Realising the fate of his people was not entwined in his own fate, Arrav paused. The sorcerer's sword slipped behind his guard and cut deep into Arrav's thigh. Zemouregal laughed all the louder then, and threw his hood back. A skull with burning sockets looked out upon the wasted fields and where his gaze fell there was nothing but death and evil magicks. Arrav looked down upon his shield - unblemished from any blow - and saw the truth of his path.

Running back towards the town, he took the edge of the shield into his hand and threw it as a man might throw a stone to skim upon the water. It flew through the air and landed in the midst of the burning buildings. For a moment, nothing seemed to happen. Then, with a sigh, all the dead within the walls crumbled to dust. Fires dulled and the nightmares of the air screamed their last. A few men looked out from behind barricades and the dwarves rose from a crater of bodies to see what had happened. A young man, not more than sixteen, was stood in the street holding the shield.

Arrav recognised the man immediately: it was the grandson of the elder who had spoken to him the night before, a man of honour and compassion. Before he could think further, a blast of sorcerous energy struck Arrav in the back.