No matter which direction one looked down upon the land from, they could see them—the warriors whose exact numbers could not be known for the moment, those brave guards.
They might have held all kinds of occupations and identities in life, but now they were all guardians, dead guardians.
They had once radiated dazzling light, standing together upon the earth to fight against the Shriek of Hatred that came from the depths of the universe, intent on destroying everything.
They all knew the result of that fight would be death, yet none of them feared it.
Protected at their center, and where the Dream Witch now stood, was a camp.
The last Survivor Camp.
Yet even this final refuge seemed about to vanish.
No matter how many intelligent races had once existed on this planet, they were all dead now.
The few hundred remaining survivors huddled together, surrounding a "bonfire" at the center that flickered as though it could go out at any moment.
Yet the source of that bonfire was not burning wood.
Normal flames could not be lit anywhere on this planet. The Shriek of Hatred had killed more than life; it had completely rewritten certain things. For instance, it had allowed a dreadful "coldness" to thoroughly infect the planet. The survivors could not ignite anything—clothes, wood, or anything else.
The sun had also been killed by that coldness.
That was why the earth was dark. They had lost their sun.
The only flickering firelight in their eyes now came from a wooden doll about as tall as a seven- or eight-year-old child. It had been exquisitely carved and painted green and gold. It wore a cowboy hat, had a long nose, and bore a broad laughing expression on its face. It could bring its owner warmth.
It