Belloc raised an eyebrow at this and made a dismissive sound. "What will I do? This is a grave matter that trancends the doings of but one elderly wizard. What I will do will only be a small part of a far greater whole. The Four Kingdoms in their entirety may well be forced into waging a war they cannot win."
Anest's shock was palpable. "Cannot?!"
The sky was beginning to darken now; in the distance a cold rain falling from dark clouds created an impression alike to that of a shrouded hearse presiding over the land's dying at a funereal pace. Belloc lowered his voice a little as he said, "Anest, we are not as dwimmer-crafty nor as mighty as the elves of ancient Morag. Nor are we as strong in numbers or in arms. True, there are wizards, but we are few . . . too few . . . and scattered across the wide lands. And within the Four Kingdoms there are but two of us; Darrow in Lund, and myself. There is still much elven lore in Normandon, and the dwarves can still sing a potent song when the need arises, but this is a paltry thing compared to the craft of the ancients." The wizard turned to face him, and Anest saw that a fire burned within the old wizard yet, that he was not daunted. "The craft needed to summon demons under the light of day is beyond us. We must become more than we are if we are to survive."