"Look there," Ethelred commanded.  Garalt was forced to turn around and see his comrades that he had left behind fighting valiantly against Ethelred's forces.  Swift-Strike and Drakon were struggling to defeat Dark Hand's evil magic.  Demonclaw, Scythe and Kullvox were, in the mean time, fighting off the last of the Shadow Wolves, as well as Cataclysm and now Nightsword, Ethelred's second in command.  The five warriors were not doing well it seemed.  Garalt looked down upon the almost lifeless body of Erryl, mindlessly twitching as he died.  Garalt's thoughts went to the living souls who were being commanded to attack, and possibly die for Zakar's evil will, and his heart ached at the thought of their needless sacrifice.  
    "Even if they win," Zakar began, "your friends will not survive."

    Garalt was forced to turn around again, and as he did so, he noticed that the ground had stopped shaking.  And Garalt now knew why.  Zakar's portal now towered thirty feet above the battlefield.  It's dark masonry seemed to ooze a stench of evil that Garalt had never known before.
    "Even if it wins us the battle, I do not see the reason for involving us in this dark pact..." Ethelred said.  Garalt noticed that the necromancer was not even facing Zakar or the portal.  For a man who's life is spent raising the undead, Garalt thought, this portal must be something truly horrifying if he does not approve.
    "Behold, Ikros!" Zakar shouted, "behold the very power of Hell!"  As he spoke, the dark clouds that had begun to gather in the sky enveloped the sun, sending the land into pitch darkness.  Suddenly, a light began to swirl inside the portal, and an evil, red glow began to bathe the fighting warriors.

    The glow quickly filled the portal, radiating heat and a bright red light that seemed to resemble a huge bonfire.  The mass of energy within the portal was spinning and twirling violently, and Garalt could hear what almost resembled rolling thunder coming from the evil thing.
    "Now!  Come to me!  Minions of darkness, heed my call!" Zakar shouted, waving his sword in the air, "Send forth the Demon Rider cavalry of the damned!  Crush these mortals into cinders!  Bring forth your evil most pure!  I summon thee, Dracolich!"  As he finished, the battlefield became dreadfully quiet.  Seconds of silence seemed to pass as days, the swirling mass unmoved by Zakar's call.  But then, as if on que, an answer came.  A soft, but growing, call.  No, not a call, Garalt thought, a roar.  And it was growing closer.