After the jab of searing, writhing white flame had momentarily blinded the two rival armies from their rush, the forces of Evil, Northumbrio's men, the still-confused townsfolk from the twin village-kingdoms of Crescent and Warwick followed by the huge tree beasts called the Yule in hushes tones began running wildly towards the steadfast Shaddai-Trusters and the immovably stern Fairy army. It seemed that when the forces of Good, even though the Fairies did not believe in the Great One but perhaps could be convinced in the future, finally pushed their limbs to run to the great splintering clash they flew with winged feet. The sky, twisting with the onslaught of Light against the smeared Darkness that had so long pervaded and ruled the heavens, looked down upon the blood spilling onto the marshy heathlands and the glinting weapons of the two armies as they fought wild and ferocious as immortals for the justice and Goodness that had so long been stamped out by Northumbrio's icy cold powers. The exiled duke had become more than a tormented soul, more than a dreaded name to frighten weak-hearted Kings...he WAS Evil. He lived it, obeyed it, and let it consume him until he was possessing of powers far beyond that of any blinded follower. For the followers of Evil were blindly following it, and the words issuing from their lips was the mutated truth poisoned by lies far beyond recognition. The Lands-people knew not what was true anymore. The battle, so it seemed as the dark cloaks were ripped away and the life's blood dripped over the marshy grounds, was as if the people had grown tired of the lies that bound their hands together, rendering them helpless and mindless, mere puppets in a play, their strings pulled by the hands of Evil itself. Yet as the two armies fought and blocked offenses and stood strong and courageous by each other's sides, it became just that. They were fighting for truth, for love, for hope, and more Life. For the strength the Great One had given to them, yet the strength they could not find by merely running from trouble or trying to sort it out by themselves. Not since the Great War had such a wild fierce purpose surged through the vein of every warrior. They swung their swords and they fought for the side they had chosen. Many a Lands-people during that battle found themselves suddenly awed so by the bravery and the mercy of the Shaddai-Trusters, for they did not kill but merely wounded because the battle was necessary, that they turned around in the midst of the heavy breathing and the corded branches of the Yule as they crushed bodies underneath their roots and knocked dead anything in their path, and fought against Evil. It was more than a physical battle, it was spiritual. Even as the Good looked Evil full in the face as Northumbrio himself came riding down from his snowy mountain stronghold with a thousand riding behind his huge foam-flecked stallion, they did not flinch but fought the harder.

Suddenly, when the wet earth had been kicked up to the troubled skies and the blood and mud of both armies ran in streams over the heaths, Northumbrio gave a roaring scream and fell to the ground, writhing in agony. The two armies stilled, blood-stained weapons still held aloft, the wild scared look blazing in the Lands-people's haunted eyes, and all stared down at the fallen Enemy. His great black hands clenched in throes as some unseen torture plagued his soul.

"Goodness has won!" came the inevitable cry as the Lands-people and Northumbrio's once-faithful slaves ran in terror to the tall snow-cursed mountain. A second shaft of light, softer and kinder this time, came down and flooded out the Darkness that had for so long held the Lands in a strangling grip. The later afternoon sun came out from behind scudding blackened clouds and shone upon the upraised faces, lifted in song and praise to the Great One and even joined with a few rich Fairy voices, in a crown of blazing golden glory, melting the snow atop Northumbrio's mountain peak and kissing the heathlands with nutrients it had not partaken of for a very long time, or so it seemed.

Northumbrio reached up a hand. Melchior, who had been fighting alongside his supreme master, silver cloak flying in the now-fresh winds, came to the huge man's side and knelt at his nail-studded boots. He tried not to flinch as Northumbrio's breath burned against his face and blew the long gray hair from his stern high forehead.

"You..." gasped Northumbrio as the flames from his Evil spurted forth and singed Melchior's long hawkish nose, "you will be...forever endowed with the...ability to torture these miserable...souls who dared...defy me. Make them...suffer, demon, make them...suffer..." And with that, Northumbrio vanished into the swirling winds. All that was left of his existence was a lingering death-stench and a ring of curling gray smoke arising from the place where he had fallen. The Shaddai-Trusters and the Fairies looked about for Melchior, but he, too, had disappeared with his master into the sharpening wind. The Lands-people had all thoughtfully wandered to the twin village-towns of Crescent and Warwick, to ponder their spiritual value, or they had run away when the Light of the Great One, for surely it was He that had vanquished Evil upon that great day, to live their lives in fear and shadows.

Not a few Fairies went back to the Riverlands with newfound faith in the fabled Great One, for all long as He had seemed hidden from His people and leaving them to persecution and death, He had proved His supreme power to the forces of Evil and to the doubters. Evil would always be present; there was no way to defeat it by mere human powers, Evil was for the Great One to defeat in the Last Days of the Lands, according to His own time. In the meantime, there would still be trials and temptations. Such was Life. But now, even though the faithful Shaddai-Trust did not know it as they cleaned their blades, shook the hands of the Fairies with whom they had fused a companionship, and returned to the Hinterlands, there was hope. A burning, blazing, fierce hope that had alighted in one simple healer and which was destined to save every one of the Lands-people, the Fairies, the freemen and slaves, and the Shaddai-Trusters, who came to know and love and obey the Great One.

Eight and a half months later

The stars glittered above a motley crowd who were gathered about a small highland cottage. The moon fairies, their tiny whirling skirts floating suspended about their tiny legs, sang with high clear voices above the milling Lands-people gathered about the cottage. A young girl, with eyes bright from the restoration of her sight so many months ago in the Riverlands, knelt outside her home, her arms wrapped around a shaggy dog. Her adopted mother, Auntie, rested her hands which shook slightly from age upon Fiddlis's shoulders. It was a silent night, the wind blowed gently over the flowers growing upon the heathlands. Since the War for Truth all that time ago, many of the people who called the Lands their home had come to embrace the awesome faith of the Shaddai-Trusters. It kept them alive when all hope seemed lost, for Northumbrio was indeed living and thriving atop his snowy mountain once more, luring helpless fools who did not heed the urgings of the Great One into his ferocious blazing powers, marking many fingers with the dreaded black flame brand. Yet now, the Hinterlanders were accepted again into the twin village-kingdoms and they were able to show the Great One's love for the confused people of the Lands. Time would be spent encouraging, preaching...and yes, suffering, for the Last Days were not to come for a long while yet and faith must be sacrificed for it Life is to be lived to the fullest extent possible. Sometimes, to truly live Life is to die for it. The Great One held ever single soul, Fairy or Man, in His hand and He would not let anything happen to them that was not in His great will.

The Lands-people suddenly parted and made way for a tall rave black-eyed king to pass through them into the cottage where Rhody the healer, her black hair tangled but her cheeks flushed with joy, lay in a simple straw cot holding a little baby. It was the king of the Fairies who bowed before the suckling child, sweeping his long cloak behind him and looking up at Rhody with respect. Several Lands-people gasped but Lorn, Rhody's dear husband now, simply smiled. Gravely the fairy king drew from his robes a small blanket of Virthum Fairy cloth.

"I, myself, wove it for the Redeemer," came a startlingly strong female voice. Out of the shadows behind the Fairy king stepped the old Virthum weaver, her snowy white hair standing out like a curly cloud about her nut brown face, her blue eyes brilliantly fixed upon the tiny newborn child in Rhody's protective arms. "Great One forbid me to ever be worthy of the Child, His Son, wearing my cloth upon His body, but..." her voice trailed away as a tall boy came into the crackling firelight. Skerry had been living with his sister and her betrothed during the journey up into the highlands to live in Fiddlis's pleasant hilltop town, and even though the whip scars criss-crossing his back would never completely fade away, he did not mind the sudden jabs of pain because now he realized the Great One had kept him alive to serve greater purposes than he had been. Now he told stories of the faithful, about his own Life which the Great One had mercifully spared, and the wild wonderful Life that the Great One, the master of Goodness, held out in offering to anyone willing to come to Him.

The Virthum weaver slowly stood from her respectful bow to the Child and stared at Skerry. Was this her son?

"My...my son..." the old Fairy woman said in a broken voice. Skerry stepped to her and wrapped his arms about her shaking shoulders. After long last, the weaver had been reunited with her long-lost children. Rhody looked at her mother for a moment, then broke into a wide white smile. Sometimes utter passionate joy could not be expressed in mere words.

The Lands-people looked upon the big blue eyes of the Child, the promised Redeemer who had been born of a virgin healer, sitting happily in Rhody's lap and playing with Lorn's old silver earring, which he had taken off after accepting the Great One's love. Suddenly there was a stir and a very old woman with applish cheeks followed by a tall man entered into the warm open cottage, a fresh summery breeze following them inside. Conan felt tears course down his face as he beheld his Redeemer, that tiny pink-cheek baby waving small fists in the air like a warrior going to battle and raising his hands for blessing. Slowly he reached over his shoulder, with hands scarred from persecution and a face filled with peace, and unslung a battered wooden lute from his back. Unashamed to weep tears of awe and praise, Conan the minstrel laid his lute at the feet of the Child. Straightening again, he raised his voice in a song of praise to the Redeemer and His Father for His Goodness.

Rhody tipped her head back and gently kissed her husband. She felt like dancing, laughing, crying and staring silently at all the quiet faces around her, all at the same time. Finally hope had come to the Lands in a tangible, touchable way, and the hope now sat on her lap cooing happily in His clear baby voice. It was too Good to be true.

Slowly from the crowd came one of the Shaddai-Trust, the young man who had come into the Hinterlands that past year with so much pain and suffering cooped up inside of his soul and the memory of his dear wife's dying cries tormenting his soul, and knelt before the Child.

"I have nothing to give you," he said in a deep voice, husky with emotion, "but my love."

The Child turned to look at the man and at that moment understanding filled every heart there. They did not need to give the Redeemer anything, but their love. The man bowed his head and committed his Life to the Great One again, a second promise and one he would keep forever. No one could erase the magical joy felt that night as the Fairies danced upon the green heaths and the Lands-people lifted their hands in praise. Rhody, a simple healer and an outcast, had been chosen to bear the Great One's Son and she and her dear brother had been reunited with their mother. Fiddlis the young girl with a bush of sandy hair had been given her sight by the Child whom she now stared at, realizing that it was the little boy who had run with her in the fields of her dream in the Riverlands. The minstrel who could no longer play for showing love to a young girl, who now stood at the cottage door with Gabriel her father before going out into the night to declare the good news to all the Lands, sang with joy unsurpassed by anything he could ever feel again.

Yes, there would always be Evil in the Lands. Now there was Good, to grow and live and walk among it all, and to give His Life up for it someday. The secret symbol of the Shaddai-Trust, the imprint of a palm with a hole in the center, was symbolic of the death the Redeemer had been sent to die for the people. Not all would accept that gift. Yet if the people of the Lands and the Fairies all lived Life to the fullest, telling everyone they met about the wonderful gift offered to them no matter what they had done, if they would only fight for Good, against Evil, and never give up no matter what the cost, even if the price was their Life, then would not Life itself be more than worth living?

"What is his name?" asked a young boy. Rhody smiled across the cottage room at Timothy, her adopted brother, and said "The Great One, when He spoke to me all those months ago, said His name was to be called Shaddai."

Timothy slowly lowered himself to his knees and gently touched the Child on his tiny pink cheek.

"Welcome to the Lands, Shaddai, Who will save us all with Your Life."