steel flashed and crimson spread like a sheet on the field of battle. Knights, brave men fell at the onslaught, the unending wave of the dead risen at the bidding of Desaaid, driving ever forward, slashing and hacking, ripping at the flesh of brave men. The combined armies of Gotham and Metropolis fought on, unwavering, unbidden, and still the dead surged forward, driven by the bitter scent of blood.

He charged forward, sword high and slashing as lightning striking the barren fields. His warhorse reared, hooves cleaving the darkness, the screams deafening as the steed drove home, the rider cutting. A volley of quarrels swarmed overhead, falling uselessly in the ranks of the risen. Even with swords magically blessed the undead still would not fall save for a vital blow to head or heart. They just kept coming, wave after wave after wave…

“Fall back!” Sir Richard called out. “Hold the line!”

He could see the fear in the men; the Army of Gotham as they valiantly struggled against the mass of decayed flesh that drove ever forward. Their eyes were wide as they hacked and slashed. The creatures made no noise save their unintelligible mutterings and moaning. They did not scream as limbs were severed, and simply fell limp, so much dead weight when a vital blow was struck. Too, they ripped and bit and clawed, tearing at flesh in a deranged and ravenous assault. The screams were from the men.

“Hold! Hold the line! Cover the left flank there! Archers, fire again!”

Sir Richard looked up as the Lord of the Bats battled his way to his side. He was resplendent in his dark armor, his flowing cloak billowing behind as he spurred his own charger forward, the Sword of Plagues cutting through the Risen as a scythe reaps the field. His armor though was splattered with blood and gore, and Richard could see that the tally and toll of battle was wearing Lord Wayne to the limit.

Sir Richard reigned his horse about, his sword cutting a swath through the enemy as he edged closer to his lord.

“What news?” Wayne said as Richard drew near. His voice was cold and hollow beneath his bat-shaped helmet.

“They are unending,” Richard gasped, pausing to catch his breath. His heart was hammering in his ears, his blood afire. “They force the line like the tide. We have lost many to their surge. I - “

The sounds of battle waned as the screams of the dying overwhelmed. Both Richard and Wayne stood in their stirrups, watching as the Risen overwhelmed the eastern flank, the soldiers swept under the sea of the dead.

“They’ve broken the line!” Richard shouted, his sword driving through another ghoul, piercing its heart. He yanked his sword free, ignoring the dead flesh as it collapsed to the ground, returning his attention to his lord. “What should we do?”

“Reinforce the line. We must hold - “

“And we will!”

The two warriors turned as a crossbow bolt shot between them to strike a ghoul that had staggered too close. Sir Richard gasped, then smiled to see who approached, but Lord Wayne reared his steed to cut off the path of their savior.

“Timothy!” he shouted as Sir Timothy the robin spurred forward, his crossbow gun firing again into the mob even as he slashed with his sword. “You were charged with the protection of my daughter, Helena! How dare you - “

“Your daughter is safe within Sherwood, milord. You have my word. You need me here, more than there. The Elves will protect her far better than me with their wood skills and magicks.” Young Tim Drake huffed, breathing hard after a long, hard ride straight into battle. Blood flowed from a gash in his armor, but otherwise he sat tall in his saddle, waiting.

Lord Wayne glared at the youngest of his Dark Knights, but finally nodded in agreement if not approval. “You best be right, boy. Truth though, your talents are better suited here. Now come, the both of you!”

The Lord of Bats turned again and charged into the battle, his sword blazing a path through the undead. Sirs Richard and Timothy flanked him, cutting into the horde as they drove forward to reinforce the eastern line. The ground was slick with blood and gore. The dead littered the field on both sides, but warriors true they all ignored the devastation and death, their final goal their all. And finally the Risen staggered back, but at what cost?

And for how long? Wayne thought.

How long…

Keystone
The North Gate

“Done!”

Conn’r, the Green Arrow stood, his Elfin magicks urging the vine ladder that he had created up the side of the high stone walls. It was a sickly, spindly thing composed of root and leaf and grass, anchored by rock at the base, creeping part way up the battered stone. Orion watched and grunted.

“That raggedy collection of twigs will hold us?”

Conn’r shrugged. “We’ll see.”

An arrow slammed into the dirt as Conn’r willed the ladder up the wall, but he ignored the danger. There was a flare of green and a scream that followed. Conn’r glared at Dark John as his concentration broke. He withdrew his longbow from his shoulder and swiftly tied a lead to his ladder, which he in turn tied to an arrow.

“We’ll have to hurry now,” he said as he knotted the cord and stood, notching his arrow. “That scream will draw others. We’ll need a distraction.” Conn’r raised his bow and drew on the string, taking careful aim.

“On it,” Dark John said, raising his lantern high. There was an explosion of light far down the wall, and still more screams as Conn’r fired, his shaft flying fast and true to drive into the old stone, carrying the ladder the rest of the way up the wall. The Green Arrow shouldered his bow and tested the ladder for security.

“Good. I’ll go first and take out any archers atop the wall. Follow swiftly.” The others nodded as the youth quickly scampered up the wall and over the edge, disappearing into the shadowy night beyond.

Conn’r slipped over the parapet and dropped flat to his belly. The dark colors of his Elfin attire blended well with the shadows as he shifted left and right, watching for guards. He slipped an arrow from his quiver as he saw one racing towards Dark John’s distracting explosion of light.

Conn’r rolled to the edge of the walkway and drew the bowstring full, aiming. When the guard was in position he let the arrow fly, the shadowy silhouette grasping at its throat and quickly collapsing with barely a gurgle of noise. The Lady Diana dropped to the ground beside him.

“Problems?” she whispered next to his ear, her voice inaudible save for his enhanced hearing. He shook his head, watching as Dark John and then Orion joined them on the ramparts. Conn’r pointed down the walkway and rose, swiftly jogging silently along the well-traveled stone way.

Two more archers fell to his stealthy attack before the quartet reached a ladder down. Conn’r paused, his Elfin sight scanning the scene of carnage raging through the city of Keystone as the others caught up to his position. It was horrible.

The dead roamed the city streets, all shambling towards the walls and gates to engage the armies of Metropolis and Gotham. It seemed a surging sea of mindless maggots churning forward endlessly -

“Goddess…” the Princess whispered, and Conn’r felt her shiver as she crouched at her side. “It’s… horrible…”

“Desaaid in his glory,” Orion spat. “The necromancer shall die for this. I swear.”

They descended into the city proper with those cryptic words, each counseling their own thoughts. The dead were everywhere, but the stealthy skills of the Green Arrow led them swiftly through the shadows; through alleyways and rookeries and the back streets of the city. Ever the Stone Heights loomed ahead.

They paused at last behind a museum of sorts; a plaza with statues of heroes, foremost of which was Barreth, he who gave his all. Conn’r watched, crouching as the others caught their breath. All jumped as lightning split the sky.

“What?” Dark john gasped as the plaza illuminated in the eldritch glow, thunder rumbling past.

“Look!” Diana shouted, pointing as the Risen seemed to totter and then slowly, exoribly shamble in their direction. The Green Arrow stood, unshouldering his bow.

“We are discovered! Run!”

And run they did…

Keystone
The East Gate

“Yaaaahhh!”

Kal-El spurred his horse to leap; crashing into the mob of the Risen that barred the way into the city and sought to tear them down. His blade flashed, steel marred with crimson as he cut deeply into the ranks of the undead. Hacking and slashing, he tried to ignore the plaintive faces, the blank vacant eyes that stared up at him. They were dead already he tried to recall as he cut through their vile ranks. Still, it was slaughter and he hated it. Desaaid would pay!

All eyes- all LIVING eyes turned skyward as lightning arced out from Stone Heights in a crash of thunder that shook the very ground. Kal-El saw the nearby sea swell with the boom, the creatures of the deep shrieking in agony, called forth in the raging waters by the Warlord Black Manta. A moment later and the sky exploded in a torrent of rain gutted from dark and churning clouds.

“Bloody ‘ell…” he heard the Constantine gasp as the sudden downpour beat them back and turned the already blood-drenched ground to a sloggy mud. The Hedge Mage and his troupe had teleported in by the enhancing power of the strange Star Sapphire that Fate had given him just moments after the initial charge. Kal-El was not too proud to admit that he welcomed the assistance.

Constantine was a godsend in himself. The mage looked haggard and worn as though his inner flame had been burned to the nub, but still he struggled on, though complaining every step of the way. His spells seemed endless, backed by the violet stone in his grasp, he alternating between fire and ice, whispering words of magic that only he might remember. All about him the dead burst into flame or froze solid, then to be shattered by whatever warrior was closest. Kal-El had ordered guards about the mage, but oddly the Dwarf Captain, Marvel stood ever at the other’s back.

Marvel was well named, as the Dwarf was almost a dervish wielding his axe within the horde. Whatever came near fell in a bloody swath, and though Kal-El could see the stout man breathing hard, the battle taxing his great muscles, still he fought on with an almost glee as the battle lust drove him forward.

In contrast was the ogre. J’onn seemed almost to the point of tears as he simply waded into the army of darkness. He swung his massive arms, every blow shattering bone as his solid fists connected. In his wake, the dead littered the land as he slowly, ponderously strove forward towards the gates. He hated the battle, obviously, but he did his job and duty as surely as any human in the ranks.

Most surprising though was the Tamaranian Princess, Koriand’r. She was magic personified as she seemingly danced through the ranks of the undead. Her staff was almost invisible as it spun in her hands, striking out like a snake, fast and furious. Too, her arms and feet were weapons as well, as the staff slid aside and she would connect a crushing blow with her gold-hued fists. He could see the glint of lust in her eyes, rivaling the Dwarf as she surged forward, dancing the dance of death without the slightest pause, her golden skin slick in the rain, her hair wild in her wake. Should they survive, if they survived, Kal-El vowed to visit the Southern Realm and the Warlords of Okaara to better learn their ways.

Still, despite all their efforts, despite the sacrifice of the warriors of metropolis, the dead seemed endless, surging forward. For every one they downed it seemed that there were three, four to fill the rank.

Kal-El reined in his horse as a warrior charged forward, his own blade flashing, trailing red. “James!”

“We must retreat, milord!” the red-haired warrior shouted over the din, the screams of dying soldiers and clash of steel. “The army of the dead is endless, pouring forward from the gates and ripping up from the very earth. Desaaid commands the legions of history buried beneath our very feet!”

“No!” Kal-El shouted as he hacked at another carrion. “We must breech the gate. The very fate of Metarun lies with our success.”

“There will be no success, Kal-El!” James said, turning back to the melee. “Look!” He waved his arm at the battle and Kal-El saw his soldiers falling, dropping like flies under the unearthly onslaught. Waves of the undead staggered forward, and despite their blessed weapons they were still hard-pressed to fall. The Prince bit his lip, tasting the bitter iron of his own blood as he saw his warriors fall ‘neath the unending, undaunted tide. He spat, cursing-

“Retreat!” he shouted, his voice choked and wavering. “Fall back to the second brace! We must reform the line!”

James nodded, jerking his steed about to slash a path through the dead for his prince. Kal-El ignored his trusted retainer and advisor, his friend. He stared through bleary eyes, watching as his people fell…

Only to rise again on the dark side…

Keystone City

Light flared with every blow he struck. And every blow struck true, and another of the foul folk fell before the might of the Astro Force. The blade in his hands sparkled, both a blessing and a curse, a sword envisioned and made reality by his father, the Lord of Darkness. Orion did not care.

“This way! Too me!”

Orion drove forward, his arm rising and falling to the endless beat of slaughter. He left a bloody trail in his wake; the undead falling as his sword wrought from the fire pits bit deeply of reanimated flesh. It seemed only fitting that one of his father’s greatest creations should be their salvation.

“They’re endless!” Diana shouted, her own sword cutting into the ranks of the Risen. She was a warrior born, her face grim as she struck, yet grace and beauty as well. Orion scowled, his own visage twisted from the slaughter, the rage boiling within him. Another gift from his father, but like the Astro Force, one that served him well.

The Princess stood at his side, back to back and toe to toe as they cut a bloody swath through the mob. They led the way together, driving forward as the Green Arrow and Dark John brought up the rear. The green flame was waning however, and the Elf was getting tired, his arrows flying fewer and farther between with every passing second. They were valiant warriors all, but against the legions of the newly risen, they were only four.

Orion turned into an alleyway, his companions struggling to follow. It was dark and littered with trash, and too late he realized that it was also a dead end. A high stone wall loomed before him, blocking their escape.

“Damn…”

“I’m running low on arrows here, people. I hope…” The Green Arrow’s voice trailed off as he saw the wall blocking their way. It was high, and no doubt thick. Given time they could get over, but glancing back the way they had come, all could see that time was not a luxury that they had.

A gout of green flame blossomed, billowing up and out. The dead at the mouth of the alley were immersed in the conflagration, the trash littering the dark way disintegrating in the flare. As the glow died however, they saw that far too many Risen simply shambled forward to take the place of those fallen.

“I cannot do that again,” Dark John gasped, sagging back against a slimy stone wall, his hand on his head. “It’s too much. The flame dwindles…”

“Rest, John,” Conn’r said, stepping in front of the monk and drawing his sword. “We’ll hold this while you recharge.”

“We shall hold to the last!” Orion shouted, stepping past Conn’r to confront the corpses that had blocked their escape. He swung his blade in a wide arch, sparks crackling on impact. Those he struck fell, finally at peace, but others simply stepped up to be slaughtered as well.

“This is hopeless,” Diana said as she stepped to Orion’s side. “We cannot hope to win.”

“If we cannot win, then we shall die trying.” Orion stepped forward, his face a twisted masque of rage and hate as he hacked into the endless army. He lost all sense of time, of right and wrong. He could feel the injuries- some of the Risen actually got through his armor. He ignored the pain and the blood, the corpses lying at his feet. He fought on, the image of his father ever in his mind’s eye.

He was fire and rage personified! His anger, his hate knew no bounds. He ignored the dead, the undead lying hacked and torn, bodies piling higher with every stroke, every slash of his sword. He would strike them all down, alone if he had to, just to get at Desaaid and his father. Always his father -

“Orion!”

He barely heard the voice, turning in his rage against the hand on his arm. The Green Arrow did not flinch before his wrath, his eyes steely and fierce.

“Come on, damn you!”

Orion stared at the Elf, then past towards the end of the alleyway where he saw the Oan Monk slipping down into a hole in the ground. He blinked as Conn’r pulled him along, the Elf’s sword flashing to guard their passing.

“What?” Orion sputtered, the adrenaline still rushing, his heart hammering for the slaughter as the Green Arrow led him back and to the hole. Orion stared down into the darkness, a maw-like opening. A mouth leading into the gut of the city.

“We have a friend, Orion,” Conn’r said, firing arrows into the horde again. “All for naught. “A Gnome, and a special one at that. Hurry!”

Orion flexed his fingers about the sweaty leather wrapped about the hilt of his sword. The Astro Force was screaming for more blood, more death. He tried to ignore the siren call, grimacing as he stepped, dropping into the darkness.

“My name is Walleth,” the Gnome said as he splashed as silently and swiftly as he could through the slimy, stagnant waters of the sewer tunnel. The smell was rank and fetid, and Walleth gagged with every step, stirring up sludge and detriment and other things better left ignored. He wanted to vomit from the smell, and even more from the terror of what he knew was happening just a few feet over their heads. He wanted to run.

“Barreth was the hero of the last Great War of Darkness; the simple Gnome that gave his all to save the whole of Metarun.” Walleth glanced back, his starlight vision making his eyes twinkle in the murky light of the tunnel. He wiped his long red hair from his face, immediately regretting it as he smeared something awful on his cheek and forehead, leaving a stink about his nose. He looked at the others to make certain that they were still keeping up, and paying attention.

Directly behind were the two warriors; the bred-haired giant in his scarlet armor and the Amazon warrior princess. Both were watching him intently, their eyes cold and piercing as they slogged through the muck. Behind then was the black monk of Oa, strangely silent. The queer green lantern that he carried pulsed dimly, a verdant light that did little to nothing to light the way, which was probably for the best. They did not want to give up their position to the searchers above.

Finally bringing up the rear was the Wood Elf; the boy who was the Green Arrow. Walleth remembered the tales of Oliv’r, the King of the Wood Elves of Sherwood and Opal. He had fought alongside Barreth and Mon-El and the others in the last Great War, but according to Conn’r, the original was dead now, and the boy had taken the mantle. Walleth hoped that the Elf was up to the task, more so than he was.

“He was also my ancestor,” Walleth continued as he paused at a fork in the tunnels before finally turning to the right, and the sea. He immediately felt the flow of water increase at the slight incline and occasionally had to brace a hand to the slime-encrusted wall to keep his footing on the muck under his feet.

“Then it is fate,” the Lady Diana paused, glancing at Orion at her side, “or Fate that you have joined us, and come to our aid. We are all connected somehow to the last battle. Some more than others. We welcome you.”

“Of course,” Walleth said, swallowing. He chewed on his lip as he trudged forward, trying not to let his quivering limbs betray him.

“Where are you taking us, Halfling?” Orion asked, his voice sounding more gruff and short with every moment. “Not that I’m complaining, mind. Battling the dead was a simple delaying tactic of Desaaid’s. Bypassing his horde is wise, but I would know our destination.”

“He’s leading us to the sea, I imagine,” Conn’r spoke up in a loud whisper, hoping that Orion would catch his drift. “If this outlets into the bay, we will be at the very base of our goal, Stone Heights.”

“That’s right,” Walleth said, nodding in agreement. Even then he could smell the waters over the offal, and the barest light was starting to illuminate their way. “It’s not much farther now. We should hurry.”

And without awaiting a response, Walleth started to run…

Stone Heights

Desaaid paused, his fingers straining for purchase as he breathed deeply, almost gasping from effort, for breath. He was sweating in his thick, raggedy robes, and starting to smell the foulness of his own decaying form. Too, he was tired.

It was the magicks of Fate he knew, the vile touch of order that was ironically leaching the ‘life’ out of him as he struggled up the almost sheer face of the mountain prison. He almost felt human in his agony, almost alive. He hated it.

“Hurry!” he hissed, sneering up at the form of Adam the Black, most powerful of his Warlords and the one that he had chosen for the task of watching his back. It would not do at all to be overtaken by the damn heroes now, so close to their goal. Best to have fodder to fight off the damnable League of Kingdoms that he might strive forward to release his Dark Lord.

Adam turned, his face unreadable behind the visor of his jet-black helm. Desaaid saw the glint of anger in his eyes however, before the darkly armored Warlord turned to his task, calling forth the lightning once more that was his own gift from Darkseid. At once the sky split and magical lightning struck the rock surface of the mountain sending chips and splinters of stone exploding out in a smoldering cloud. The air quivered as Order and Chaos clashed, the deafening roar of thunder booming and making Desaaid cringe and grit his jagged teeth.

He heard the booming sound then of Black Adam’s fists as they hammered the smallest of dents into the rock whilst he swiftly started to climb again. It would take a million Black Adams to pierce the stony prison in truth, and the barest damage that he caused was naught but an impression, creating a handhold when the way became too treacherous. Would that they might both use their powers to the fullest to ascend the mountain, but again the spells of Fate prevented that. The way had to be gained each and every step, a long and arduous task.

Still, it gave Desaaid time to plan and plot, and to reflect. He remembered the intricate web, which he had weaved over time, spinning strands in the tapestry towards the goal of freeing his master. He remembered his journey to Lazarus, that mystical and hidden realm to regain the key that would unlock Darkseid’s tomb. He recalled his encounter with the Ghul, the ruler of that land and the torturous task of gaining the key.

It was a far simpler, easier ordeal to free the Warlords from their prison. Bringing back Darkseid’s Chosen of course was integral to victory. Sending out the warlords with dreams of power and glory not only kept their lusts sated but distracted the so-called heroes from an all out assault on Desaaid before he was ready. All had not gone as planned of course, and far too many of the Warlords were defeated too swiftly. Too, despite the heroes’ victories, they too had suffered. The Lord of the bats had lost his family, his Gotham thrown into turmoil. The cursed Green Arrow, Lord of the Wood Elves had been slain, and his whelp of a half-breed had donned that mantle for all the good that would do. Even the boy-prince Kal-El had suffered, the alleged ‘Superman’ unable to save so many of his proud warriors as war swept his precious Metropolis.

Desaaid chuckled, grinning lecherously despite his pain and exhaustion. He raised his arm at Adam’s unspoken call and struggled onward, one step at a time. He could feel the key secreted within his robes pulsing with every inch he traveled. The magic was tingling, almost burning as his goal was neared, as the key got closer to its appointed lock.

“Soon, milord…” Desaaid whispered with a throaty rasp.

“Soon.”

The Base of Stone Heights

Standing at the edge of the wide pipe, Orion paused and stared out at the panoramic view opening before him. The putrid waters raced past his ankles, flowing from the lip of the pipe to fall easily a hundred feet, a slimy waterfall depositing in the foul and tainted waters of the Blood Sea. He breathed deeply of the air, only slightly fresher than that, which he had been forced to endure within the sewers. There was still a rank odor rising from the sea, the stale smells of dead fish and stagnant, polluted waters.

The Blood Sea was more of a lake, tinted red from the odd clay that composed its bed. There was a strong mix of salt and iron in the brackish waters, and only the foulest of creatures survived there in that deeply gutted valley that had been created when Stone Heights rose centuries past. He could see those creatures, even in the dark of night, great slithering things that bubbled up and skimmed the surface of the water, gasping for air or letting off steam, or simply feeding on the multitudinous swarm of insects that lived about the vast inland sea.

There in the odd glow of the mountain it was almost beautiful in an eerie way. He knew though that there was nothing but evil lurking beneath those waves, the creatures of the deep all in the thrall of the Warlord Black Manta, guarding the base of the mountain from an assault by the sea. Desaaid had planned well.

Orion ignored the shuffling of his companions as he turned his gaze to the mountain and its staggering heights. It rose to the very skies it seemed, though that was all part of the enchantment, making the mountain visible for all of Metarun to see and remember. He scanned the stony surface, craggy in places and smooth as glass in others. There was no trail leading up, and in truth the actual entrance to the tomb was hidden well within the rock, though there would be signs to point the way. It would be a long, hard climb however, a true test to each for their strength and skills. No magic would work or help them, or if it did it would be sporadic and untrustworthy. The others knew that of course, and still they prepared.

“It wasn’t always like this.”

Orion glanced down and saw the Heffling at his legs, peering out into the night. The little Gnome seemed nervous and timid, almost fearful, and with good right. Orion would have been suspicious if he were not afraid.

“The sea I mean. My auntie told me that when the mountain was first created and the valley filled with rain-wash that it was crystal clear. As it grew over the years though, the taint of evil soured the waters, and the animals that grew there became foul creatures that slithered in the red clay.”

“Chaos taints whatever it touches, little one. Here at the center, its touch is most foul. It is that, which Desaaid has preyed upon, enhancing his own dark magicks to succeed. That is why - “

Orion’s voice caught as lightning flashed and crashed into the side of the mountain, not so far up the face. He squinted, resisting the urge to rub the spots from his eyes, finally focusing on two dark and diminutive forms scrambling along and up the rocky surface. “Desaaid…”

Orion stepped from the pipe, his sword flashing from scabbard as he leapt into open air. “Desaaid!” he shouted, falling only to land in a run on a thin outcropping of rock, which skirted the edge of the cliff and led to a dead end at the mountain’s base. Even as the others came to the pipe’s edge, Orion was starting to climb.

“We must catch him,” Diana said, Conn’r and Dark John nodding in agreement as Walleth backed out of the way. One by one they leaped onto the slim path, Diana and John racing ahead as Conn’r glanced back and up, waiting for the Heffling.

“Walleth! Come on! It’s not a hard drop!” he shouted up at the Gnome who was watching with wide and watery eyes. Conn’r saw that he was clutching tightly to the edge of the pipe.

“I…” Walleth shouted back, his voice harsh and high-pitched. “I can’t. I wish I could, but…” Conn’r saw the Heffling inch backwards a bit, his small form darkening in the shadows. “I’m not Barreth! I’m not brave! I’m just a Heffling. What can I do against that? I’m sorry…” he said, turning fully and rushing back into the pipe. Conn’r could hear the anguish in the little Gnome’s choked voice.

“Sorry…”

Conn’r sighed and turned, hurrying to join the others. He was sorry too, but it was not unexpected. They had all sensed the Halfling’s nervousness throughout their short companionship. There was naught for it though. He hoped that Walleth would be able to live with himself later, after, if they all survived.

“Desaaid!”

Desaaid paused, turning to look back down from the dizzying heights as he heard his name. His eyes went wide to see the specks of humanity scrambling up the mountain after him. And in the lead…

“Orion…”

Desaaid spat, cursing as he struggled to climb faster. The son of Darkseid was far stronger and hot on his heels with his cursed companions right behind. He saw too just who they were; the Princess of Thymscira, one of the damnable Knights of the Green Flame, and the boy Green Arrow. There was almost something fitting in it that it should be those at the end.

“Adam!” Desaaid shouted, but as he looked up to the Warlord he saw a strange shimmering about his companion and partner. Desaaid’s eyes went wide and he smiled as he struggled all the harder. They had breached the mystical barriers that were leeching them of their magic. Now they would be able to defend and fight. They were at the cavern, that spot that led finally to the tomb. Desaaid grinned as Adam floated out, flying free of the wards, which would no longer affect him. “Come! Get me in - “

Desaaid winced as an arrow slammed into Black Adam’s shoulder. The Warlord faltered a bit, staggered there in the sky as he cursed and gripped the shaft, ripping it from his flesh in a spray of blood. Despite the magical wards it was apparent that the Elves had arrows of adamantine edge that might pierce the strongest armor. Desaaid saw Adam’s eyes spark and flash red through his visor as he ignored the Lich and rocketed back down to engage their pursuers.

“Damn…” Desaaid cursed, watching as the battle was joined, then turned and started the struggle upwards once more. He was far too close to be stopped now. He would not allow it.

“No!”

Conn’r winced as Black Adam slammed into the shield of Diana, the resounding echo of steel ringing in his ears as the Warlord veered off and around, circling to attack again.

The Amazon had produced a rope that she had claimed was magical, though the wards of Fate had stilled that magic as easily as John’s flame and his own Elfin magicks. Adam the Black had apparently passed that spot on the mountain, bypassing the wards and turned back to assault. They were all at a definite disadvantage as John, Diana and Conn’r dangled from the cord, still nigh unbreakable according to the princess. Adam was again at full power however, and they were sitting ducks.

Almost…

Conn’r drew, knocked and fired three arrows in less than five seconds, and though each glanced off of Adam’s obsidian armor, still it forced the Warlord from his path. They continued to climb, trying to catch Orion who ignored Adam’s assault, his eyes focused on Desaaid and the prize.

“In brightest day…”

Conn’r glanced up again. He saw Dark John the Steward with his arms about his lantern, muttering his own mystical words as he tried to summon his spells. He heard a crash and saw Adam slam into Orion, the two struggling as the son of Darkseid clutched at the face of the cliff and trying to ward off Adam’s blows. Conn’r notched another arrow and aimed.

The Lady Diana slashed at Adam’s leg as she came within reach. The green Arrow heard Black Adam’s scream as a stream of blood spewed from the gash rent in his armor. Apparently the blessing on the blade bypassed Fate’s wards and she struck deep, steel biting into flesh. Orion took advantage of Adam’s pain and slammed his forearm into the Warlord’s helm, sending him spiraling away even as Darkseid’s son began to climb again.

“In brightest day…”

Conn’r loosed his arrow even as the Green swelled and light spat from the lantern. Adam screamed as he was enveloped in a flickering verdant fire, Conn’r shaft sinking into his thigh as he writhed. He was too powerful though, and despite the steaming and smoldering of his armor he gripped the wooden shaft and yanked it free, seemingly ignoring the pain. He was fierce that one, one of the Dark Lord’s strongest. They had a fight on their hands.

Desaaid gasped as he felt his inner fire spark back to life. The magic came rushing back like the tide and all at once the pain and exhaustion washed away as he passed through that final barrier. Of course there would be no wards here, at least not against magic as Fate would need to cast his own spells in peace and power. Desaaid chuckled as he staggered forward, his strength returning with every step.

He withdrew the key from the folds of his robes, feeling the spark and burn through his long dead fingers. The key glowed so close to its goal, casting the cavern leading to the tomb in an eerie glow that sparkled and reflected in a shower of color and light. Desaaid cackled, holding out the key, seeking the hidden lock -

And in a flash of light the key sailed from his grasp, clattering across the polished stone floor. Desaaid cursed, spinning on his heels and saw the Hunter at the gate.

“Desaaid,” Orion heaved, the Astro Force glowing in his fist, the blade’s magic having blasted the key from Desaaid’s grasp. “It ends here, Lich,” Orion snarled. “You die the final death, squirming on the end of my blade.”

Desaaid swallowed, backing away. The battle lust and darkness was upon the seed of the Dark Lord. The Chaos that Darkseid worshipped was spawning in the son, swelling and corrupting even as the Hunter raised his sword and stalked forward. Desaaid licked his lips, his eyes roaming for help and salvation. He saw the key and ran…

Diana gasped as she felt the wards fall away. The rope in her hands tingled as the magic returned and it started to glow once again. In and of itself, the cord was woven of spun gold and Star Silver, then blessed by the Gods of Metarun themselves. It could seek truth, and was nigh unbreakable, and now again would obey her slightest whim.

She concentrated and let the lasso loop and snake outward as Adam the Black swooped in for another attack. The lasso spiraled and dropped about the Warlord’s throat, tightening as she braced and pulled with all her strength to guide his path and slam him into the side of the mountain. She shouted over the resounding boom of his impact…

“Hurry! Climb!”

There was a burst of green fire as the Steward of Oa passed through the final barrier, his lantern radiating in his outstretched hand. A flaming green fist appeared and enveloped Adam in its crushing grip even as the Green Arrow clambered up and through that final ward.

“Hold him, John!” the Elf shouted as he ran past Diana and into the cavern of the tomb.

“To the last,” Dark John said as Diana quickly anchored her rope and charged after the Green Arrow.

“No!” Orion shouted as Desaaid scooped up the key and charged for the back of the cavern. He ran after of course, but he could see that he would not reach the lich in time even as he raised his sword to blast away with the Astro Force once again.

He felt the brush of the arrow as it shot past his face, driving into Desaaid’s back with a sickening thunk. The Lich screamed and staggered with the impact, but he was too close to his goal as his arm shot out and disappeared into the crevice that was the slot of the lock.

Desaaid sagged, gagging as light exploded from the crack in the stone, his ragged form coursing with a crackling blue flame of static. Orion heard Diana scream, and sensed her at his side as both ran forward, another arrow whizzing past to sink into the Lich’s shoulder.

Something big and black flew past, knocking both Diana and Orion into the walls of the cavern. Orion saw Adam the Black’s armored form slam into the back of the Lich, the flames of blue and green exploding in contradiction, making both of Darkseid’s minions writhe in agony. Their screams were deafening and grating as they rose in volume and intensity.

Light flared as the Lich seemed to dissolve, his ancient body crumbling in the swirling glow. His robes exploded in flame as his flesh melted away, that which remained. Too, the obsidian armor staggered and swayed under the onslaught, bright light seeping from every joint and orifice as the Warlord was consumed, his body and soul spent in that final sacrifice.

And at the gates about Keystone below the rage of battle died as the dead began to moan and stagger. Lord Wayne’s eyes went wide as the Risen started to crumble and fall, collapsing in broken heaps and in many cases dissolving into dust. Sirs Richard and Timothy both bloodied and injured reined close, their faces questioning…

Just as Kal-El saw the undead fall, the force that kept them going and animated stripped away in that final spell. Their energies were recalled, summoned back by the Lich and key and the magicks that bound the dark Lord, unraveling…

J’onn the Ogre staggered as he felt the cries of Fairie, his own special sight blurred by tears as he saw the darkling sky above. He felt the chill…

Even as the Constantine flicked his butt into the smoldering dust. He looked up at the mountain, watching as it shuddered, great chunks of stone falling away. He ‘saw’ the wards fall away as well, and felt the surge as Chaos roiled overhead in thickening clouds, coming once again to its own.

And in Afeika, Fate screamed, falling back into his chair…

The very mountain groaned as ancient stone shifted and moved in defiance. They felt the chill of the grave seeping forward as a silvery mist seemed to seep from the cracked rock, swirling about the chamber. The sparkling had died as a darkness swelled at the back of the cavern, a frigid breeze blowing away the remains of what had been the Lich. Desaaid had succeeded it seemed, beyond his wildest dreams.

“Gods…” Diana whispered as she raised her sword and shield.

Dark John gasped as the green of his lantern was swallowed into the encroaching shadow, doing nothing to light the cavern.

The Green Arrow licked his lips as he notched a shaft and took aim, his eyes focusing on the shifting silhouette looming in the dark.

Orion simply spat, his body shuddering with anticipation as he saw the scarlet glow of eyes flickering, focusing…

“My son…” a gravelly voice said, deep and smug and filled with hatred and lust. The darkness seemed to fold and swirl as that which was Darkseid stepped forward. He was huge and clad in armor ornate and dark, his skin a crusty slate as stony and cracked as the mountain that was his tomb. And they understood…

The tomb had been his own life force. Stone Heights had grown from his own fire, and Desaaid had released it to set him free. That power was his again, growing within as he simply cast his eyes about the chamber and smiled.

“It has been too long,” the Dark Lord rumbled, taking in the four warriors, the fallen remains of his Lich and Warlord, the shattered fragments of the crystalline key. He folded his arms at his back, looking upon those that stood before him.

“Too long indeed. Tremble child…” he said, glancing then at the Green Arrow, “children…

“The Darkness has returned!”

To be concluded…