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He had slipped away at the first sound of hooves. Not far. He wasn't about to run and hide, just deep enough behind the scrub to spy on whoever had dared to approach their makeshift camp. It could have been Nisgarant's runners, scouting about for town survivors. It could have been some unlucky bandits, in the wrong place at the wrong time. Could even have been soldiers from one of the realms ahead of them, skirting around the war band, intent on capturing stragglers to tie down on their steeds and bring back for questioning. The kind of questioning that involved firebrands and sharp implements. By now, most of the large citadels were aware of their impending invasion, and not all of them were going to take it lying down.

Instead, he saw just about the last thing he was expecting; his beautiful black stallion, Bromor, and one of the rat's Lieutenants, whose name could have been Brink. She was a very capable goblin soldier, regardless, and immediately his head swam with ever bizarre possibilities for her abrupt appearance at his hideout. Had Nisgarant been pulled from power already? Had his own dramatic death, (air quotes), inspired one of the Majors to do the impossible, and cleave that twitchy, whiskery, crazed head from the warlord's shoulders? Was the goblin Lieutenant searching for his dead body, to loot it? To... dare he even think, bury it in the ground where it should have rightfully gone? Or was she on the run? Bromor was the finest horse in the fleet, and sharp as a tack, so she'd have made the right choice to steal him away.

As he viewed from his vantage point, she dismounted and settled herself down on the log he'd been practising his new-found magical powers from only minutes before. She yawned and began to nod.

Bromor did likewise. Massive snores sounding from his cavernous nostrils, hot breath shrouding his muzzle in a localised cloud.

The presence of The Dragon did not seem to perturb them any.

In truth, he was pleased and relieved to not have been tested already, in a sudden urgent need to defend his new friend from trouble. Flicking forth flames was one thing, actually causing injury to troublemakers was most likely beyond his capabilities right now.

He trod softly back, his gut telling him that this was all fine. That the morning would reveal all.

The night phased gradually to morning as he sat, staring into the flames, twisting his grey hands idly to see what his magic would do. There was no urge to sleep for him, no desire to have the blackness of slumber overcome him. It was too close to the feeling of death. He shivered for reasons other than the chill. If he closed his eyes, he remembered the fading away into nothing that he had endured at the piercing of the magical horns. He'd felt weak, his knees had buckled. His entire frame had tightened, as if caught in a web, restricted. Bound. His breath had left his lungs without opportunity to draw it in ever again. It had been quick. It had been final. He'd heard of noble warriors giving out their last words to their squires, and having them etched onto their headstones as a lasting reminder of their wisdom and gravitas. He'd barely been able to utter a curse. A shame really, there were a choice few words he'd like to say to that rat bastard when he finally caught up with him again!

The goblin Lieutenant snorted.

He whipped his head round, long slender ears pricked, hands already loaded with blue spheres of power and possibility as her green, pointed chin lifted and heavy eyelids fought to part ways. He was sat only a few feet away, on the end of the solid, organic seat.

Bromor was still in heavy slumber.

The Dragon likewise.

The goblin girl's head turned, and as soon as she recognised her bench partner, her small mouth opened to maximum width and the sharp intake of breath announced the arrival of a piercing cry of alarm.

Swiftly, he gestured for quiet with a press of a grey finger to his thin lips, and she nodded, letting out only a meek 'meep'.

Her orange-pupil eyes that glittered blue in the firelight widened too. It was a portrait of complete shock and amazement. Her fingers had fumbled for her blades, though, true to her warrior instincts.

"Lieutenant Brink, isn't it?" he asked her softly.

Her head tried to nod and shake simultaneously in a conflict. Her lips pressed together and then parted again, an outward sign of the internal struggle her brain was currently going through. Short sounds that were half-formed questions, exclamations and confused squeaks were all she could muster.

"I must ask you, if you've come looking for trouble?"

This time she stared dead straight at his hands and the magic that was residing there. She took a great effort to shake her head, muddy brown hair tumbling about her armoured shoulder pads.

Eventually her words tumbled out, with a great exhale, "you were a mage! All this time, you were a mage! You had power, you could... could... have taken him down! Why...? Why didn't you? When"-.

Bromor and The Dragon stirred at this outburst.

Bromor was the first to take action, snapping his noble head up and whinnying like an excited colt to see his beloved master alive and well, and right in front of him! With four legs seemingly headed in opposite directions, he awkwardly lumbered over and made a decent attempt at knocking the aardvark from his perch, pushing his muzzle all over the officer's grey head and hair.

General Warlock spluttered, albeit happily, reaching out to return the affection in spades, rubbing the horse's jowls and neck vigorously.

The Dragon was pale and feeble, being still depleted from its recent reviving actions. It watched and attempted a smile. Its piercing gaze met Brook's, and in an instant, it was cowering away, covering its face.

She was full of reassurances, "no, no, it's ok! I'm not going to hurt you, you're all right..."

"The Dragon doesn't believe you are a threat to it," the General explained, "it knows it is a threat to you."

Her mouth formed an 'O' shape.

He continued, "our dragon friend has a certain ability, a gift, as it were. It can take over your mind and will in this form, if it locks eyes with you. That's why it was in disguise as our treasurer before."

Her brow furrowed, "we've had a dragon in our army all this time?"

He nodded. With a fluid movement, he drew from his belt a velvet pouch and pulled forth a curious object. Black smoked glass in a thin wire framework. The kind of thing wise Elders might have worn, but theirs would have been transparent and magnifying.

"Here you are, friend."

The Dragon perched them upon its narrow, scaly snout and gave Brook the briefest of glances. Testing them out.

She remained unaffected.

"So," he turned to his Lieutenant, "I'm sure you've got a tale to tell, if you're here and not advancing on Westfield with the rat and his company." He raised an eyebrow expectantly.

"Oh... yes, sir. Yes, I have plenty to tell. Errr." Where did she begin? Important things first. "We're on the run, sir. Ok I suppose your horse doesn't count. I deserted," she gulped, "I don't know when the scouts will find me, but they will, I know it."

"You deserted?" the question was tinged in disbelief.

She poured it all out, "it's all falling apart out there, General! We're eating the injured, we're going without shelter, being pushed beyond our capabilities, it's Hell! The Elites, they have it good, you had it good, but there's hundreds and hundreds of us who are suffering for the rat's campaign, falling where we stand. There's disease and filth and..."

He gently placed a hand at her arm. "They know," he said, "and they don't care. I tried, you know I did, but you're all replaceable. I was replaceable."

"I saw you die!" her voice was almost pleading now, wishing for an explanation that could reveal the impossible.

He stiffened his back. "I did. I wasn't a mage, wasn't capable of feigning death, not in the slightest." He nodded to The Dragon and its fancy new eyewear. "I was brought back. Miraculously, inexplicably. But here I am. Gifted with magical powers. Our scaly friend will reveal its intentions in time, I'm sure. Until then, it needs me near to survive."

The Dragon nodded, solemnly.

Brook was animated now, "sir, we could go back to the cities that we destroyed, we can help rebuild them! If you have magic, if you're a... a mage now, we can do good things! Leave the army behind us and have grand adventures."

He rubbed his chin, thoughtfully. "It's all falling apart, you say. I have business with that infernal rodent, and that's my goal, to take him down. The ruins we left behind... I'm not changing direction to go back to them. I'm moving forward. I'll take the stragglers, the injured, the soldiers on the edge of the company, and I'll give them what they're most in need of: hope for a future in which they can live. I saw it in your eyes when you looked upon me. Thinking that if I'm still here, there's a chance Nisgarant could be stopped in his tracks. That's exactly what I'm going to try and do. I'll turn his own men against him, I'll face him and see that fear and doubt in his black, beady eyes, fear that the things he believed were true weren't true at all, that his stupid sceptre wasn't all it was cracked up to be. That there's no such thing as absolute power."

"We're raising an army against him? He... he already has everyone currently fit to fight..."

General Warlock frowned, "I'm not going to repeat myself; I'm taking my men back. You say scouts will find you, what if we find them first? What will they do when they see me? Try to kill me again? Or, salute and await their orders?"

She nodded, slowly. Given the choice between him and the rat, it was a no-brainer.

"Anyway," he said in a final tone, sniffing, pulling food out from his bag, "I've got provisions! An army marches on their stomach, and Nisgarant's men are going hungry. I can win loyalty with a simple breakfast."

Brook watched fascinated, as her General proceeded to draw eggs and ham and bread out of his drawstring bag. Her stomach gurgled audibly. "You're not wrong, there, sir," she whispered, taking her portion gratefully.

"I'm sorry to disturb you..." The Dragon wheezed, "but it's been a long night, would you mind awfully?"

Without a word, General Warlock moved across to his friend, rejuvenating the creature with a palm on his shoulder.

Brook took a bite of ham and chewed. Spectating. The Dragon had brought her senior officer back to life, and given him magical powers too? But now it was weak and vulnerable, and needed him in close contact to survive? That could prove to be problematic, but she didn't doubt for one moment that the General wasn't aware of all the things that could go wrong on his quest for revenge.

Bromor grunted, flicking his equine ears forward. He stamped a hoof, "Master Warlock, do you feel that?"

There was only stunned silence.

"In the distance. A surge of magical power. Would you like me to investigate?" Unprompted, the black stallion unfurled a broad pair of bat-like wings, giving them a flap that sent a gust through the clearing, scattering ashes.

"I knew there was something funny about that horse!" Brook cried, spitting crumbs.

"Don't look at me," the General said, weakly, "he's never done this before."

Proudly, he tossed his noble, sleek head, displaying a thick, sturdy, curved horn at the end of his muzzle above his nostrils. "I hadn't been in the presence of intense magic before," he said, as though everyone should know that, and they were simply playing dumb. "I'm a Nightmare."

"Oh," said the General. "I see." Though he was still very much lost. "And this magical surge?"

"Could be another dragon. Or a sorcerer of that magnitude. Not quite on your level, my lord, but still worth investigating, if you so wish?"

It was all part of the package when you were in charge. You had to weigh up your options and make a decision on the spot. "Take a look, but be quick about it, and try not to be seen. Having another mage on our side could be the upper hand we need." As he spoke, he nodded towards their scaled companion, who was even now leeching from his touch. Having The Dragon at full capacity for the final showdown was of utmost importance. It was the only one with absolute command of its power. At the rate they were going, General Warlock was going to be spending hours sat on its lap to get it back to full fighting health.

With a leap, and a sweep of his massive wings, the Nightmare lifted off into the morning skies.

"You ever heard of Nightmare's, Brink?"

"It's Brook, sir. Brook Everweather," the goblin said, patiently.

He looked a little embarrassed, "of course, how forgetful of me. I'm Anarchy. Anarchy Warlock. Though friends would call me Anar. When I had friends..."

The Dragon turned its head, "well excuse me," it smiled, wanly.

Anar smiled back. One day into his shiny new life and things were looking up already; a mythical creature for a friend, a loyal steed that had abruptly turned into some fantastical creature through exposure to magic, and a loyal soldier who was willing to fight by his side for as long as he fed her.

Now all he had to do was trail Nisgarant's army, peel away the soldiers at the rear, heal them, turn them against the Elite officers and wreak havoc until he got his blue glowing hands around that fuzzy, scrawny neck and made the rodent's eyes pop out from his skull.

Easy.

They watched the faint circling shadow of Bromor in the glow of the morning sun, and hoped that this sudden appearance of magic wouldn't spell trouble for them.

They'd be finding out, soon enough.