Prologue

        Fire, death and the dust of lives forever extinguished. Black smoke blotted out the sky, an artificial night shrouding pitiful scenes being played on a world drawing its last tortured gasp.
        Qualin waited at the Gateway for the inevitable confrontation. Here they would come, at the end of all things. He looked at the two trees, growing side by side, and the magical doorway bridging the gap between their soot-covered trunks. Even now, it wouldn’t be too late.
        Escape… he thought.
        He leaned toward the portal, longing for its saving embrace.
        No.
        He wrenched away at the last second.
        It must stop here. No other world must suffer our fate.
        He had been a fool and now bore the guilt for thousands upon thousands of would. He threw himself down, seeking a hole in the which to hide, or maybe a place in which to pray. Finding neither safety nor salvation, Qualin cried hysterically. After a while, his crying subsided.
        Then the anger replaced the emptiness; revenge became an oasis for his sanity. They had lied, tricked him into destroying his race. They would pay. Qualin rose from the lifeless soil.
        Wait. Can it be?
        Beautiful color interrupted the formless gray of destruction. A lone flower had blossomed in the cradling roots of one of the Gate’s trees. He marveled that anything so fragile could thrive so magnificently. The air was poison now. The sun was naught but a faded memory. Yet this flower survived.
        Then a petal fell.
        And another. And another.
        They disintegrated before touching soil.
        Qualin screamed and then lapsed into a moan. The stem, verdant and healthy, sickened into a moldy hue. It curled earthward, becoming one with the putrid ash burying his world.
        They had arrived.
        Turning to confront his doom, Qualin could barely see them. Their images were blurred with those of the ghosts screaming in his consciousness. Just as had been foretold, he was the Ruler of all.
        Sire of this emptiness, this place of the dead.
        The deception was complete. But he had power yet, and it might be sufficient for redemption. So he lingered, dwelling on the only task left to the forsaken.
        As the group neared, Qualin returned the blank stare of his once mentor. He bore witness to a sinister visage that ere now had taken refuge from the light of day within an encompassing cloak. Midnight in color, the cloak’s uniquely opaque fabric had been much sought after y the ladies of fashion. Little did they fancy that such would be their funeral garments.
        Nekros grinned. His mottled yellow skin was bloated, glutted after the feast. It alone gleamed in the ubiquitous dismal haze, a symptom of the pestilence ingesting Qualin’s world. The light no longer existed to do Nekros injury.
        Qualin brushed his fear aside and then said, “I will not allow you to enter the Gate. Your dark god must look elsewhere for souls to swallow. He may even find pleasure in your worm-ridden half heart.”
        “Dost thou intend to stop us?” The amused whisper vibrated through the languid air.
        “Yes.” Qualin regained his former arrogance. “I can and will.”
        They had given him the tools and the training. He was a master in his own right. Qualin focused his will upon the Gate, seeking, one last time, to command the planet’s consciousness to forever seal the dooway.
        A laugh echoed, resembling the keening of women, the howling of dogs, and the raving of the insane. Nekros had enjoyed the game and savored this final move. “What was thine is now ours. The Gate heeds our bildding. Did thou think we would share our purpose and the fullness of our powers with thee?”
        The full extent of their duplicity crashed inward upon Qualin. In desperation, he wheeled around to the Gate. Before he could leap, the pain piercing his skull brought him to his knees. Nekros had breached his defenses with ease.
        “Now the master truly teaches the pupil,” said Negros in a cold, dispassionate voice.
        Qualin fell to the ground, writing. The agone would last long. He knew. He had drained many himself. As Qualin thrashed about, feeling his life force being ripped away, his last vision was of the Nosferu, one by one disappearing into the Gate.