“We need to go. Now!” Kyahs voice is strained against the rumbling outside the dark library. The faint orange glow of rising flames outside dances on the walls around the sparse windows to her left. Farrago is huddled over a small bookshelf, carefully inspecting books, and occasionally place one inside a small jeweled bag. His hand disappears with each book, and comes out of the bag unladen, despite the bag not changing.

“Why? The guard will withstand the waves.” Farrago hardly looks up from the task to look at her. Quick shuffles and she is beside him, her delicate fingers wrapping partially around his wrist.

“They have already fallen. The second line is hard pressed to contain the entry way!” Kyah implores him. “We need to go.”

“ Dont be silly Kyah. They are trained to fight the deep. This rabble of orcs and goblin kin will be withstood!” Farrago pulls his wrist from her hand and moves to the stair case, and trucks up the dark steel spirals.

At his heels, Kyah stalks up the stairs with him into the top floor. Taking his wrist once again, she drags him to the window, over powering his meager strength. “This is not being withstood Farrago! They will not win. The orcs will take Ettlemont so long as your father and his troop are in the Spire! We must go! Now!”

The last word comes form her lips and a concussive blow engulfs the roof outside the window with the same red orange flame that has ensnared most of the town just inside the Main Gate. Farrago’s eyes go wide gathering the images of his hometown. Homes blown apart or burning. Soldiers bodies strewn about and being trampled as the body of the orcish horde pushes into the cavern and fans out like the hood of a great hungry cobra.

“No.” He whimpers. The second line is being pushed back as the hood of the snake expands and seeks to envelope the resistance. “I can’t leave them.”

“Farrago, we cannot open the Spire. No one person is going to sway this fight.” Farrago bolts from the window to the desk on the opposite side of the hall, rummaging through the multitude of parchments atop the desk. Pleading, Kyah speaks with a frankness unfamiliar to her mouth. “They are here for you Farrago. They’ve come for you and will slaughter everyone here to get to you. They may not if you leave.”

A single scroll in hand, Farrafo stops and turns to Kyah. His mouth agape, eyes welling with fear and horror. She stands across from him, hands out exhausted. Fires outside the windows of the library creeping toward the windows with ravenous intent.