

Lich

By Doug Ward

Copyright 2017 Doug Ward

Smashwords Edition

Introduction

A lich is an undead magic user who through the use of various spells and components transforms itself into an undead creature. This gives it a semblance of immortality. These creatures are very powerful and evil.

This book will introduce you to one such being. Baron Marasmus Ebendoom and his twisted goblin Skum are building an army of undead. The two plan to harvest the peaceful villagers from the hamlet of Springdale to fatten up their horde. Sadly, Springdale's local wizard is away. The only one left to stop this horrifying menace is an inexperienced, young wizard named Den. He and a group of adventurers will battle undead and monsters alike, as they gather the magic items they will need to defeat their foe.

Author Cassidy Raine Wolters said of this book: "If you like Dungeons and Dragons, video games, or other role playing sword and sorcery adventures, you'll love this book. It's got everything dwarves, goblins, and even the occasional elf."

This book is the first part of the War of the Stone series.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Other Fine Books by Doug Ward:

Ward's Laws

Ward's Laws Part 2

Ward's Laws Part 3

Ward's Laws Part 4

Saving Jebediah; Another True Story from the Zombie Apocalypse

Parasite; The True Story of the Zombie Apocalypse

Symbiote; The True Story of the Zombie Apocalypse

Creator; The True Story of the Zombie Apocalypse

Predator; The True Story of the Zombie Apocalypse

Horde (Book 2 of the War of the Stone series)

Demons (Book 3 of the War of the Stone series)

Acknowledgements

Thanks to Ethan Dodson, who is the eyes on the book cover. Scott Lee, who's inspired me to write a fantasy book; my wife, who is my inspiration in everything, and a big, special thanks to my awesome editor, J.D. Reed, without whom I wouldn't have a decent sentence in the book.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 Earlier

Chapter 2 A Day of Fun

Chapter 3 A Slight Altercation at the Weary Wanderer

Chapter 4 A Great Disappointment

Chapter 5 I Remember Now

Chapter 6 This Wasn't In the Deal

Chapter 7 A Hasty Deal

Chapter 8 A Camping We Go

Chapter 9 A Change of Heart

Chapter 10 Even the Best Laid Plan...

Chapter 11 The Interlopers

Chapter 12 Roll for Initiative

Chapter 13 Enter the Onyx

Chapter 14 Not a Very Cheery Welcome Home

Chapter 15 The Not So Empty Nest

Chapter 16 The Meeting

Chapter 17 Politics? I Thought This Was a Fantasy Book

Chapter 18 The Proof is in the Pudding

Chapter 19 Confidence is King

Chapter 20 They're Gone

Chapter 21 Chasing a Friend

Chapter 22 A Hero's Welcome

Chapter 23 The Chase

Chapter 24 A Lesson Learned

Chapter 25 Earlier, During the Battle

Chapter 26 A Gift and a Trip

Chapter 27 Consulting the Dead

Chapter 28 A New Plot

Chapter 29 A Friend Found

Chapter 30 Tomb Raiders

Chapter 31 The Poison Plan

Chapter 32 That's not My Mummy

Chapter 33 The Treasure Room

Chapter 34 If at First...

Chapter 35 Disaster Strikes

Chapter 36 Return to the Tower

Chapter 37 They're Pretty, but Can They Fight?

Chapter 38 There's Always Another Way

Free Sample

Chapter 1 Sneak Attack

Chapter 2 It Begins

Chapter 3 Something Unexpected

Chapter 1

Earlier

His breath came in gasps as he rested for a moment against a wall in the dark tower of his liege, Baron Marasmus. The cool surface of the stone blocks drew the heat from his sweat-covered body. Skum didn't mind perspiring. Heck, being a goblin, his twisted, green body was covered with a stinky slime, as well as a multitude of bumps, lumps, and pockmarks. Besides, the dirty green rag of a tunic, which was clasped around his waist with a wide leather belt bearing a metal emblem of a giant on its clasp, absorbed most of the moisture. Closing his large, bulbous eyes for a moment, he let his rapid breathing start to slow. His hulking body sagged even more in his brief respite, the object held in one of his hands almost slipping from his grasp.

"Skum!" came a shrieking voice from higher up in the tower. "Skum, you no good cave dweller! Where are you? I need that component for my spell right now!" the high-pitched voice commanded.

Heaving a soft sigh, the goblin quickly pushed away from the wall and scurried off in the direction of the beckoning voice. "Hurrying, master," he croaked, drool spraying from his mouth. "I'm on my way." He sped toward the baron's door, his large feet slapping the floor like flippers.

The tower's halls were dimly lit, with sputtering torches spaced at sporadic intervals along the walls. Pools of darkness, punctuated by these dancing areas of light, made navigation possible, but hazardous. Skum didn't seem to mind, though. He knew these ways by heart now. Even though these periodically spaced lights ruined his night-vision, each twist and turn had been committed to memory through his countless passings.

As he approached the door, the smell of rotten meat became even stronger. He grasped the pull ring in his leathery hand and yanked the large, wooden door open. The old, rusty hinges gave way with audible protest, allowing the scent of decay to amplify itself to a nearly unbearable degree, even for a goblin such as he.

"There you are, you dolt!" croaked the old wizard, not taking his eyes from the tome before him. "Did you get the fairy's eyes?"

Skum displayed a toothy grin and held up the flask. In a reddish, glowing solution floated two small orbs. "Excellent," whispered the necromancer, almost shaking with delight. "My serum is almost complete. Tonight, I gain immortality and power beyond the feeble grasp of petty mortals." Gesturing with a long, bony finger toward a heap of human bodies near a table, the baron added, "Take those projects and dispose of them. They are of no further use to me."

Skum turned toward the pile of dead vessels and shuddered. Insects and other vermin had already started the job of decomposing these bodies, their drying muscles pulling the figures into grotesque caricatures of their former selves. As he piled the dead into a nearby wheelbarrow, Skum snuck sideways glances at his master.

The bent wizard was moving particularly slowly today and seemed to wince when lifting even small objects. His face, bearded in white, was drawn and gray where the color should have been. His end is near, Skum thought to himself. He looked around the room again and wondered how much the contents of the tower would be worth when his old master died. Then, maybe he'd retire to a nice little cave and live a quiet, uneventful life of gluttony.

The wheelbarrow groaned under the weight of its burden. Arms and legs projected in random directions as he pushed the awkward load toward the door. "What did he need all these humans for?" the goblin wondered. How many farmers and peddlers had his clan ambushed for this dark mage? What had he done to them? Typically, the warped magic-user would convert the former humans into various undead. The old tower was full of them, roaming about and bumping into him at every turn. If Marasmus hadn't ordered them to leave Skum alone, well, he didn't want to think of that.

As he considered these questions, the cart became wedged in the door. After some struggling, Skum casually reached for the obstacle, which was a leg that stuck out too far. With a twist of his powerful arms, he snapped the limb in half. Breathing a satisfied sigh, he folded the now floppy leg and dropped one end on top of the rest.

As the door closed behind the goblin, he could hear the laughter of the old man. The wizard's cackling voice raised the few scattered hairs on the back of his wart-covered neck.

Chapter 2

A Day of Fun

(For now)

The bucket was overfull, sloshing its cold contents on Den's leggings as he hurried to the hut with his haul from the spring. "Never trust a well," his teacher had always told him. "Something may have drowned in it and tainted the water." Den gasped as he stumbled on a loose rock, spilling even more of the bucket's contents on his already soaked clothes. "What if something had died upstream? Wizards are a weird sort," he mumbled, mocking his master's voice as he slid sideways through the door.

The inside of the dwelling was deceptively large. Viewing the hut from the exterior, it seemed like a tiny wattle and daub peasant home, but through the use of magic, his teacher had considerably enlarged the inside to the size of a small estate; something about extra-dimensional space was what the old man had called it. He'd neglected to explain the process, saying that Den would learn it in good time. You would think seven years would be time enough for the mage to impart the secret, but what could he do? Finnious was a cautious teacher for good reason. One wrong gesture or word could have dire results. He was also a man of great standing in the arcane community and had, at one time, been the head of his order. That was many years ago. Now, stooped with age, he seemed less the formidable magic-user his reputation bespoke of.

Every room in the dwelling was stuffed full of old and unusual objects, stacked on shelves and in corners. There was little space to maneuver with his heavy bucket of water. Much of the stuff was still in the original boxes they had arrived in. Den had little doubt that Finnious had forgotten the contents of most of his unpackaged treasures. The only place where any semblance of order was maintained was the lab. That's where Finnious spent most of his time, involved in mysterious experiments, which sometimes ended with explosive results. He sat there now, absorbed in scrying a crystal ball.

The remaining contents of the bucket careened wildly as Den put the container in its usual spot. The wizard looked up with a fond smile at the boy, and when he saw Den's clothes, his smile deepened.

"Anything else?" the youth inquired.

The wizard's eyebrows rose inquisitively as he turned once again from his study to look questioningly at his apprentice.

"You said I could go into town when my morning chores were finished," Den pleaded.

Finnious seemed to consider for a moment, then nodded his head, the soft smile returning to his thin, dry lips. "On your way, lad, but don't forget the pouch of herbs for Bronwynn," he added with a gesture toward the door. He then turned to focus, once again, on the crystal ball before him.

At that, Den sprinted from the room, skidding to a halt to grab the nearly forgotten pouch for the innkeeper. He quickly recovered and sped off through the opening. The oak door, slamming shut, went unnoticed as the ancient mage continued his study of the crystal ball. His brow wrinkled in concentration as distant events unfolded in the orb before him.

The air outside seemed more exhilarating than before. The thrill of a day off and a trip to town seemed to make the very air more splendid than ever. Feet barely touching the ground, he raced along the short road to the small village.

Springdale was a sleepy little cluster of homes a slight distance from the cottage of Finnious. At one time, the wizard had actually lived in the village. A few of his less than successful experiments, the last one involving his roof landing on the mayor's own home, improving neither of them in the process, had been reason enough to move Finnious a safe distance from the outskirts of town.

The people liked having the wizard nearby. They enjoyed the protection of his magic when problems arose, such as a roaming monster or an unexpected outbreak of stink bugs in the small school, which could quite possibly have been prevented if Tully and Squid hadn't released them in the book cupboard.

The road weaved through a short patch of woods and beside a freshly planted field as Den sprinted toward his destination. He passed a few small, mostly evaporated puddles that created tiny mirrors of the boy as he dodged around them. Some stubborn weeds grew between the cart tracks, reaching for the warm sunlight. At last, he could see the town coming into view. Gaining speed, he crossed the stone bridge spanning the Silver Fish River. The water flashed in the rays of light like the waterway's namesake.

The small wattle and daub buildings looked much like the cottage he and Finnious lived in. Smoke rose lazily from the chimneys before being carried away on a gentle breeze to the surrounding hills.

The inn was the largest building in the village. It even surpassed the home of the mayor, much to his chagrin. That was to be Den's first stop. "Take care of first things first, my pap always said," he rasped between heavy breaths. "That way, when all responsibilities are done, you are free to do as you may."

The porch of the Weary Wanderer Inn had a wide slate roof, which covered the entire front of the building. Rocking chairs swayed slightly in the light breeze, as if to further entice those passing by to come for a sit. The entrance had massive double doors, richly carved with reliefs of the inn's name and images of travelers of various races, walking a twisting road to an exact replica of the Weary Wanderer Inn. The doors' handles were two shiny brass hands, reaching out as if to grasp and shake the hand of any who would want entrance.

As the huge doors opened, it gave way to a large dining area with a variety of different sized tables. Some of the tables were already occupied. One, in particular, was surrounded by five very boisterous beings. These had to be the ugliest group of beast-looking men Den had ever seen. Others gathered in twos and threes. At the far end of the room, a massive fireplace sat cold, no need for a fire on a day such as today. Behind the bar, wiping sparkling glasses with a nearly clean towel, stood Bronwynn. She was a large woman with a very well-proportioned body, covered with muscles, which were, themselves, crisscrossed with scars. Usually very neat in appearance, today Bronwynn looked tired and worn. As Den approached the bar, he glanced up at the great sword, which hung there on two wooden pegs. Many tales surrounded the blade and Bronwynn, herself; the most likely one spoke of her being a first-rate swordswoman. She and a team of adventurers had stormed the hall of the Goblin King and raided his treasure room. The sword, it was said, was an enchanted blade, made by dwarven smiths. The spidery runes running down its length seemed to give credence to the story.

"Are you ok, Bronwynn?" he inquired, genuine concern showing on his face. "You don't look so well."

The swordswoman sighed while pushing a stray shock of hair from in front of her green eyes. "Ah, I'll be all right, Den. Those half-orcs over there have had me up since last night. I haven't seen drinking like this since that caravan of dwarves came through last year." Bronwynn set a rag on the bar and started scrubbing at some imaginary stain on its surface. "They're getting kind of rowdy now, and with no sleep, I'm losing what little patience I still have. But I'm being rude. Is there something you would like, Den?" she asked with a somewhat forced smile.

As Den looked into her beautiful, chiseled face, framed with dark curly hair, he lost all track of where he was or what he was about. He quickly looked away from her and swallowed. Then, remembering his purpose, he clumsily untied the pouch Finnious had given him and tossed it toward the bar.

"Sorry," Den apologized, his cheeks turning crimson. Before the bag could hit the bar, the ex- swordswoman's hand shot out, caught the sack, and placed it in her belt. Still in motion, her hand flew to her pouch and slipped two coins out, only to slam them soundly on the counter.

Den stood motionless, staring at the woman, his jaw hanging slack. "Still got it," she said with a satisfied smile.

The young apprentice gingerly scooped up the coins, never taking his eyes off the woman. "I'll be back in a second," Bronwynn said. "It seems our rowdy guests want another round, as if they need it." Picking up a tray, she went to see about the five half-orc's needs.

Chapter 3

A Slight Altercation At the Weary Wanderer

A dwarf quaffed the rest of his drink and elbowed the thief next to him. "I think he's gonna start something again!" he said quietly to the shady-looking man. He gestured with his empty tankard to the well-armed and armored knight sitting to his left. The thief, considering his own drink, knowingly winced. The cavalier was watching a scene unfold with great interest. It seemed the beautiful and well-muscled barmaid was bringing even more drinks to the table of drunken half-orcs. The group was starting to become more than just a bit forward with the woman.

Even as the thief reached over to get his companion's attention, it was too late. One of the bigger half-orcs let his hand snake out and pinched the barmaid on her bottom. She quickly whirled around, and was about to deal with the matter, when another pulled her by the waist onto his lap. As she struggled, the others roared with laughter, adding further encouragement. Then, the cavalier was there, sword flying from his scabbard and hissing through the air. The half-orc holding the woman howled with pain as his hand was lopped from his arm, blood and gore arcing through the air.

"Here we go again," the dwarf declaired, quickly pulling the hammer from his belt and charging into the fray.

"I hate this part," muttered the thief. He turned the table on its side and cowered there, watching equally for any sign that they would need a hasty way out, or an unconscious person to victimize.

The larger of the half-orcs rose from his seat and pulled his sword from its sheath, but before he could completely clear the weapon, Bronwynn slid within arm's reach and bashed his nose in and upward, cartilage slipping neatly into his brains. Before the towering oaf could begin to fall, she lithely batted his hand from the hilt of his blade and replaced it with hers. As he dropped to the floor, she spun to face another opponent, sword clearing the scabbard as the dead orc hit the floor.

The fight had quickly grown in size. The bar's inhabitants, pairing off in twos and threes, battled each other. Liquor, mixed with testosterone, lured most of the patrons into the fray. As the struggling customers saw drawn weapons, they, in turn, drew their own. The sound of tables and chairs breaking, along with the occasional mug flying by and spraying its contents across the room, added to the chaos.

The cavalier, with a mighty heave, finally managed to pull his sword from the hardwood floor, where it had stuck after the wild swing that had separated the first half-orc from his hand. Staggering back from the effort, he quickly regained his footing and ran forward, shield first, pinning a struggling half-orc against a wall.

"Cast down your weapon, knave!" he shouted over the building noise of the brawl. The beast continued to flail about, trying to reach the fighter with his own rusty sword. Suddenly, the cavalier heard a loud crunch nearby. Glancing over his shoulder, while maintaining adequate pressure on his trapped foe, he saw the dwarf grinning over the form of the fifth half-orc.

"I always have to watch your back, Hank!" he said as he turned to survey the fight that seemed, at the same time, to be growing smaller.

"ENOUGH!" he heard, drawing his attention to Bronwynn. She cast the foul orc blade away and said, "Narbane, come!" At once, a great-sword appeared in her hands, its long, blue-gray blade covered with now-glowing runes. She raised it overhead, and a ball of light burst forth from its tip, becoming a blinding flash, filling the bar with a sudden burst of what seemed like the sun's rays.

"The next being to raise even one hand in anger will taste the edge of Peacekeeper!" she slowly challenged the patrons who were still conscious. Everyone in the room froze. Even Pinch, the thief, hesitated from cutting the purse off of a stunned man.

"Everyone out," she ordered, pointing the huge great sword toward the door. "Except you," she added, nodding toward the cavalier. He sheepishly smiled while freeing his prisoner. The dwarf thumbed the handle of his hammer into the loop on his belt and let it hang there.

"Hank," he muttered quietly under his breath. "How many times have I got to tell you, never pull your sword in a bar fight!" His words fell on deaf ears, though, as the cavalier secured his sword and did his best to make himself presentable for the damsel whom he freed from the grip of her evil foes. As the half-orc he'd held slid past him and made for the door, another approached him.

"You'll pay for what you did to my hand, human!" he slurred, anger creasing his now sober face. "Do you know how much a cleric will charge me to get this thing attached?" he asked, looking down at the right hand he now clutched in his left. "We will meet again!" he promised as he turned and scurried away.

"I was only protecting that fair damsel," the knight mouthed, justifying his deed. Momentarily crestfallen, Hank quickly returned to straightening his appearance.

"You ok?" the dwarf asked Pinch.

"No worse for the wear," he answered. Patting his purse, he added, "and maybe a little better off for it all."

"We're gonna have to do something about Hank," the dwarf said quietly. "He's going to get us killed. Or, at least, me killed. I noticed you did little to help the cause."

"I'm hurt, Scree," the thief shot back. He made a great show of retrieving a dagger from the floor of the bar, wiping fresh blood from its edge, and sliding it back into the sheath behind his neck.

The dwarf's jaw went slack with realization and he spread his arms in apology. "I didn't-"

"That's alright, friend," Pinch continued. "That little rogue was about to chop you down the middle, but I suppose all that gristle in your fat head would have protected you."

The dwarf visibly swallowed as he pictured the event.

"Next time, maybe I'll just let your back sprout knives when you storm off into battle."

"Gentlemen!" came a single order.

The small group assembled around Bronwynn, Hank coming last. "Fair maid, It is unnecessary for you to give thanks-"

"What?!" she cried, cutting him off mid-sentence. "You start a fight in my bar, and pull weapons, to boot! Then, you want me to think of you as my hero? If you would have waited just a few seconds before trying to save the world, you would have seen that I had things under control."

"But, my lady," he pleaded, stunned, clearly not understanding the situation.

"Oh, I can't believe this!" she said in exasperation. "And look at my bar!"

"We'll, uh, help you clean up?" Hank volunteered. The dwarf and thief quickly looked elsewhere.

"You're darn right you will," she intoned, visibly cooling. "And, you'll pay for the damages, as well."

Chapter 4

A Great Disappointment

The tower had been silent since Skum left his master's laboratory earlier that day. The morning had expired and now it was late at night. The way the baron had looked earlier made the goblin think that maybe he'd soon become the new lord of the tower. A toothy grin spread across his large maw as he pictured the wizard's lifeless body slumped over one of his huge tomes of arcane lore. Rubbing his cruddy, green hands together, he picked up the pace of his ascent to the mage's casting chamber.

"Would serve the old coot good," he spat, drooling in anticipation of the end of his servitude. "I can finally be done with this drafty old tower and all the disgusting undead wandering about and find myself a proper cave to live in." As he turned the next corner, he bumped straight into a zombie. Horrified, his arms flew out to his front and he quickly shoved the rotting creature away.

As it struck the floor and slid, fragments of decomposing flesh and clothes dislodged and sprayed about. The goblin danced back away from the zombie and bumped into another. Horror quickly turned to desperation as Skum pulled his broadsword from its sheath and began swinging wildly about, cutting huge hunks of decaying flesh from the zombie to his rear. When it lay in a scattered mess, he whirled to meet the one he had encountered first. The zombie had scarcely gotten up when it was neatly cut in two, its rotten hide and brittle bones giving little resistance to Skum's glowing, magic blade.

"Ew! Disgusting! Ew! Eew!" he squealed, dancing about again, as if to dislodge any trace of the zombies from his clothes and body. He wiped the sword blade on a nearby tapestry, its red-glowing magical edge slicing through the fabric as he dragged it across its surface.

When the blade was free of decaying bits, Skum dropped it into its sheath and continued on his course, tip-toeing around the split corpse barring his way. "Why did I ever take this job?" he whined. "I can't stand undead." His voice dropped to a low mutter as he neared the portal which held his future.

Skum tried the handle, but the door was locked from the inside. "Master?" he spoke softly, not wanting to disturb the old human. "Master?" he tried again, his voice mustering more volume this time. "Master!" Skum bellowed, gaining confidence that his dream may indeed be coming true.

Throwing caution to the wind, the goblin inhaled a large breath and threw himself at the door. His shoulder impacted with the wood, and should have merely bounced harmlessly off, if not for the magical belt of strength he wore around his waist. Instead, the door burst from its hinges. Iron brackets, which held the locking mechanism in place, were ripped from their moorings.

The chamber was as silent as a tomb. The only sound was the soft flapping of Skum's feet on the cold, gray, stone floor. The goblin's eyes, adept at seeing in the darkness of caves, scanned the room for the whereabouts of the old mage. Unlike his dreams, he found the wizard, not slumped among his old books, but on a long table he had used when experimenting on the humans, which Skum had provided. His master's body did not show as warm to the goblin's night vision, making the creature's heart leap. Snatching a mirror from a nearby table, he held its surface a scant inch from the wizard's face. No mist appeared. As a final test, the cave dweller reached out and touched the wrist of the baron. No life stirred within.

Skum's mouth gaped and his pulse quickened as he realized it was true. "I'm free!" he bellowed while dancing about the room. Hooting and hollering, he careened about the lab. Picking up various components and devices, he held them high in the air as if to display his new wealth while still capering about, overcome with joy.

He didn't know what to do first. It was like a dream. Skum began exploring boxes and chests looking for magic items, or even relics, which would gain him the most coin.

Something stirred. At first, the goblin thought it was a trick of his mind. It sounded like a soft rustling of cloth followed by old bones rattling. It couldn't be, he thought to himself. Then, he heard it, the whisper of a soft intake of breath.

The small hairs on the back of his neck raised in alarm as he slowly turned toward the table where the sound had originated. His eyes settled on the form of his master, no longer lying on the table. He was sitting on it, a huge smile spread across the pale necromancer's face. "It worked," the old baron said in a croaking voice. "It worked!" he cried, sounding more solid. This time, Marasmus's words were punctuated by the sound of a golden goblet dropping to the floor.

The necromancer's eyes swept to the source of the sound. "Skum," he said. "What are you doing there?"

The goblin's green skin quickly drained to an off shade of white.

"You were stealing from me!" Marasmus ascertained. "You thought I was dead."

"I checked, master," Skum pleaded, dropping to his knees and crawling toward his lord. Something was changing about the baron. He seemed even more gaunt and larger somehow. But the most striking thing was his eyes. His gaze was awful. "You had no signs of life. I feared," he lied. "I didn't know."

The necromancer merely laughed, a horrible sound. "I guess I shouldn't blame you. I knew you were dreaming of the day I would die. Well, now you will have a very long time to wait. An eternity, even. You see, Skum, I have died. I have been working on dying for a long time. All these experiments were to discover the secrets of life eternal. I have died and been reborn... as a lich."

The goblin pressed his head against the ground and whimpered.

"Death really isn't so bad, my pet," he chided while sliding off the table to the floor. "It's an invigorating experience."

As his master crossed the room toward the door, Skum broke down in sobs. "Don't kill me, master."

"Kill you? I hadn't thought of that," Marasmus said, pausing at the exit. "You are the only living thing here, and death is such a memorable experience. You should really try it." As he completed the statement, he slammed the remains of the door shut. Terrible sounds could be heard issuing from the room, but the dead walking the halls don't concern themselves with noises, of course.

Chapter 5

I Remember Now

Den slipped out with the other walking wounded from the bar, not wanting to be noticed. He cursed himself for his inaction in the fight; he'd tried to throw a spell, but had panicked. Every bit of magic he'd ever learned seemed to race through his mind, and yet each spell was somehow just barely out of reach. He had seen many situations where even a simple cantrip would have caused a favorable outcome, but he'd been unable to grasp the proper words or gestures to unleash his power. "Am I a coward?" he asked himself, but quickly dismissed it out of hand. "I'm just not ready," he concluded. "Maybe I need more time with Finnious and his trusty tomes of magic." He glanced back at the inn's entrance and decided to push onward. He couldn't face Bronwynn right now, or maybe ever.

Bronwynn, aside from being the inn's owner and the tavern's bartender, was also the most beautiful woman in the town. Her bulging muscles seemed to add to her attractiveness in a raw, athletic way. A few men said hurtful words behind her back, things they would never want her to hear them saying, but they were only jealous of her strength, both inner and outer, which they noticeably lacked.

Den continued through town, hoping the sights and sounds of the market would help him forget his earlier inaction. The vendors were doing a brisk business today, crowds jamming their booths to buy food or other goods. A woman wearing a rough, woolen dress brushed past Den, a live chicken hanging upside down from her grip. Her aged face filled with a smile as she saw her daughter through the other shoppers. Before she could slip past, the fowl in her grip quickly struck at Den as if to peck him.

Everyone seemed happy; coin was abundant and fears a distant memory. With a wizard living nearby, evil had moved far away to terrorize the weak and unprotected in a place where such vile work would be safe to do. War hadn't happened for so many years that the guard had lapsed into more a symbolic position, held by mainly the old and infirm.

He purchased a leg of roasted turkey and wandered through the bazaar, tearing at the food with his teeth and wiping its warm juice from his chin. Its salty marinade parched his mouth as he struggled to swallow.

Den was a young boy when his parents were taken from him. He could still remember that night; its sights and sounds returned to him with a feeling of helpless dread, memories of the caravan that evening and the terrible attack.

*****

His parents had been traveling west in search of free land and the promise of a new start. They were about to pass the town of Westberry when illness broke out in the caravan. The townfolk were afraid of the outbreak, and withheld aid to both the stricken and healthy alike. The freedom his parents had sought came with the inherent danger of evil creatures and other perils of the untamed land beyond civilized human habitation. It was strange that the evil, which would cause their end, would start with the civilization Den's parents feared to leave.

That night, the fires burned cheerily, but the mood of the caravan was somber. Nearly half of the troop, including Den's mother, had perished due to the illness, but the survivors were finally free of the deadly malady. Heads hung low as both men and women mourned their losses. No guards were set, as no one seemed to care. That's when the goblin horde fell upon them. The foul folk rushed in from all directions at once, brandishing weapons, but only killing a few. They seemed to be holding back, herding the majority of the folk to the center of the encampment. Den could still see the gnarled forms of the humanoids pushing the helpless people and smacking them with the flats of their swords to gain their submission.

Den's most vivid memory was of his father trying to rally the caravan folk. Swinging a smoldering log from a nearby fire, he menaced some of the smaller goblins, many of which danced away with black marks where welts would soon develop. Then, another of the foul folk stepped to the front and brandished a huge sword, which glowed red, as if enchanted.

Den's father waved the brand in front of the monster, but the beast merely laughed. The sound was horrible. It left no feeling of joy, but only one of dread. Frothing spittle dripped from the beast's grinning maw, dropping from its warty chin onto its belted tunic as it pointed the enchanted weapon at Den's father's chest.

"This one has got some fight in 'im," the huge goblin mocked. "Can't have that," he chided, as he pulled back his arm and swung a meaty fist at the human. His father tried to block, but the blow was too powerful and went unaffected by the attempt. The twisted creature's knuckles struck Den's father square in the middle of his face. Blood sprayed as the fist was withdrawn, the man's face was completely caved in. The human stood for a moment, wobbling slowly, then crumpled to the ground.

"Humans," the beast spat. "They don't make 'em the way they used to."

The goblins that were watching stood shock still, halted by the awesome display of raw strength.

Jaws gaped, and swords hung loosely. Goblins weren't known for their strength, depending more on overwhelming their enemies with sheer numbers rather than brute force. It was whispered in some of the more remote parts of their warren that their leader, Skum, was more a creature of magic than goblin. The rumor was that he had made a deal with the necromancer Marasmus, and had been given special items that made him extremely powerful. These devices made him nearly a god among them.

Feared by most, he was watched closely by a few who coveted his magical talismans and wanted them for their own. With these magic objects, they could usurp him and become the leader of the warren.

"Get to work!" Skum roared, waving his bloody hand at the gawking crowd. "Round up any stragglers or our boss will flay your hides!"

The goblins jumped to do his bidding, not wanting their leader to direct his rage at any of them.

Den was pulled roughly to his feet. He hadn't noticed that, with his senses stunned, he had dropped to the ground. He hadn't even realized that his father was dead. All he could think of was the image of the huge goblin leader and his crushing strength.

Still in shock, Den was pushed and prodded toward the center of the camp. Most of the other humans were huddled there, trembling as the goblins harassed them with their rusty swords and clubs, keeping the people of the caravan in a state of fear to squash any thought of escape. That is when Den met Finnious.

He appeared in the middle of the goblins and created a huge burst of light. The goblins were all blinded by the sudden sunburst, and Finnious used that to his advantage. Huge balls of fire burst in the evil horde's midst. Lightning bolts lanced forth from his hands and glowing missiles struck down foe after foe.

Den can remember the mage yelling, "Run, you fools! Run to the town!" The goblin horde had been driven off, but would be back as soon as they could regroup. "Flee!" Finnious bellowed, and that is what they did. Into the night they ran, blind terror at their backs driving them desperately away from this place.

*****

As Den's mind returned to the present, he found he was running hard through the woods, briars tearing at his clothes. The turkey leg he had been eating at the bazaar had been long discarded, as his vivid memory had turned his leisurely stroll into flight. As Den realized he was running from a waking dream, the young man stopped and dropped to his knees. His breathing was ragged as tears began flowing down his cheeks. Den put his hands over his face and cried. He laid in the woods for quite a while, letting his grief wane. Then, exhausted from his eventful morning, he fell asleep.

When Den woke, he felt cold and damp. Early evening fog had rolled in, and it was becoming dark. He'd spent much of his free time roaming the woods and hills surrounding the little village, so he knew exactly where he was. He could hurry along an old deer run he remembered and continue past the barrow mounds, and he would be almost home.

As he trotted along the trail, Den noticed that the deer run looked as if it was still in use. It created a natural path in the dense thickets and a course to follow in the open. Mist that had clung to him as he slept began to dry as his body warmed with the exertion of running. The cold left him, as well.

The sun was gone, replaced by the moon, as he reached the edge of the barrow mounds. Fog made it look like some of the old tales he'd shared with other children while trying to scare one another. The graveyard looked surreal, mist causing the landscape to change from one moment to the next, shapes blurring in and out of focus. Increasing darkness exasperated the mood by decreasing his vision. Den slowed his pace to a walk as he swiveled his head back and forth, falling victim to his fears.

A dark form flew past his head and Den lurched to one side. Just a bat, he chided his terror-addled mind. "I've got to get a grip on myself." But even as he reassured himself, his fears tightened their grip. In the dark, in a place like this, every noise takes on the form of the most hideous beast one could imagine. Creatures you can see, like the goblins Den had encountered, were frightening. But when it's your imagination that creates the beast, the horror becomes worse than anything that had ever lived. He continued on, staying to the center of the path and keeping his eyes scanning the surroundings. As the moonlight began to shine from behind the clouds, Den felt his heart lighten as he saw a human form walking up an intersecting pathway. A companion would brighten the mood. He could now hear the footsteps of the person, and his heart soared with joy at finally being safe. Den made it to the intersection first and waited. Monsters, moments ago real, were suddenly banished. Unable to contain himself, Den called into the night, "Hello. Hello, good sir... um er mam?"

The form paused for a moment, then continued forward. Common sense being lost with the prospect of a companion, Den justified the lack of response. "Can you hear me?" he asked as the silhouette got nearer. Den was now growing frustrated. Who do you think you are? he thought as the person came within ten strides.

Then it dawned on him, Light. Den reached down and picked up a stone. He held out his hand and chanted the simple spell, and light burst forth from the small rock. As the glow fell on his companion, he found he was staring into the empty eye sockets of a skeleton. He turned to run, but the creature grabbed his shirt at the back. Waves of cold seemed to burn his flesh as he struggled to break free. Arms windmilling, the stone flew, forgotten, from his grip. "Let go of me!" he yelled, his voice strained with fear. But the feeling of cold remained, and so did Den.

Suddenly, he heard a ripping sound and the cold lessened. This gave new energy to his struggle, and he pushed forward with even more strength. The ripping sound came again, and Den could feel he was making headway. With a final effort, he tore free. Feet sailing over the ground, he made a desperate dash for freedom. The landscape became a blur as he made for the cottage of Finnious, and safety. As he neared his home, he dared a look over his shoulder. He was safe. The trail was empty.

Breathing hard, he slowed to a walk. Steam puffing from his mouth with each new exhale, a feeling of relief washed over him. He wanted nothing more than to enter the safety of the home of Finnious and the protection the old wizard would give.

By the time he reached the building, his breathing had returned to normal, but he looked and felt like he had been through a war.

When he opened the door, Den was bathed in warm light. The old cottage had never seemed so wonderful; its stale air was like sweet perfume. Even the clutter, scattered about the place, was like an old friend. Den could hear Finnious rummaging around in some of the boxes he'd stored in the back of his laboratory. The sound was like music. No skeleton would be bold enough to attack him with the old mage at his side.

"Blast it!" yelled the old sorcerer, "Where is that useless staff?!" More rummaging sent sounds of breaking glass vibrating through the lab. "Blast!" he yelled again.

"Master?" inquired Den. "I have something that's really important-"

"In a moment, Den, my boy," cut in the mage. "First, help me find my staff."

Den felt relief. Maybe the wizard already knows about the skeleton, he thought as he took up the search. He is probably searching for some powerful staff that will dispel the skeletal horror.

More objects broke as the old mage tried to move a moldering basket. "Blast," the wizard barked under his breath. "That was my good enchanted hat," he said, holding up a high, pointed hat with a very wide brim. "I'll never get the smell of toad toes out of it."

"Here it is!" cried Den, nearly dancing with excitement. He held the staff above his head, bashing it off several bunches of drying plants hanging from the rafters. Pollen and plant debris floating down from above, covering his head and shoulders. He rushed over to Finnious, spilling the contents of several containers along the way. "Is this the staff you're looking for, master?" he asked.

Den skidded to a halt in front of the old wizard, sliding the final foot on some creature's spilled gizzard. The mage snatched the rod out of his student's hands and forged off toward a shelf sagging under the weight of too many books and scrolls.

Dust flew as Finnious pulled down various tomes to examine. Harrumphing loudly, he searched the spines and contents of various volumes, creating an ever-expanding pile of the books he had selected.

As time wore on, Den felt a growing urgency. "Why doesn't he hurry?" he wondered. "The skeleton could be anywhere by now." Goosebumps rose on his skin as he remembered the cold grasp of the undead being and the waves of negative energy chilling him to the bone.

"This should do it," the mage trumpeted, pushing the books into a burlap bag. The edges of the books poked out at odd angles creating a chaotic looking sack.

As Finnious was tying the bag with an odd scrap of twine, Den finally couldn't contain himself anymore. "Shouldn't we go after the skeleton now, master?" he asked in a jumbled rush of words, driven by urgency.

Finnious looked at him agasp. "What are you talking about, my boy?" he asked, confused. "Skeletons?"

"Isn't that why we were searching for the staff?" Den's voice squeaked in frustration. "I saw a skeleton on my way home from town. It grabbed my shirt and almost got me."

"Blast, boy! I don't know anything about any skeletons. Let me see your shirt." While Finnious inspected the ripped garment, Den told of his encounter with the undead. The old wizard pulled up an edge of the tear and noticed the chapped skin where the skeletal hand had been near Den's flesh. This confirmed the young man's story.

"Blast!" the mage muttered. "This complicates things," he said, dropping the ragged end of cloth from Den's shirt. Finnious turned and picked up the bag by its top, easily swinging the sack over his shoulder with practiced ease. "Follow me into the lab, Den, my boy," the old mage muttered, already heading in that direction.

Den fell in behind his master with a confused look on his face. The lab, located off the main room, was huge. Den had spent time in here recently, as it took many years for him to gain Finnious's trust enough to begin experimenting with the various aspects of alchemy. Scorch marks on some of the walls and the ceiling showed where some of the experiments had gotten away from him.

"Now, where is that powder?" the aged wizard inquired while scratching his head with his free hand. Letting the sack of books drop to the ground, he set about sorting through the glass vials. Den could see his teacher's face, distorted, in the oddly shaped containers, the curved surfaces stretching and warping his mentor's features.

The vessels contained a wide assortment of powders and concoctions. A myriad of colors were represented, as well as odd textures. Many held liquids of varying colors.

The glass tubes clinked together as they were pulled free of their racks, examined, and, with a frown or a harrumph of disappointment, replaced. This process went on for, what seemed to Den, an overly long span of time until his master finally stopped.

"Ah-ha!" The old mage exclaimed while holding a small vial aloft. Its white, sand-like consistency looked most unimpressive.

Finnious shuffled across the room and plopped down in a well-worn, overstuffed chair. Dust poofed into the air as the cushion protested his intrusion. "Gad!" the old mage spat, waving his hands before his face. His nose scrunched as if holding in a sneeze.

"What are we going to do?" Den pleaded.

"Hold on, my boy!" Finnious exclaimed, recovering from the dust explosion. "First things first. I am leaving for the land of Skagnar. Trouble is brewing there and an old friend of mine is in great need."

"You can't run off now, master. You are in need here. That skeleton might not be alone. What are we going to do?"

"There's another wizard here, and that will have to do." Finnious retorted.

"Who?" asked Den, puzzled.

"You, my boy. You."

Den felt a cold chill as all the hairs on the back of his neck rose. "What?!" he mouthed, shock registering on his face. "You can't be serious! Master, I can't do something of this magnitude."

"Blast, boy. Get ahold of yourself. You are much further along than you know. You doubt yourself, Den. Your doubt holds you back from doing wondrous things," Finnious soothed.

"But I can't fight the undead master. I need time with the books."

"Nonsense, Den. Books can only teach you so much," Finnious chided. "You need to experience the world. That's our best teacher. You're hiding behind books because you doubt your abilities."

Den stood motionless. He couldn't respond.

"For instance, what burned your back during your encounter with the skeleton?" he asked, trying to bring Den back to reality.

Slowly, Den came around enough to reply. "I was burned by the cold of the negative plane, master."

"You are correct, my young mage, but by just reading about it in a book, could you tell me how it felt? No! You needed to experience the event. The real world teaches you things that books can't."

"But, at least, books don't burn you," said Den under his breath.

"They may not burn you," Finnious corrected, "but they won't teach you from your mistakes, either. Mistakes teach in a more in-depth way. They teach us our true limitations, not just our perceived ones."

Den heaved a sigh as the old wizard left the comfort of the overstuffed chair and proceeded to his casting chamber.

The casting chamber was a small, round room in comparison to the rest of the ones in Finnious's strange hut. It was almost empty. The walls were large, gray, stone block and the floor was the same. Wild, arcane symbols were drawn and painted on the walls and floor in a rainbow of different colors. The only objects inside were an old, worn wooden table and its accompanying chair.

As the mage entered the room, he stopped occasionally and muttered some words or made some simple gestures. Den did the same right behind, allowing them both to pass unseen glyphs and other defensive spells. This was the room where they practiced new spells or cast dangerous magic.

Finnious sat in the lone chair and immediately began casting a spell. Eyes closed in concentration, he silently mouthed words. For quite a while, Den stood, watching his mentor as the meditating mage was in the grasp of his magic. Then, suddenly, it was over.

As the old mage's eyes blinked back to life he drew in a deep breath. "Blast!" he barked. "When it rains, it pours."

"What is it, master?" Den urged.

"I was hoping it was an isolated event, my boy. But it seems a necromancer named Marasmus has moved into the old tower to the north. The one near the old Elindill mine. I don't have time for this silliness!" Finnious spat. "You're going to have to deal with this, Den."

Den's knees went weak. "But, master, I never-"

"You're ready, Den," the mage assured his young apprentice. "I'll give you some powerful magic that will aid you in your task, and maybe you can recruit some help from town. Remember everything you've learned about the undead. It will keep you from joining them."

"I still don't think I'm ready," Den whined.

"Bah!" his master answered. "Necromancers aren't really powerful. The only thing to worry about is what he makes."

"Take this," Finnious said, pushing the bag of powder in the young mage's hands. "It's called Anti-Magic Dust. The necromancer is probably using some type of device to control the undead. It's probably a small, onyx stone that will radiate a green-glowing magic. Use all the dust on it and it won't bother us anymore."

"How do you know this?" Den asked.

"Because evil wizards tend to be gaudy, and if he intends to raise an army of undead, he'll need something to focus his energy through. Without a piece of onyx, he will only be able to control a few skeletons and, maybe, some zombies. It's nothing to worry about. Luckily, onyx is rare and is usually small. The smaller the stone, the less power it has."

Den's stomach began to turn. The realization of his responsibility was beginning to sink in as reality. Gathering his resolve, he said, "I will do my best, master."

"That will do just fine, Den. The dust will destroy the artifact and rid the necromancer of much of his power."

Den accepted the bag containing the Anti-Magic Dust from the outstretched hand of Finnious. With his free hand, he pulled loose the drawstrings on the pouch, revealing the white, sand-like substance inside. With a sigh, he pulled the strings closed again and attached it to his belt. This hung beside the other pouches, which, along with the various pockets sewn into his shirt and breeches, held his spell components.

Chapter 6

This Wasn't In the Deal

Skum awoke on the experiment table feeling cold. He had a gnawing hunger, but not for food. He could remember the night before; the panic he felt at learning his master had somehow cheated death and frustration at the same time, then the struggle. With all his magical powers, the goblin was no match for the necromancer-turned-lich.

As he rose to his elbow, Skum noticed something odd about how he moved. A strange stiffness made his arms feel slow and less responsive than he had ever felt before. Maybe it was from lying on the cold experiment table. That's it, he thought. The chill is from the table he had lain on without some type of blanket to cover himself.

He raised the rest of the way into a sitting position and swung his legs off the edge of the table. After dropping to the floor, he began moving about the room, swinging his arms briskly in order to loosen his resistant joints. The motions went without the desired effects. "What's wrong with me," he muttered.

Continuing around the room, he noticed a large mirror. Approaching it, his mouth gaped in horror. "What did he do to me?" he asked as his full image filled the glass.

Skum's reflection was that of a corpse. His skin was pale, even for a goblin, and it lacked its slimy, protective coating. He grabbed his wrist and pinched a large hunk of skin, but felt nothing. At once, he realized that the old mage had transformed him into one of the undead. As the full impact of his discovery dawned on him, he frantically looked for a way to end this nightmare. His eyes eventually falling on a window, Skum ran as fast as he could and dove through the glass.

Shards, bursting outward, seemed to sparkle as they fell beside the distraught goblin. Reflecting light as they tumbled through the air, some cast a dim reflection of his ghastly condition. Time seemed to slow as he hurtled erratically toward the moat below. Then, the solid smack as the surface water exploded, slowing his fall, but he continued to sink. As he settled on the bottom of the moat, Skum awaited death. His master had made him into a monster, a hideous horror like the other dead things that wandered the tower. He would rather die than remain as one of them. The goblin lay in the muck, kelp swirling around him as he watched the shards of glass slowly descend upon him through the algae-darkened water. Any moment now, he thought as he awaited his watery end.

Minutes passed and he still didn't feel the lack of oxygen. Tens of minutes, an hour, and he still felt no need for air. Tiny fish began creeping close enough to take quick nips at his exposed flesh, most of which went unnoticed.

It slowly dawned on Skum that this was not going to be the way to destroy himself. His fists clenched in anger as he sat up, scattering all the fish that were dining on his corpse. Bubbles trickled all around his lifeless body as he changed position, releasing trapped air which floated upward. Standing, his feet kicked up a large cloud of debris, obscuring his sight.

Skum was just starting to step forward when he felt a strong compulsion to return to the tower and go to Marasmus's audience chamber. He couldn't tell why he felt this, but he knew he could not resist it. His body jerked in the direction of the tower doors and he made his way through the moat, walking along its bottom.

Kelp wrapped around his stiff legs, but his magically augmented strength enabled him to walk as though he was unimpeded. The leafy undergrowth clinging to his legs was ripped from the ground.

As he emerged from the water, Skum felt no need to gasp for a breath. Although it had not totally dawned on him, he was beginning to realize that he was dead. He now understood why some of the undead he had seen around the tower seemed to keep some of the idiosyncrasies they had when they were living.

His sopping wet clothes clung tightly to his body as he trudged out of the moat and toward the drawbridge that led to the front door. Water streamed from his garments, forming a wet trail as evidence of Skum's passage. His feet slapped loudly as he left the bridge and entered the quiet of the entryway.

Silently cursing himself for ever taking the job and working for the necromancer, Skum continued to be pulled toward the audience chamber and his master. As he entered the room, he couldn't help but notice the look of satisfaction on the face of Marasmus. He nearly glowed at the sight of his new creation.

"Not feeling yourself today, Skum, old boy?" he sneered. A wide smile crept across his sunken, dead face as he turned to replace the book he had been reading on the shelves which lined the wall behind his chair. "It's truly amazing how much you can do when you don't need to sleep anymore."

The mere sight of Marasmus repelled Skum. As the necromancer slowly assumed the form of a lich, it was growing in power. What formerly had been a doddering old man, was now a powerful undead creature.

The goblin gathered his courage and lurched at the demented lich with his hands outstretched, as if to grab the magic-user and wrench his neck. Inches before he made contact, his whole body froze.

Marasmus cackled a frightening laugh. "Stupid goblin. Haven't you figured it out? I own you! Not that I didn't before, but now, I control your every action. You are fully in my power, even more than you were before."

Skum literally quivered with rage. "What have you done to me wizard?" he spat, fingers still groping for his master's neck.

Marasmus leaned close to the massive goblin's face, his neck inches from Skum's waiting hands. "I improved you, dolt. I've made you more deadly than you ever were before."

"You made me into a monster!" Skum bellowed.

"You were always a monster," the necromancer countered. "I just made you better at it. I made you immortal."

"Why did you do this?" he asked, almost pleading.

"Why?" his master replied. "You should be thanking me. Now, you'll never die."

"Wrong," muttered Skum. "Now, I'll die forever."

"Enough of this display!" Marasmus cut in. "I have work for you to do."

Chapter 7

A Hasty Deal

Finnious harrumphed around for quite a while longer, picking up odds and ends, then either discarding or depositing them into the ever-growing burlap bag. Impossible amounts of items were crammed into the sack, stretching the limits of the coarse fabric, but the wizened old mage didn't seem to care or even notice.

"Ah ha," the wizard exclaimed, crawling out of a moldering old box. "There it is!" As Finnious emerged from the container, Den could see that he held what looked like an ordinary sack.

The wizard ineffectively brushed off some of the dust and debris from his robe and held the object out to Den. "Do you remember your lessons on magical spaces?" he asked.

Den nodded, while staring at the nearly weightless fabric he now held in his hands. "Yes, master."

"Good," said the old master as he began waving his hands over the cloth. Strange words from a nearly forgotten language twisted his tongue. His voice and gestures reached a crescendo and he pointed to the bag. "It looks less than impressive, but sometimes looks can be deceiving. Open it, my boy," he said, gesturing at the only open space in the cluttered room.

Den stepped into the clearing and began opening up what appeared to be a very big hole. He looked into the opening and found a wand and a bunch of other packages. The opening was large enough for the young spell-caster to walk into and deep enough to store a roomful of stuff.

"This is unbelievable!" the young apprentice exclaimed, now head deep inside the hole. "Where does the space go?"

"It's a magically created plane of existence, Den. It's a door which opens into another space. It is a very convenient way to carry a lot of supplies or things which you don't want people to know you have. Put the Anti-Magic Dust in the space, but be careful. One grain of that powder would sever the link between the two planes and you would be standing inside an ordinary sack. I think that might be very painful."

"Would it be like breaking a magic item?" Den asked.

"In a way," Finnious said. "But it would lack the resulting explosion you'd get from breaking an enchanted item."

Den carefully set the bag on the floor of the magically created space and double-checked the knot securing the opening. "What are these other packages in here?" he asked, picking up the wand.

"Food and adventuring supplies. They come in handy and never go bad in there. It is a vacuum, you see."

As Den emerged from the cloth, he extended the wand to Finnious. "Bahh!" croaked the old mage with a wave of his hand. "You keep that useless old wand. More trouble than it is worth, in my opinion. Never got the thing to work out in my favor."

"What is it?" Den asked, holding it out away from his body as if it might sting him.

"Finnious frowned. "It is a Rod of Random Spells. Rod of More Trouble Than You Had Before, is what I would call it. You see it works on luck. When you say the activation word, anything can happen. Once, I used it when I was fighting some kobolds. The wand burst forth with a huge swarm of moths. The problem was, they were so thick that none of us could breath. I made it out, but the kobolds all suffocated. Later, I found their mouths were full of moths."

"That's horrible," Den whispered.

"That's not the only thing that can happen with that thing. Sometimes it might send out a bolt of power, saving your life, but other times, moths, or who knows what else."

Den slowly brought the magical device closer to himself. "Thank you, master. I think. I'll be very careful with it and will save its powers for only the darkest of times."

"You'd be smart to do just that, but keep it handy, my boy. Ah, but enough of this, Den. I must be on my way." The wizard brushed at his robes again and walked over to his own pile of supplies.

Den looked down at the ragged packages his master was using as luggage; old, moldering boxes and burlap sacks that had seen better days. A pang of guilt ran through the apprentice. "Master Finnious, why don't you use the magical bag you created?"

The old man smiled warmly and looked at Den with genuine affection. "I won't need it, my boy. Where I go, I won't need to walk about." At that, Finnious said a few mystical words and made some odd gestures and was gone, packages and all.

Den stood there, gazing at the space that was formerly occupied by the mage. The hut already seemed lonely. He had to follow through with finding the necromancer. If he didn't, Finnious might cast him out, or worse.

The old wizard had been like a father to him. After Den lost his parents to the goblin horde, the old mage had become his world. Finnious was his only existing family. He could not betray the old man's trust. With a resigned sigh, the apprentice turned, closed the magic bag and hung it from his belt. Looking around the room, he could see nothing else that would be of any use, so he decided to turn in for the night and get an early start in the morning.

Although Den was tired from the ordeals of the past day, he found sleep beyond his grasp. He lay restless, his mind playing over the perilous journey he was about to embark upon. When he did nearly drift off, he was shocked awake by images of skeletons reaching for him, their fleshless bones gleaming an unnatural white as their otherworldly cold hands stretched out for him. Shadows in the room played mental games with the boy as they formed phantoms in every corner or alcove.

When daylight finally came, it found Den with little rest. His muscles were full of kinks as he rose from his bed. He stretched and made ready for his mission. A cold meal of bread and cheese was about all he could hold down, his stomach was so knotted with anxiety.

He stowed fresh foodstuffs in a knapsack and secured his dagger to his belt. He decided to stash the magical bag in the pack, also; but he wanted the wand at arm's reach, so he slipped it in his belt, opposite his dagger.

There he was, a lowly apprentice on the threshold of serious adventure. He was all ready to depart, but he just stood there. Doubt, his old nemesis, held him frozen in place. This is ridiculous! Den scolded himself. Finnious would never have asked me to do this if have no chance. I have to grow up and do this. With that said, he was off.

His feet trod the same path they had traced yesterday, but this time they dragged, as opposed to when they had run before. It was still very early. The dew, when his stride touched the occasional clump of grass, made his shoes wet and heavy. The brilliant sun showed through the trees in beams, broken by twigs and leaves.

The Weary Wanderer Inn would be the place to start, Den thought, remembering the fight the day before. He recalled how he acted during the brawl. That will never happen again, he told himself, his face flushing due to the embarrassment of his inaction. I will never let anyone down again.

The early hour never seemed to affect the business at the Inn. Den could see the thin curl of smoke from the cook fire. The smell of breakfast filled his nose as he stepped on the porch—fresh ham, bacon, eggs, and muffins. You couldn't you couldn't beat the Weary Wanderer's home cooked meals.

The scene inside looked about the same as the day before, excluding the half-orcs. The tables and chairs had all been replaced or mended. The room was full of common folk; shop owners and such. It didn't look promising for finding professional adventurers.

Den took a stool at the bar. The smell was overwhelming inside the tavern. The young mage realized he had packed food for the trip, but he hadn't eaten much, the light meal having worn off during the walk into town.

His stomach growled when he saw Bronwynn enter the room from the kitchen. "Be with you in a minute, Den," she said as she danced by with an overflowing basket of bread for one of the tables. The yeasty scent made his mouth water.

He spun about in his seat, putting his back to the bar. Surveying the room, he saw no one even remotely resembling the companions he had imagined. How was he going to find heroes in a small town like this?

A black-haired girl who appeared to be several years younger than Den approached, carrying a broom and dustpan overflowing with debris from the night before. Dust, splinters, and broken glass intermingled in the metal pan.

Her blue eyes shone with excitement as she set the pan on the corner of the bar and leaned the broom to the side. Her face flushing, she asked, "Did you hear about the fight here yesterday?"

"I was here, Meg," he said reluctantly.

"It must have been something," she said even more intently. "You weren't hurt, were you?" Meg asked, brushing his hair back as if to inspect his head for an injury.

As her hand lingered on his face, Den could smell wild flowers. His eyes locked on hers. They sparkled green like a set of gems. Lowering his eyes, he said softly, "Only my pride."

"We'll just be going now, ma'am," came a voice from the behind the bar where the stairs for the guest rooms could be accessed. "We don't want to be any more trouble." The voice came from a well-armored man, the same man that had cut the hand off of the orc the day before.

"Have a seat and some breakfast. Meg, get these men some breakfast, please," Bronwynn said, crossing behind the bar again with the now-empty tray. "You paid for it. Besides, you'll be good this time, right?"

The knight shrugged sheepishly and smiled at the reminder. "Yes, my lady. Have no doubt about that." As he walked off to a nearby table, a dwarf and a shady-looking man followed him. The dwarf scanned the crowd and said over his shoulder to the other, "Looks safe enough. Just locals."

"That doesn't mean anything with Hank," the other answered with a sly grin.

Den watched the whole scene. A thin smile of his own began to form.

"Did you hear the news, Den?" Bronwynn asked from behind the bar.

Den spun about to meet her beautiful smile. "About the bar fight?"

"No," she replied, her curly locks swinging back and forth as she shook her head. "People have been reporting sightings of undead, skeletons and such, wandering about the town."

"I know," Den answered. "One grabbed me last night. Burned my back with his touch." He emphasized this by rubbing his still-tender shoulder.

Bronwynn gave a knowing smile and asked," What is Finnious going to do about them?"

"He just left to help with another problem."

"Then who is going to get rid of the undead mess here?" she asked, alarm showing in her beautiful eyes.

Den looked down at the bar. He could see his reflection in its well-polished surface. "I am," he said in a low voice. Mustering his pride, he looked up into the eyes of the bartender.

He expected to see an even more shocked look than he had seen before, but what he saw was the level gaze of confidence. "I'm sure if Finnious left you to this task, your magic will be equal to the menace," she responded. She turned and whisked away to get more breakfasts for the waiting crowd.

"I can do this," Den said to himself, as if to convince himself of his ability. He scanned the room again. The three adventurers were the only ones who fit his needs, so he slid from the stool and walked over to their table.

He was greeted with the stern look of the dwarven warrior. His eyes seemed to issue a solemn challenge to the young mage. Den's nerves were about to break, and he was about to turn and make a hasty retreat back to the bar when the knightly man cleared his throat and asked, "Is there something we may help you with, young mage?"

Den felt trapped. He tore his gaze from the bearded fighter and looked into the kind eyes of the knightly gentleman. "Ignore the diminutive brute," he said with a smile. "He relishes in scaring young men with his grotesque features."

"What did he mean by that?" the dwarf asked his roguish companion.

"He meant you're ugly," the slippery looking fellow responded.

"Is that what you meant, Hank?" the dwarf asked, a crestfallen look on his face.

"No, Scree," the knight soothed. "I was just trying to make our friend here feel more comfortable."

"Just remember who always comes to your rescue. Who's always charging in to save the day. You're gonna get us killed," the dwarf emphasized with his furrowed brow.

"He's got you there, Hank," the other chimed in, a sly grin spreading across his thin lips. Turning back to Den, he slapped the table and asked, "Now then, young master, what did you say you wanted?"

Den couldn't help a small smile of his own. "I was wondering if you men could be hired."

The thief quickly slid aside and, with greatly exaggerated gestures, brushed off the seat next to him. "Now you're talking, sir," he said with pomp. "We're your men. What is the offer?"

"Well, I haven't much money."

"We can work around that, my friend. My name is Pinch. The grumble-belly is Scree and our cavalier friend here is Hank. And you are?"

"Den," he stammered. "I am a mage, as the knight observed earlier."

"Well, Den, my good friend," the Pinch said, sliding his arm over the young magic-user's shoulder. "Do you own your home or rent it?"

"What?" Den asked, quickly leaning away from the man.

"Not to worry, young master," Hank hastily broke in. "My stealthy companion was merely joking."

There was a loud thump under the table. "Owww! You kicked me, Hank."

"Now, with all seriousness, what is your problem?" Hank continued, leaning forward with interest.

"That really hurt," the thief complained

Hank turned his gaze on Pinch.

"Ok! We are really interested," the thief intoned. With a gaze toward the barmaid, he added, "We could also use a change of scenery."

The trio of adventurers had worked long and hard at repaying their debt to Bronwynn. They were not used to that type of labor and were looking forward to their usual means of employment.

"There is this problem with undead..." Den began.

"Ewww," whined Pinch. "Undead are a nasty lot, and dangerous, too. That'll cost you."

"There probably aren't many, I don't believe," Den continued. "They are under the influence of a necromancer named Marasmus. He is in a tower north of town, near the river."

"We'll do it!" Hank exclaimed, smacking his hand on the table to emphasize the point. "We will smite this evil and drive it from this fair village."

"What?!" cried the thief. "I do the negotiating here, Hank. If it were up to you, all we'd do is freebies. Ok, young Den. How does a 95 to 5 split sound to you?" he queried with a sly grin.

Den looked confused. "What is that?"

"We split any treasure 95 to 5."

Still not understanding, Den nodded and shrugged. "I guess that's ok?" he said, his voice betraying his lack of understanding.

"Then, it's a deal!" the thief acknowledged, spitting in the palm of his hand and extending it toward Den. The magic-user hesitated, looking at the offered hand, then at his own. He spit a feebly small amount of foam onto his own palm, then clasped the other's in a firm grip. Pinch pulled Den close and winked expressively. "You won't regret this. We are the best at what we do."

The sound of footsteps on the wood plank floor drew their attention to the approaching figure. Bronwynn held a shield-sized platter in one hand. Balanced on the tray were three plates, overflowing with food. The smell made their mouths water. Eggs spilled over sausage and toasted bread. Honey-roasted ham dripped its juices on the platter, forming little pools.

"I left yours up on the bar, Den," she informed him, indicating the direction of his meal.

"Go ahead, young wizard," the dwarf said between mouthfuls. "We'll meet you out front in a bit."

Den slowly stood and walked back to his place at the bar. His breakfast steamed invitingly before him.

"Den," came a hushed voice from behind him.

He slowly swiveled himself around to face the person to his rear. It was Bronwynn, standing between Den and his new companions. She bent closer.

"Are you sure you want those clowns to go adventuring with you?" she asked, frowning. "I mean, they seemed like good people and showed some promise as warriors, but don't you think they seem a bit odd?"

"Odd?" he replied quizzically, not understanding.

"While they were cleaning this place up yesterday, I noticed some very strange behavior. The knight seems to talk to himself and he jumped into battle a little too quickly. The dwarf is an outcast, and I thought I saw the one that looks like a ferret pick a pocket."

Den could see the look of concern on her face. He shrugged and confessed to her that he had already made a deal with them," he confessed.

"Break it," she directed, looking straight into his eyes. Her gaze stayed level for a few seconds as he felt the impact of what she said.

Bronwynn stayed there for a few moments longer, then, grabbing a large metal tray, she left to clear some of the tables.

Den felt dread as he thought of the deal he had just struck with the group of adventurers. Was he in for trouble with those guys? Did he react too quickly in striking a pact with them?

He mulled over these questions as he finished his meal.

*************************

"What were you thinking, Hank!" Pinch whispered angrily, his face scrunched in a scowl.

Hank gazed up from his breakfast with a look of surprise. "What did I do?" he shot back defensively while shrugging his armored shoulders. His face showed his innocence.

"Trying to volunteer for the job!" the thief griped, his hushed voice straining to control his anger. "What's with you lately?"

"I don't understand?" countered the knight.

The dwarf looked menacingly at the thief as Pinch sighed and continued. "Since we plundered the troll's lair, you've been acting weird. You seem impulsive, jumping to the rescue, championing the downtrodden. That's not good business for a band of mercenaries like us."

"I'm sorry," Hank offered tentatively, "I haven't been myself. You see, the umm... enchanted blade I found in the troll's dwelling was more enchanted than we thought. It talks to me."

"I've never heard it speak," doubted Scree, a look of disbelief on his bearded face.

"It talks in my head. The mage we hired to detect its magic said it had something called empathy."

"What does this all mean?" implored Pinch.

"It means that in times of stress, it can make me do things," Hank admitted in a low voice.

Scree's eyes widened. "Do what?"

"Sometimes it compels me to stop wrongs from being done."

"Great!" exclaimed the thief, smacking the table in frustration. "That's just great! It turned you into a goodie goodie. That's why you've been playing hero. That's why we were in that bar fight yesterday," he accused, pointing at the knight.

"The sword compelled me to help the barmaid."

"Did the sword happen to notice the size of the barmaid?" asked Scree in a low rumble. "Looked to me like she could defend herself against a whole battalion of half-orcs."

"Many years ago, the sword was first wielded by a powerful cavalier. The sword was impressed with this man's beliefs, and it seems it uses the magical connection to urge the current bearer to uphold the same laws of good."

"I say we get rid of it!" Pinch declared abruptly. "Pawn it. It's probably worth quite a bit of coin with the other enchantments on the blade."

"It won't let me do that," admitted Hank. "I thought of that as soon as the compulsions started."

"Throw it in a lake," Scree mused.

"I tried leaving it in the last town, but when I looked down, it was on my hip."

"There's gotta be something we can do. What if we just give it to someone else?" queried the thief.

Hank merely shook his head.

"Have the curse removed?"

"I don't believe it is a curse. It is just the sword asserting its self in times of trouble. I don't think it is dangerous," argued the knight. "Besides, we can probably use its magic in our upcoming adventure."

The others shook their heads and mumbled their agreement.

"Let us just agree that our young mageling doesn't need to know about the accursed blade," concluded the dwarf. "I would hate to see him back out of our contract. Especially as sweet as our thieving friend here has made it for us."

Pinch leaned back from his meal and returned a thin wicked smile.

Chapter 8

A Camping We Go

Den met his new companions outside the Weary Wanderer a short time later. Each was well armed and bore a backpack stuffed with provisions for the journey.

"Where are we off to?" asked Scree, readjusting a shoulder strap that was causing some discomfort.

"North," Den divulged, emphasizing the direction with a gesture of his head. "To a tower near the Old Elindill Mine."

With their destination known, the tiny group set off along the packed, dirt lane in the indicated direction. As the trees passed by overhead, beams of bright sunlight alternately bathed each of the adventurers. Pinch walked beside Den, chatting, each sharing stories of their recent pasts. The young wizard kept his inexperience a secret, as did the thief of the magic sword. Den was amazed at the tales of bravery that Pinch told of each of his friends. His companions walked behind, rolling their eyes at his exaggerations. The day wore on to early evening and they moved off of the road to make camp.

Around the fire that night, the group's camaraderie grew. They shared food and even more stories. The stars shone brightly as the sky continued to be clear.

They slept in shifts, each taking a turn at guard duty. The cloudless sky brought a bitter chill. Den found it hard to sleep on the cold, hard ground. A rock always seemed to find a sensitive spot in the small of his back or, sometimes, in his ribs. The wind made the oddest sounds that played tricks on his tired mind.

Branches scraped and clacked as Den strained his ears, thinking he could make out the sounds of approaching undead, but then the breeze would ease and the noise would disappear. I'm just jumping at silly phantoms, he assured

himself. I'm in the company of great adventurers, men who have braved great peril. I have nothing to worry about. His consolation brought little relief. Unseen specters still haunted his mind. Try as he might, he was on edge until his turn for watch began.

Scree woke him for the last shift at sentry. The dwarf had little to say before he wrapped himself in his bedroll and dropped into a deep slumber. Den didn't exactly know what to do while on watch. He added some wood to their small fire, then quietly walked around the camp.

He felt more relaxed with his eyes open and alert. The vulnerability of sleeping was now gone, and so were the phantoms created by the sounds in the breeze. The relief made him drowsy and he fought to keep his eyes open.

To stay awake, Den glanced over his grimoire. His mind was full of the spells he had memorized. He wanted to be sure he had them correctly committed to his memory. Each gesture and sound had to be done just right, or the spell wouldn't work; or, worse yet, the effect could backfire. Once, he had to spend two days being invisible because the spell he was casting reversed due to a slip of his tongue. Being invisible, Den remembered, was not all it was cracked up to be. He knocked things over because he couldn't see where his hands were and he was constantly being bashed into by Finnious. This happened with such frequency that his master made him go to his room to be rid of the unseen obstacle.

As Den remembered those times, his eyes drooped lower, and soon he was fast asleep.

****

"On yer feet, mage!" screamed the dwarf, waking Den with a start. "A fine mess this could have been if we were attacked while you were on guard!" Scree continued, standing over the boy with his fists firmly planted on hips while glaring at the groggy mage.

Den slowly rose, dropping his spell book into his pocket. "I'm sorry," he stammered, eyes lowered as not to meet the dwarf's.

"Sorry wouldn't fix anything if we were in some hungry troll's stew pot right now," Scree went on, foam forming in the corners of his mouth. His face took on a deep red hue.

"And you were alert your whole turn, master dwarf?" Pinch interjected from across the breakfast fire. "It seemed to me, I heard quite a bit of snoring coming from you during your watch."

"Wha-?!" gasped Scree, the color draining from his face. "Snorting, you must mean. I was blocked up last night. My nose was running continuously."

"That must have been it," the wry thief grinned as he fiddled with some bacon in the skillet.

"Don't let it happen again" he warned the mage with one cautioning eye on Pinch.

After breakfast, the four continued on their way, keeping the sun over their right shoulder.

"How much further?" Hank asked Den as they walked down a well-traveled dirt road.

Den frowned in thought before he answered, "We'll be there sometime tomorrow, I should think."

Hank was somewhat of a mystery to the young mage. The knight didn't fit in with the others. None of them seemed to match, but the knight seemed regal. His beliefs were noble. Den could sense that the others were in it more for themselves, but Hank acted out of another set of rules. He was well armed and armored and seemed ready for combat at any time. At the same time, he was extremely proper in his behavior, quite a contrast to the man who lopped off the half-orc's hand back at the tavern.

"Then it is only a short way off," replied the cavalier, grinning from under his helm. "I am eager to see this evil destroyed."

The day seemed to pass with little talk, a stark contrast to the day before. The group could feel the nearness of their foe. This made them more alert to their surroundings and less relaxed.

That night, they sat staring into the fire and made plans for the next day.

"We should get there about noon," said Den to no one in particular.

"That would be good," answered Scree, while tossing some shavings from a piece of wood he was carving onto the fire. "Most undead don't like the light of day. That might be to our advantage."

"Most undead are slain by the light of day," corrected Pinch, tossing a twig of his own into the flames.

"You knew what I meant, Pinch," grumbled the dwarf, clearing more of the shavings from his lap.

The thief eyed the diminutive fighter and sighed. "I think it's time that we share what we know of our foe," he stated, turning his gaze on Den.

"Oh," the mage stammered, pulling his gaze from the cheery blaze. He was caught in a daydream. "What were you saying?" he asked, feeling ashamed for not paying attention.

"Tell us all you know of this necromancer we are about to confront," Pinch repeated. "What can we expect from him? What is this place like?"

Den continued to stare at the thief, not knowing how to answer the obvious question. "I don't know," he answered slowly.

"What?!" roared Scree, his head snapping up from his carving and fixing a glare on the young mage. "What do you mean you don't know? Did you think we were just out a camping?"

"I mean, I don't know much about the necromancer, himself, or his defenses," answered Den, backing away from the enraged dwarf. "His name is Marasmus and he has raised skeletons, that I know of. He will probably be using something to direct his magic, possibly a large stone of onyx. It will probably be glowing green. If we destroy that, we will rid him of most of his magic." Den strained to think of anything else Finnious had told him of the evil necromancer, but nothing more came to mind.

"Onyx," harrumphed Scree. "That dark stone has vile powers of its own. I hate that rock." He sounded satisfied with Den's description. "My cousin, Bomphur, ran across a vein of that cursed stone, and it proved the end of his mine, as well as his life. It's a corruption of the earth, black as the eternal night in the deepest holes."

"We truly don't know any of the obstacles in our path, then?" interjected the thief.

The young mage shrugged his shoulders while still gazing at the dwarf. There was something more to the diminutive being. The way he strode, his bearing, something seemed out of place. Then again, everything about this group seemed out of place.

"Then, I propose a simple plan. We walk straight in like we belong there. Basically, undead are usually programmed with simple commands, so maybe, if we don't alert them, we will be able to sneak right in without any alarm. Once, I hid an enormous ruby right under the nose of its owner." Den gave Pinch an odd look, clearly not understanding. "But, let's save that story for another time," the thief hurriedly added, regaining his nearly-blown cover. "I'm off to my bedroll. Wake me for my watch."

Den, still confused, retired to his own blankets. His covers were itchy, made of coarse wool, but very warm. Their weight seemed comforting after not resting much the night before. He had only closed his eyes for a moment before he was fast asleep.

Chapter 9

A Change of Heart

Skum walked through the silent tower in a trance, his feet dragging between his typical flapping gate. He idly traced a knuckle against the hallway's wall. The rough surface of the stone tore his skin away, revealing muscle and bone, but no blood. He didn't even feel it.

He walked past the zombie of a human. Once, the goblin would have clung to the opposite side of the hall in disgust of the abomination. Instead of revulsion, this time he felt pity. Skum stopped and watched as the wretched creature stumbled by. Its gate marred by a missing foot, but the beast just ambled along, seemingly unaware of anything amiss.

"I took that man from his camp," the goblin remembered. "I caught him for Marasmus. What have I done?"

A deep sadness gripped him as he realized his part in all this business. He had been a tool in the creation of his own demise. He had unwittingly supplied a madman with the means to experiment, and eventually perfect the creation of undead.

He watched the zombie as it disappeared around a corner, his gaze dropping to the floor in defeat.

His body suddenly lurched around and began to walk seemingly of its own accord, continuing down the hall toward his master. Skum had no control over the commands of the lich. If he tried to deviate from those commands, his body would simply override his wishes and follow those of Marasmus. He growled in frustration and consciously obeyed the orders of the former necromancer.

Chapter 10

Even the Best Laid Plan...

Den woke the others as dawn began to illuminate the sky. Hank and Scree huddled by the fire, the dwarf adding fuel to better fend off the early morning chill. Pinch, on the other hand, went straight to his pack and began rummaging through its contents. After a few minutes, the rogue neatly repacked the sack and joined his companions at the fire.

"I'll start breakfast," volunteered Scree, boosting himself to his feet.

"We'll eat a cold meal today and it will need to be in haste," challenged Pinch. "I want to try our luck with the undead as early as possible. The change from night to the morning's light could be to our advantage. Besides, I want all the daylight we can get when we make our attempt at this necromancer. Some undead have adverse reactions to sunlight."

"Then, I'll fetch some jerky and dried fruits," Scree conferred, grimacing at the thought of a cold meal on such a brisk dawn.

The band silently crunched on the food, heads twisting violently as they struggled to break off pieces of the tough, jerked meat.

"What is this stuff, anyway?" inquired Den after nearly losing a tooth while ripping off a bite of jerky.

Hank looked up as if mirroring the same thought.

"The shop owner said it was bear," answered Pinch, sounding injured. "It was a great deal."

The cavalier shook his head. "This wouldn't be from the same vendor that you pawned all that worthless loot from the barrow mounds on, would it?"

The thief looked indignant. "It was a great deal!"

"Probably getting back at us," chuckled Scree. "Probably gave us orc meat."

Den's eyes widened.

"Or, maybe gnoll jerky," jested Hank before attempting another bite.

"Ow!" the dwarf exclaimed, bringing his hands sharply to his mouth.

"What is it, Scree?" Den asked quickly, concern hastening his response.

"I think I just broke my jaw on this piece of ogre butt!" he howled. He rolled onto his back, holding his belly as he roared in laughter.

Hank slapped his metal-clad knee in a fit of his own as Pinch sat glowering at the two.

Den smiled at the pair. He was starting to get to know these fellows and he liked them very much. As the two continued to poke fun at their friend, it finally began to dawn on the young mage.

"You're a thief?" the magic-user said abruptly, quickly wishing he could grab those words right back.

The laughter abruptly stopped and all eyes turned toward Den. He felt regret at the accusation he had just made.

"Of course, he's a thief," answered Scree, giving the youth a strange look. "What band of adventurers could survive without one with such talents."

"I prefer rogue," corrected Pinch, somehow making it sound a wee bit noble.

"I guess that's better than pickpocket," the dwarf added in another fit of laughter.

"Please!" scolded the rogue, getting to his feet. "I have my pride. I'm not some petty street urchin. My skills are an art form."

At that, Hank and Scree both burst into peals of laughter, the dwarf literally choking on his mirth, hacking and gasping.

"It's true," demanded the thief, planting fists firmly on his hips. "Can one of you argue that my special skills haven't gotten us out of uncountable jams in the past?"

The two fighters looked at each other soberly. "No. No, we can't," answered Hank, still looking at the dwarf. "But, I also can't tell you how many jams your talents have gotten us into, either."

Scree burst into a new bout and Den smiled, but Pinch saw that the cavalier was not joking. Walking over to his pack, he announced that it was time to be going, and the others rose to comply. Den bit off one last piece of the strange jerky and dropped the remainder into his pocket as Scree kicked dirt over the small blaze, extinguishing the flames. Smoke rose, as if in protest to his actions.

"We will stash our packs here," Pinch said. "The necromancer's lair is not far. If anything goes wrong, or someone becomes separated from the rest, we will meet here. We are now due south of this den of evil so you will not be able to miss this camp."

The others grunted their understanding and hid their unneeded gear in the surrounding brush.

"Let's go visit this necromancer and see if we can borrow a cup of hydra snot," cracked Pinch as he and the others returned to the marching order. No one laughed at this attempt. They all had become serious with the thought of what they would be doing in a short while.

Pinch left to scout ahead and quickly disappeared into the woods. The remaining trio had only walked a short distance when the stealthy rogue reappeared ahead of them, gesturing for them to stop and be silent.

As Pinch came back to the stationary group, Den noticed that the thief made no sound as he moved. "We were closer than we thought," he said in a low voice. "Up ahead is the tower. It doesn't seem like he expects company, though. I can't see guards anywhere."

"How close did you get?" asked Scree in similarly hushed tones.

"I made it inside," the thief grinned. "There is a curving hall that's lit with torches."

"You went inside?" Den gasped, eyes wide. "Alone? Already?"

"Every band of adventurers needs a thief," Pinch gloated, flashing a quick grin at Den.

"I hate to say this, but Pinch is the best there is," added Hank. "He truly is an artist at his craft."

"Ok, let's try our plan. Everyone just act normal and let's just walk right in," the rogue suggested while pulling the dagger at his hip part way out and letting it fall back into place. Den noticed the others making similar moves, clearing their weapons of any obstacles which might impede their draw.

Den cleared his own dagger and wand. Then, he went about straightening his pouches and checking his pockets. He found nothing amiss, but as an afterthought, he moved the pouch which held the Anti-Magic Dust from his pack to his belt. As he handled the pouch, he longed for his old master's guidance.

As the small band cleared the woods and moved slowly toward the tower, the young mage felt those old doubts clouding his mind. He remembered the bar fight where he had first met these men, how he hadn't been able to use his magic, and how the spells seemed to slip from his grasp when he tried to use them.

No, the young mage thought. I will prove my worth.

As they passed through the entrance, Den looked at the door, which now stood wide open. The door itself had runes carved all over it and the cast bronze lock held the semblance of a screaming skull.

"This place is evil," Hank said with a strange look on his face.

"How could you tell?" replied Pinch, sarcastically gesturing at the door. "Of course, it's evil. A necromancer lives here."

Den could see Hank pointing toward his sword. "It told me," the knight said in a shaky voice. His eyes looked disturbed.

"Alright, then," offered Pinch, darting a glance at the mage to see if he caught Hank's inference. "Keep your minds on what we are about. There may be traps, or worse."

The hall was dimly lit with sputtering torches. Pools of darkness, punctuated by these dancing areas of light, made navigation possible not easily done. The torches looked real but were obviously magical in nature.

The stone walls radiated cold and the air seemed wet and stale. The rogue led the band, his eyes everywhere. His hands moved in slow, deliberate circles in front of him as if looking for wires or some such thing. He stopped occasionally to check a crack in the wall or a small rodent hole for anything amiss. As they moved further into the tower, the scent of putrefying meat lingered in the air. The smell was fetid, but in a way sweet. Den found himself taking several whiffs, as if to test the odor, before he began concentrating on breathing through his mouth.

Ahead, there came a slow, rhythmic shuffling sound, and the vile scent increased. The soft singing sound signaled that his companions were each drawing their weapons. A low, blue glow issued from the sword held by the cavalier. It gave the feeling of warmth and enough light for the group to see by.

From around a bend in the corridor ahead of them, a shambling horror appeared. Its flesh hung from its exposed bones and swung with each of the undead's jerky motions. Den strained to see, but as fast as the thing came into view, Hank flew into action. He pushed Pinch aside and rushed toward the creature.

The zombie raised its hands and quickened its pace as it saw the intruder coming forward. It looked like a male peasant whose skin was pulled taut and had turned to leather. What would appear to be clothing was stained and torn beyond recognition. The monster's jaw worked as if to say something, but only a low groan could escape its stiffened mouth.

Hank deflected the outstretched hands upward with his shield and sliced horizontally with his sword, cutting the zombie in half. The two parts dropped to the floor with a wet smack, but the creature didn't seem to notice. Crawling forward, it clawed at the cavalier's legs. Gore flew in a wide arc as the fighter's sword swung vertically this time, slicing through the closest of the groping arms. Scree took a cramped position next to Hank and the two cut and bashed the undead into a scattering of flat pieces. Although the creature was now dispatched, some parts of its limbs twitched as if still animated.

Heavy breathing was the only sound in the passage as Pinch approached Hank.

"What was that about?" he asked with an irritated look on his thin face.

Hank looked down sheepishly and replied, "It made me."

"It is going to get you killed," the thief added. "Can't you control it?" he asked, worry replacing the anger in his eyes.

"I don't think so, but it happened so fast."

"What do you mean by IT?" Den inquired innocently.

They all turned to face him. "IT is the sword carried by Hank here, and it is a story better left for later," replied Pinch. "We'll be all right if Hank stays alert and tries to keep that thing under control."

Silently, the adventurers turned and began moving once again, falling back in order. Pinch hurries forward to scout ahead. At the end of the hallway he stopped.

The hallway opened into a large room. Standing in the shadows of the doorway, the thief gestured for the others to halt. They waited patiently as he studied the room from his vantage point. They were all filled with anticipation when he came back to them and whispered what he saw.

"There's a room ahead," Pinch reported. "It is a circular room with two statues, one to the left and the other to the right. The statues are made in the likeness of knights."

"Crap!" muttered the Dwarf. "Why can't we ever go on an adventure without statues?"

Den looked confused. "What's the matter with statues?" he asked quietly.

"Probably alive," answered Scree.

"We don't know that," Pinch replied sharply. "Not every sculpture tries to kill us."

"Ones in dungeons do," Scree muttered.

"This isn't a dungeon, now, is it?"

"What about the barrow mound?" asked the Dwarf.

"It's not a barrow mound, either."

"We fought a statue in the evil temple of that gnoll demigod thingie," Hank added, nodding at Scree. "That's what got Zag squished."

"Poor guy shoulda zigged."

"Are we gonna do this or what?" demanded Pinch, somewhat louder than the situation warranted.

He was answered by silent looks of determination.

"Good," he whispered. "Everyone be ready just in case Scree's right. The other wall has tapestries hung on them. There are stairs directly across the room leading upward. Let's go."

The small band crept into the room. The warrior's armor, squeaking and clanking, seemed magnified by the tension. All eyes were on the statues. Both were meticulously carved from white marble. It was the work of a true master. The one on the left was armed with a trident and a net, while the other had sword and shield. Each wore the strange, but fantastic, armor of a long forgotten time.

As the group neared the center of the room, the statues sensed the presence of life and slowly became animated. As they moved toward the adventurers, their living marble joints made the sound of stones grating together.

"I knew it!" shrieked Scree as he hefted his hammer from his broad weapons belt. "Use heavy, blunt, weapons. Swords won't damage them much."

As the last word left his mouth, Hank rushed to the left. His sword snaked out and cleft off the net-barring hand of his opposing stone guardian.

The dwarf's jaw dropped, but he quickly regained his composure and raced to the right to engage the other. As the two parried each other's blows, Scree soon found his speed was bringing him some much-needed openings. His mithril hammer clunked heavily into the living stone, but left only a slight mar in its tough surface.

That was the problem with battling living statues. They were incredibly slow, but exceedingly durable. You could beat on them all day, but they would survive. Eventually, you would wear out, and that would spell your fate.

A small piece of debris blew off the statue's face as three small balls of energy flew by the dwarf. The small cloud of dust masked a slow, but powerful, blow from the animated creature's shield that took the dwarf in the shoulder. Scree inhaled sharply in pain as his hammer slipped to the ground.

"Do something!" Pinch screamed, pulling his short sword and loosing a dagger at the same time. The missile found its mark but skittered off, leaving no damage to be seen.

Den racked his brains trying to think of something useful to do. Thinking of no spell that would be of any assistance, he pulled his dagger and ran forward into battle.

Scree stood his ground, ramming his shield into his much larger opponent, bludgeoning as best he could, but his strength was sapped from the crushing pain of his injury.

The dexterity and speed of the thief found many openings, both with his sword and the strange dagger that seemed to just reappear in his hand after each throw. His attacks were mostly in vain as they did little to hinder the beast.

Den poked at the creature's stone hide to little effect, also, but it was all he could think of to help his injured comrade. After a few thrusts, the wizard overextended his attack and became off-balanced. The statue's blade bit down against his thigh and froze in position.

Den was knocked to the ground and he scooted back a few feet, but the statue stood motionless. The grating noise stopped issuing from the creature. It was not animated anymore. Shocked, the mage looked to where the stone sword had struck and he could see a small trail of sparkling white powder. Heart racing, he frantically reached for the pouch containing the Anti-Magic Dust. Den gasped as some stray particles poured over his fingers to extend the trail left by the severed bag.

Scree turned to assist Hank just as the knight sliced through the head of his assailant. The statue toppled to the floor, its remaining parts still as they thundered against the paving stones.

Den crawled about, picking up as much of the stray powder from the floor as possible and replacing it in his ruined pouch. He gathered all that was possible, but a good amount remained in a thin layer on the paving stones and in the cracks between. The sparkly material seemed to mock him, flashing in the dim light. Den tried a simple cantrip to mend the bag with a quick gesture and quiet word, "Shovack." Nothing happened. He sat on the cold floor puzzled. "Shovack," he tried again, repeating the gesture. The result was the same. The bag remained sliced. The young mage sat puzzled. It should have worked, he thought. Then, looking at his hand, a smile came to his lips.

His fingers sparkled, reflecting the light in the chamber. He had picked up the dust with his hands. The magical powder was canceling the magic of the cantrip.

Dull, white sand revealed the powder that had cancelled the magic of his spell. Looking back, he could see that some of the Anti-Magic Dust had likewise converted to sand after contacting the enchanted statue.

Den poured the remaining Anti-Magic Dust into another pouch and rubbed his hands together to brush off the magic-canceling powder. As a precaution, he poured some water over his hands to be certain they were free of the dust.

Scree was swilling a thick, reddish liquid from a glass vial. His hammer lay where it fell, but he was experimentally swinging his arm to test his shoulder. "I don't know what he did, but our mage here stopped that statue cold," he said, gesturing with the vial at the motionless stone knight. The healing liquid in the container sloshed slowly in its container.

The others were gathered around the dwarf, looking relieved at their comrade's returned health. Pinch examining a piece of the marble and smiled, "You could say he stopped it stone cold."

The others grinned, but left the comment alone.

"Our wizard really proved himself this time," Pinch said proudly dropping the marble and dusting off his hands.

Den smiled, feeling relieved that the company was showing confidence in his abilities, but inwardly he still felt inept. He hadn't stopped the statue. The magical dust had. He had only launched balls of energy that had resulted in his companion taking a nearly disastrous blow.

"We have to keep moving," urged the thief. "The necromancer may sense our presence."

"Is it me, or is this place bigger than it looked from the outside?" asked the dwarf while combing the dust out of his beard with his fingers.

"It's extra-dimensional," answered Den. "My master lived in a tiny cottage, but the space inside was huge. When we walked through the door, we actually walked into another dimensional world."

Scree eyed the young mage levelly and simply nodded.

The band resumed their marching order and began a slow ascent of the steps. Den could see the two warriors patiently waiting as Pinch examined each step, his practiced eye looking for even the tiniest sign of a trap.

The climb seemed to be taking too long. Another of the undead may be creeping their way at this very moment. In order to settle his nerves, the young mage began mentally ordering his thoughts. If he had his spells at the ready, he could act faster in an emergency, he rationalized.

The group finally assembled on a small landing at which three hallways intersected. All the passages were dark and gloomy. The air stank of putrid flesh and mold.

"Which passage should we try?" asked the thief in a hushed voice.

Den swelled with pride. Pinch was actually looking directly at him, asking for his advice. His mind raced as his anxiety climbed. "Which corridor, indeed," he mumbled. We are fighting for the cause of right, so maybe the one to the right. But what if I am wrong? I have to think fast. The others are depending on me.

"Right," he finally announced.

A low moan from the hallway to the left caught the group's attention. All heads swiveled as one as a group of zombies shuffled into view.

The undead were in poor shape. Their clothing, or what served as such, was stained and greasy-looking from years of decomposition, their faces, had become twisted masks of rigor mortis. Bone showed in several places as the creature's skulls peaked through the jerky-like skin.

Immediately, Hank's sword flew from its scabbard as he sprinted toward the menagerie. The blade glowed almost with a life of its own as it streaked towards one of the undead. The zombie was formerly a she, wearing a simple farmer's dress which was so stained and faded it no longer had a discernible color. Her head dropped to the floor as the blade found its mark.

Another of the evil creatures swung a crude club at the cavalier's midsection, but the blow was avoided as Hank whirled to absorb the impact with his shield.

Den's mind worked at what he could do to help. Feeling more confident, he quickly settled on a plan. He uttered some words in the mysterious language of magic, and with a gesture that slid the sleeves of his robes up to his elbows, large webs shot from his fingers, filling the passageway where the last two zombies were closing in on the heroic cavalier.

Just as Hank's sword was about to bite into the club-wielding undead, his swing came to an abrupt halt. The sticky web locked him in place. The reanimated corpses feebly struggled against the clinging strands, moaning in frustration.

Scree, who was dashing toward the fight, collided into the web, tangling the snared victims deeper in the mess. The cavalier found himself stuck, laying on his back directly below the gaping jaws of the creature with the club.

The armored knight tried desperately to push his shield between his face and the undead. Cold radiated from the zombie as its decaying jaws worked in a chewing motion. Maggots squirmed inside its open mouth.

"What should we do?" asked Pinch in a rush. "Maybe we can burn them out?"

"No!" Den said with a restraining hand on the thief. "That would burn all within the web. Kill the zombies while they are trapped."

Pinch flicked a wrist and a knife appeared. He worked his way to the nearest zombie and poked it in the head, severing its connection to its magically-enabled life, but as he withdrew the blade, it came in contact with a single strand and was stuck fast.

The thief shot a disgusted look at the mage, and another knife appeared in his other hand. He quickly drove it to the hilt in the remaining undead.

At this point, Hank was screaming and struggling to get away. Den walked through the web, which had no effect on him. When he grasped the cavalier, he was able to pull him free with ease, the web simply slipping off the armored man like it had never been attached. Hank rushed away from the rotting things and fell to the floor, pulling his knees up and hiding behind his shield.

The young wizard went next to the dwarf and freed him in the same manner. Scree just stood and stared at the webs still binding the now still undead.

When Den turned back to Hank, he saw the thief consoling the metal-sheathed warrior. The young mage could see tears in the cavalier's eyes, streaks trailing down his grit-stained face.

"We need to keep moving," the dwarf urged, striding over to the two. Pinch looked up with a pained expression on his face.

"Hank needs a moment," he said in a hushed tone, his hand resting on his friend's shoulder.

Scree remained before them, hands on hips. "We don't have a moment."

"He's right," Hank sullenly agreed, wiping his eyes with the back of a leather-gloved hand.

"Earlier, I believe our wizard was right," Pinch said, regaining his feet. "Since we now have only the two open hallways in front of us, I think it is our destiny."

"I agree," Hank said, somewhat unsteadily.

The small band resumed their marching order, Pinch taking the lead, his eyes darting to each crack, searching for the smallest possibility of a trap. After just a short distance, the thief raised his hand for the group to halt. He leaned close to the wall, deftly pulling a small, leather package from his belt. Removing a thin tool, he inserted it into a slight crack which none of the others could detect. Something made a clicking sound and a tiny dart sped past the rogue's hand, sticking in the opposing wall.

Pinch carefully extracted the projectile, sniffing it. He then dropped it in a small vial and, after corking it, dropped that into a pouch at his side.

The others stood silently, watching the master thief at work.

Pinch returned to the wall which the dart had originated from and pushed a small, indistinguishable panel in. The wall, at once, slid to the right, exposing a room.

The rogue's head darted inside as he examined the room. Leaning back out, he gave a sly grin and walked inside.

The rest of the company carefully crept into the room and stopped abruptly. The place was piled high with objects. Swords, gold, all manner of things one would call treasure. They searched the bounty, sorting through the heaps, looking for useful things and discarding useless articles such as clothes.

Pinch held up a cloak, which seemed to shimmer. "There's magic here!" he almost shouted. "Be careful lads, lest we leave something valuable behind."

They all dug deeper into the piles before them, searching out some prize for from the heaps.

"Wahoo!" exclaimed the dwarf, holding a belt aloft. Emblazoned on the front was the image of a muscular arm.

All Den could find seemed to be useless junk, tattered clothing, rusty weapons, and other miscellaneous stuff. Just as he was about to give up, he tossed a dry-rotted leather jerkin behind him and he heard a metallic tinkling. When he went to investigate, he found a ring.
I don't know if you're worth anything, he thought, but you're my treasure. He slipped it on a finger and it seemed to shrink to his finger's size. It fit perfectly and sparkled a bit in the low light.

The others were just about finished when Den noticed Hank holding a shield and just staring at it. The young mage glanced at the sparse remnants in his own pile, saw nothing interesting, and went to the knight's side.

Hank didn't seem to notice him, so Den broke the silence. "What'd you find, Hank?"

The cavalier jumped with a start. "Nothing!" he stammered. Following the young mage's eyes, he corrected. "Er... A shield."

The shield was "V" shaped with a scallop out of each side of the top. It was black with a red skull on the front.

"Where's your other one?" Den asked.

At that, Hank looked about, confused. "I don't know? I had it a minute ago."

"It's over there," Scree noted, gesturing to the far side of the room. Luckily, I'm not an inch taller or it would've taken my head off," he said while sliding his hammer into his new belt. "What do you think of my new belt?" he asked proudly, arching his back in order to better display his find.

Chapter 11

The Interlopers

Slowly, Skum gained control over his body. The compulsion of his master's wishes could not be overridden, but if he accepted the silent orders, he could regain a measure of freedom over his movements. There were intruders in the baron's tower. He could understand the silent command as if it were given to him face to face. As he flapped through the hallway, other undead folks joined him. Two skeletons, dressed in mismatched armor, followed in his wake. The pair were bearing shields and swords and looked like they'd seen better days. These were Marasmus's early attempts at raising undead. What they lacked in durability, they more than made up with their appearance. The horror of having to battle one of these fleshless monsters was enough to make even some experienced soldiers break into a run. The necromancer kept creating them because he thought they looked impressive.

Skum was also joined by an ever-growing group of zombies. He felt a kinship to them. He was somewhat like these creatures, yet, he was different. He doubted they could reason. Do they think? he mused.

Elbowing the one nearest him, a short, male human wearing a tunic which had lost most of its original blue coloring, Skum noticed it paid him no heed. The zombie just continued on its original course, oblivious to anything around it.

The woman in front of him brought back a memory. He had snatched her from a caravan. He could remember dragging her by her waist-length hair. He remembered the sting of the missiles from the magic-user, who had chased them away just after they had gained the upper hand.

He had captured most of the current zombies, but could rarely distinguish one from the other. They were all puny, pink-skinned animals. Sure, they could speak, but they had no idea how to live, always building and straightening things, never letting nature just take its course. A cave was nature's house. If the gods wanted stones to be square, they would have made them that way in the first place. And the way they bathed, washing off a perfectly good smell, it was just terrible.

They deserved their fate, he justified, but now he was sharing their undead demise and he questioned what he had done.

The female creature moved in front of him in that slow, shuffling gate. Her feet slid across the ground, making a soft, swishing noise with each stride. He watched her long, greasy hair gently sway each time she shifted her weight, one clump sticking stubbornly to some dried piece of gore.

"What have I done?" he muttered softly, feeling pangs of anguish at the outcome of his previous actions. His soul ached, a feeling that he had never felt before, as he plodded forward.

Further down the corridor, a distant light grew in intensity as the ascending intruders neared Skum's current level. His small band met them on the landing. The skeleton warriors were quickly dispatched by the interlopers' wicked sword and crushing hammer. The blade had an unnatural glow. Probably magicked.

Skum's band of zombies did better. Diseased hands, clawing at the foul humans, drove them down a few steps, but the momentum was short-lived. Once again, the weapons of the invaders began to prove themselves superior, yet, even in pieces, the undead kept coming. Hands pulling unattached arms grasped the enemies' legs. Torsos kept on battling from the ground. Zombies are hard to dispatch.

As his comrades' numbers diminished, the magically augmented goblin took action. His raised his left hand, pointing a ring at the trespassers. Lightning flew from the adornment, striking the armor-clad lead attacker in the chest.

Chapter 12

Roll for Initiative

Den struggled to see what was happening as his comrades crowded the stairwell in front of him. He could hear weapons clashing together, and the smell of iron-rich blood filled the ascending passageway, but from his vantage, he could see nothing but the backs of his struggling friends.

His mind went quickly through his mental spell list in order to find something that might aid in the desperate situation. Nothing seemed to be of help. He needed to see in order to cast his magic.

Den's hand strayed to the wand at his belt, but he quickly dismissed the idea as being far too dangerous in this situation. He didn't know what would happen if he unleashed its random magic. It was too unpredictable. The Rod of Many Spells remained tucked securely in his belt.

Spatters of blood and pieces of flesh arched through the air from the battle ahead. The gore rained down on the helpless, young mage, causing his inactivity to frustrate him even further.

His attention was so focused on the top of the stairs, he didn't notice as the hand of doom approached from behind.

*****

The bolt crackled with power as it struck the knight, then fizzled as if quenched in a blacksmith's bucket. Skum roared with frustration as he raised his gauntleted left hand. It was clad in a leather and metal gauntlet with the symbol of a ram's head on its back. Uttering a few words, he unleashed its mighty magic. His outstretched fist recoiled as the power burst forth. The intruders, as well as the two remaining undead, were blown down the steps as if struck by some invisible force. Arms and legs spread wide as they crashed into one another before tumbling out of sight.

The massive, undead goblin strode to the top of the stairs and peered into the gloom below. In the sputtering torchlight, he could see the forms at the bottom of the stairs, struggling with his remaining minions even as they attempted to untangle themselves from each other.

Skum felt joy at his enemies' plight. He hated humans as much as any other race that led their lives in the light. Of all the humans, though, there was one he loathed the most. His master, Marasmus. So, he continued watching eagerly as more of the tower's denizens joined the fight from behind.

****************************

A boot pushed roughly at the side of Den's face, his cheek stretching painfully as its owner searched for purchase.

"Get this thing off of me," grumbled Scree as Den finally managed to grasp the offending leg and pull himself free of the tangled pile.

Muttering an incantation, a globe of light appeared above the mass. He could see his companions were also rising, Hank pulling the glowing sword from the head of the zombie Scree had been trapped beneath. As Den looked back up to the form of the huge goblin at the top of the stairs, he felt a wave of recognition. In a rage, he forgot all of his mentor's teachings and pulled his dagger from its sheath. Just as he was about to race forward, a familiar wave of cold grasped his neck.

Whirling about, he saw a rotted mouth moving towards his face. His right hand shot forward, catching the thing's jaw mere inches from his own. He pushed its clacking teeth back away, foul breath assailed him as its mouth snapped over and over in frustration. The freezing, claw-like hand was making breathing difficult.

Den's vision was blurring. He couldn't breathe. Just as his despair was about to overwhelm him, a dagger appeared in the foul thing's forehead. Den collapsed with the now-dispatched undead. Falling to his hands and knees, he crawled away from the zombie's still-moving body. At a safe distance, he struggled to regain his footing, but the passage pitched before him, his head spinning from his ordeal. He could hear the battle continuing as new arrivals joined the fight. His comrades took positions around him, giving him time to recover.

Still woozy, he stood, taking stock of the situation. With one last sweep of his magicked blade, Hank cleaved the only remaining zombie in two. Undead limbs and mouths still tried unsuccessfully to attack their foes, but their feeble efforts went mostly unnoticed. The cavalier spun and began moving toward the stairs again as the thief and dwarf blocked him from both sides. Dragging the struggling Hank, Pinch barked, "We gotta get out of here!"

Den, looking up at the goblin, also moved toward the stairs.

"This is not the time, boy!" Scree bellowed, grabbing the young mage with his free hand. "We can't fight anymore."

Turning to look down into the dwarf's bloodied face, he merely nodded. Stealing one last glance at the figure at the top of the stairs, he made a silent promise that he would be back, and resolutely turned and helped haul the still-struggling cavalier away.

Hank seemed to regain his composure as they got further from the goblin. The three were quietly relieved that their foe had not followed them. After a few turns, they were able to release their friend. Pinch assumed his usual place as the scout, slipping ahead into the shadows.

As they neared the hall where they had battled the statues, the company heard a familiar clacking sound from behind. Hank spun, but Scree and Den were ready and restrained the fighter. Dragging their companion, they entered the room, a group of skeletons nearly at their heels.

"Get a grip on yourself, Hank," demanded the dwarf.

"I can't! It's like I have no control."

They quickly crossed the room, and as they were about to enter the corridor, Den slipped on a stone fragment from one of the statues and lost his grip on Hank. The cavalier broke free of Scree and started toward the evil undead. The skeletons continued forward, now halfway across the room.

Den raised his hands and was about to yell, when the lead skeleton fell to pieces, creating a small pile of bones and armor. Hank, still closing on them, watched as each, in turn, fell to pieces upon reaching that same spot. The last one crumbled just as Hank's sword swished through where it had stood moments ago.

Scree patted the young mage on the back. "Good job. Why didn't you do that earlier?"

Den froze for a moment. He hadn't done anything. Then, it dawned on him. That was the place where the magic dust had spilled out of the pouch. It must have undone the spell that animated the skeletons.

In some small In some small measure, it appeared, he HAD done something, although inadvertently. Although inadvertently.

"I... er... robbed them of their magic," he stammered. "That's what was keeping them alive."

"Well, you kept Hank safe. So that was an awesome feat of magic, I'd say," Scree congratulated, slapping the youth on his still sore shoulder.

"Nice work," added Pinch, rejoining them, "but we gotta get out of here. The way's clear ahead."

The group collected Hank and slipped through the dimly lit passageways to the exit. The thief lead them through the woods to the spot where they had stashed their packs. As they shouldered their burdens, Den asked, "Now what will we do?"

"What will we do?" answered Pinch. "We'll go away, sleep in a soft bed and heal up, and after we are whole again, we will hopefully forget this ever happened!"

"What?!" Den replied sharply.

"What did you think we'd do, boy? Storm the tower again?"

"But, we have to stop them!" the young mage pleaded.

"I don't know if you noticed, boy, but we got our hides handed to us," Scree said matter-of-factly. "We almost died inside those walls."

Absently rubbing his neck where his newly acquired burns itched, Den spat, "What about your precious treasure? I'm sure there's more of that inside."

"You can't spend treasure when you're dead, Den." Pinch adjusted his shoulder pack a final time. "And that's what we'll be if we stay. You can do as you like, but we're leaving."

That said, Pinch and Scree began to slowly walk away. Hank, however, remained standing, pack hanging from one shoulder. The two stopped and turned toward their frozen friend.

"Coming, Hank?" Pinch asked pointedly.

The cavalier snapped out of his trance. "Yeah, sure," he replied uncertainly. Absently, he shrugged the rest of the way into his pack and woodenly followed his companions.

Den, with his belongings still on the ground, looked hurriedly about for some solution, desperately searching for some reason they should try again. As the trio began to disappear into the woods, he realized that there was no reason to stay. He couldn't attempt the tower alone. He had no choice. He would have to go home and wait for his master to return. Finnious would know what to do. Hastily, Den gathered his things and ran after the small band.

The group trod in silence the rest of the day. That night, they sat silently around a small fire, speaking only when necessary and with no cheer.

Chapter 13

Enter the Onyx

Skum stood at the top of the stairs and watched the humans escape. Although he wanted to pursue the hapless creatures, his body would not respond. He had stood motionless at the top of the stairs, a spectator to the final struggle below.

His instincts to kill the foul humans drove him to fight his paralysis, but a growing feeling inside the magically augmented goblin didn't care. He wanted anything but this non-living existence. Permanent death wouldn't be such a bad thing. His dreams of having his very own cave seemed so distant. No self-respecting female would want anything to do with him, especially with him being undead and under Marasmus's control.

He felt his master's urgings and turned to attend the old baron. As he thought of his master, he felt true anger. Rage. If he could kill the old human, maybe he could make himself whole again. Maybe it was reversible. His spirit rose as he thought of the possibilities.

He saw no other beings as he climbed the stairs of the tower. Passing doorways for rooms on different levels, Skum continued his ascent. Torches sputtering, they cast little light. The undead mage had magically created the torches in the tower to give this effect. He said it made the place feel more forbidding. Most undead didn't need light to see, at least not a lot, so they were mostly for show.

As he reached the topmost room in the tower, Skum rapped lightly on the door.

"Get in here, you cave dweller."

Pulling on the door's ring caused the rusty hinges to squeal in protest. The room was brightly lit as his feet flapped dryly into the room. The necromancer was busy at one of the experiment tables with his back to the entrance. Skum bared his teeth as he softened his stride and quietly continued towards the distracted baron.

His clawed fingers opened and closed as the neared the old man. This is it, he thought as he crept ever closer to his nemesis.

Marasmus's robes swayed as he reached for a component causing the goblin sudden panic, but the lich remained oblivious of the approaching attacker. Now, within range, Skum's huge hands shot forward with blinding speed toward his master's throat.

At the last second, they stopped. Frantically, the goblin pushed with all of his brute strength. Nothing. There was no barrier. They just wouldn't respond.

Marasmus chuckled, a low mirthless sound. "You cannot harm me, goblin," he spat. Turning from the corpse on the table, he locked his dull eyes on the towering monster. "You can never hurt me, because I compelled that into you. You will serve my needs until your end, and in your current condition... that could be a very long time."

Skum averted his gaze, not wanting to continue looking into those cold, dead eyes. He noticed his feet looked even grayer than they had before. The covering of slime was totally gone, leaving his skin dull and unprotected.

"Why did you let them go?" he asked, changing the subject.

"They killed most of my undead. When I realized they were formidable, I let them escape. That's why I held you back."

"There were more undead than that," Skum objected.

"Were," the Baron enunciated. "My earlier creations grew too numerous for me to control and some wandered away, but now that I found this," he said, fondly patting a huge, onyx stone mounted in a silver base depicting a mountain of skulls holding up the stone, "I can amass an army."

Chapter 14

Not a Very Cheery Welcome Home

The disgruntled troupe arrived in town late the second day. Most townspeople were already fast asleep. Smoke from banked fires curled lazily from stone chimneys. The Weary Wanderer Inn still had a few lights on, so the companions thought they would try their luck and see if they might be able to stay just one more night.

The atmosphere of the inn was gloomy. The few guests who dotted the inside sat silently, brooding over their drinks. As the group approached the bar, a weary-looking Bronwynn met them.

"I take it your adventure didn't go so well?" she inquired, assessing the battered group.

"We look that bad?" Den asked, sheepishly.

"Uh-huh," the swordswoman answered, nodding her head.

Pinch gratefully accepted a pint of ale from the woman. "I hate to ask, but would it be possible for us to get a room for the night? We won't cause any problems. None at all." The last was said while looking pointedly at Hank.

The cavalier had that faraway look again, as if he were in some inner battle. Den noticed a look of concern cross his comrade's features.

"Light crowd tonight," blurted the young mage as he fumbled for something to say.

"It's been like this the past few nights," she replied in a concerned tone of her own. "Something has the townsfolk spooked. There have been rumors of undead, but you understand how these folks are. Rand Thomas is spreading a lot of these stories, and you know how trustworthy his tales can be." Bronwynn added a sly grin as she finished.

Goosebumps covered his arms. The undead were here. The skeleton was no isolated incident. I need to do something. Den's mind raced with panic as his friends bartered for a room.

After Bronwynn moved to a far table to clean up after a guest who had retired for the night, Den, once again, attempted to persuade his companions to stay.

"Listen, Den." The thief assured. "We would love to help you with this problem, but we need time to rest and heal."

"Then, you'll help?"

"Then, we'll get the heck out of here!" Scree blurted out rather loudly. The eyes of the few remaining patrons swept momentarily toward the dwarf, then, just as quickly, dropped back to their mugs.

"But, the town needs you. I need you," pleaded the young mage in a hushed voice. "Who knows how many undead are around here."

"That's exactly why we will be leaving, and you should too. You were pretty handy back there. We could use a man with your talents. You should join us. We'll make a formidable team."

"I can't go. I can't leave these people. They need any protection I can offer." Yet, even as he spoke those words, the image of the huge goblin at the top of the stairs played in his mind's eye.

Den knew that figure. That was the same creature who had killed his father and took his mother. It was the reason he was raised by Finnious, instead of his family. It had robbed him of everything he had known and loved in life. That beast would pay for what it had done. He was honestly concerned for his friends who lived in the town, but Den's underlying goal was revenge.

"We'll be in town for a few more days," said the thief, snapping the youth from his thoughts. "Think it over. Our offer still stands."

"I'll think about it," Den lied. "I'll see you around." That said, he made his farewells to the three, Hank momentarily regaining his wits as the two shook hands.

His world seemed smaller as he walked away from the group. A cold breeze entered the room as he opened the door to exit. Once outside, the creak of the chairs seemed a macabre melody in the semi-darkness outside.

Just as his stepped from the porch, a powerful hand grasped his shoulder. Twisting, he fell, only to find himself suspended by an iron grip on his cloak.

"I told you they weren't good," Bronwynn said while lowering Den to his hands and knees.

Brushing his knees as he rose, the young mage responded, "No, they were great. We just took on more than we expected."

"Are the rumors true?"

Den nodded in response. "We killed almost every one we found."

"Where are they coming from?" she asked, a hint of disappointment in her voice.

He looked around to assure himself that there were no eavesdroppers. When he felt confident that they were alone, he answered. "Before Finnious departed, he told me of a necromancer operating north of here, in the old tower."

"Blast!" Bronwynn responded, striking clenched fist to open palm. "And I hoped ol' Rand was up to his tall tales again!"

"We gotta do something," Den intoned, half to himself. "Maybe we should tell the mayor."

"No. We tell no one. That blowhard will call an alarm to make himself sound important. Besides, it will panic the rest of town."

"But we have to do something!"

"Let me think on it. In the meantime, your friends are staying here, where I can keep an eye on them. Go home and get some rest."

Den couldn't agree more. He felt thin. He bade Bronwynn farewell and left for Finnious's home. It wasn't until he was at the edge of town that he realized he was alone in the dark. Branches, swaying in the breeze, made it sound like a phantom lurking just out of sight. Woodland creatures added to the feeling of being pursued. Fifty feet out of town, Den began sprinting, and didn't stop until he had reached the cottage. Slamming the door closed, he leaned back against the reassuring, solid wood. Sliding to the floor, he sat for a long while, pondering all he knew. A part of him wanted to go to the mayor and spill out everything, but he had to heed the advice of Bronwynn. He couldn't let her down.

As he sat there, exhaustion took him and he fell asleep. It wasn't until early afternoon that he woke with a start. Unfamiliar surroundings gave way to the familiar as he recognized that his perspective from the doorway's floor was the reason for his distress. Den ate a hasty breakfast of cheese and bread, taking long swigs of water to wash it all down. As he ate he began looking for things that might help in his struggle against the undead.

Old swords and a cobweb-covered pike joined a growing mass of things he thought he might need. Hours later, when he had finished, Den slumped into a chair and appraised the fruit of his labor.

Useless junk. It was all useless against the approaching enemy. He needed real power. Magic. So Den flew to the library and began assembling tomes that spoke of the living dead, books of magic. Then, it dawned on him. He was a single being. He could only read so much. So, after a quick sorting of the titles, Den pulled out a book with a compelling title and settled in to read.

The title of the text was Surviving the Undead. A wizard wrote it three centuries ago. In the narrative, he spoke of the various types of undead he had dealt with in his many years of adventuring. Ways of dispatching them, as well as complications from even minor contact with some of the monsters, were all addressed in the book.

When he was satisfied that he had gleaned all he could from the tome, the young mage stretched. It was late and he still felt exhausted from his adventure, as well as sleeping on the hard floor the night before, so Den went to his bed and slept the sleep of the nearly dead.

Chapter 15

The Not So Empty Nest

"I could get used to this," Skum muttered under his breath as he walked through the empty halls of Baron Marasmus's tower. Even though the massive goblin, himself, was undead, all of the zombies and skeletons still creeped him out.

He sympathized with them. He even felt sorry for them. But, he couldn't get past their gristly looks. In part, it was because he could see his future in their rotting faces. Skum wondered if he would begin to rot apart and start to look like them. The various wounds he'd received since becoming undead didn't seem to heal, but they also didn't seem to bother him.

The invaders had wiped out nearly all of the undead. In a way, this was a good thing. Marasmus was now completely preoccupied with rebuilding his army. That huge, rune-covered chunk of onyx also absorbed the baron's attention. Its green glow was so bright that you could see it shining out of his workshop's window at the top of the tower. The light it emitted reflected the sickness that lay deep within that black rock.

Although the lich wasn't actively controlling the giant goblin, Skum was still under his master's orders. Ever since the attack, he'd been rounding up living beings, and even dead bodies, and bringing them to his master's laboratory.

He didn't mind the work, because he didn't need sleep. He did, however, feel horrible about what he was doing. Skum was condemning these poor beings to a horror he understood far too well. The humans in the area had all been taken and he was now concentrating on any humanoids nearby.

Normally, he wouldn't care about absconding with the occasional kobold or gnome, but he was also compelled to grab any goblin as well. He was abducting his own kind, the ones he had grown up with, the same goblins that had helped him work for Marasmus when he was living.

Turning down the lower stairs, Skum stumbled back, startled. He nearly lost his footing as the misty form of a female wraith rose up before him. Its face would have been beautiful if it wasn't twisted in agony. The wraith let loose a soul- wrenching wrenching moan as it studied the goblin before it.

Recovering from his initial shock, Skum sighed sadly as he waved a meaty hand through the smokey form, causing it to waver. As it started to reform, the goblin walked straight through the apparition and continued down the stairs.

Before the baron had become a lich, he was only able to control a single specter, but now, he was making creatures even worse than that. That foul, black rock only added to this madness. Marasmus wanted to create an army, and Skum was powerless to do anything but help him.

He shook his head in despair while pushing open the front door. Newly-made skeleton guards flanked either side of the opening. His master wasn't taking any chances. There would be no more intruders sneaking into the tower from this time onward.

Chapter 16

The Meeting

The sun, slanting through the window glass, felt warm on the side of Den's face. He rolled over, pulling the blanket over his head to shield his skin. Droplets of sweat soon dotted his forehead as the makeshift shelter became too hot. He threw the cover off and spun into a seated position at the edge of his bed.

He'd dreamed that the town was overrun with undead. Buildings were burning and people were dying everywhere. He kept trying to run away but, oddly, found himself back at some random place in town.

Wiping his face with his sleeve, Den stood and began to dress for the day. It felt like it was going to be a warm one, so he donned a thin, linen shirt which was open half-way down the front. A simple, brown leather cord snaked through lace holes up the front and hung loosely from the collar. Light tan trousers, his sturdy belt, and soft leather shoes completed his outfit.

Den stumbled, half asleep, into the kitchen and rummaged around, looking for something to sate his grumbling stomach. It didn't take long for him to discover that between packing rations for his adventure and eating yesterday, their food stocks were particularly low.

As he was cutting the mold from a small end of cheese he found tucked in the back of their pantry, Den heard a rapping at the door. Wiping his hands on the front of his pants, he shuffled off to find out who was calling on him. The rapping came again, a good bit louder, as he was reaching for the handle. He hesitated for a moment, then reassured himself that the dead don't knock at doors. Grasping the handle, he swung the portal inward, revealing an obese, middle-aged man dressed in black formal attire with his hand poised to knock at the door again.

"Where's Finnious?" the mayor demanded. His round face was flushed red and jiggled with impatience. As he spoke, he moved through the doorway, his eyes scanning the room in search of the magic-user.

Den deftly slid to the side, allowing the impatient official to pass. "He is away," he answered, unsure of what to say.

Mayor Blackthorn quickly spun about, fixing a squinty-eyed stare at the young mage, leaning in so close Den could feel tiny droplets of spray as he sarcastically inquired, "Where is he off to, lad?"

"He departed days ago to assist another wizard who is in a bit of a bind."

"We're in a bit of a bind, ourselves," the Mayor spat. Den could smell bacon and ale on his breath. He must have been at the inn, imbibing some liquid courage before approaching Finnious. The two hadn't gotten along well after the wizard's roof had crashed onto the mayor's. Timby Blackthorn was the one who had banished Finnious to a safe distance after the accident. "When will he be back?"

Den took a few small steps back, gaining some separation between the two before answering. "I have no idea," he said truthfully. "Is there something I can help you with?"

Blackthorn's face scrunched up even tighter, his eyes thin slits as he closed the gap once again. "Things once dead and buried are roaming about and I was wondering if your teacher had any part in it."

"He has nothing to do with it, Mayor," Den said, lowering his eyes. "There's a necromancer to the north and my master is sending me to deal with him."

Timby's eyes opened in shock. He actually took a small step back as he digested this news. Den watched as the portly man eyed him, gauging his abilities. "What do you plan to do?"

"I took a small band of mercenaries to the necromancer's tower-"

"And?"

Den suddenly took interest in a loose piece of thread on his shoulder. After a moment, he looked up at the mayor and said, "We were driven away."

"Driven away?" the mayor stammered, moving close once again. "What do you mean, driven away?"

"We were overrun by the undead and forced to leave," Den explained, finding his back pressed firmly against the wall next to the open door.

"What do you plan to do now?"

"I'm looking for answers right now. My master has full confidence in my abilities."

Blackthorn leaned in close, nearly rubbing noses with the young mage. His eyes, once again, intently squinted at the young spell-caster. "You'd better be, because I have very little confidence in you. The townspeople are scared, and frightened people don't re-elect leaders who let them remain scared. Get my point?"

Den swallowed. "I get it..."

The mayor growled through gritted teeth. "You'd better get it!" he threatened as he stormed out the door, jacket corners waving as his bulk swiftly waddled back toward the town.

The young mage watched until the town leader had vanished from sight. He felt drained by the encounter, literally slumping against the doorframe. Why did Finnious leave me with this task? he asked himself as he closed the door.

Den spent the next few hours scanning tomes from Finnious's library, looking for any means of dispatching the necromancer. He was about to give up, when he found a note scribbled in his master's hand tucked neatly inside a book which spoke of magical artifacts. On the back of the note was a small map depicting where the item could be found. It was a cloak that could render the wearer invisible. Den felt a surge of hope.

The note his master had written suggested that this would be a handy item to procure whenever there was time. Den mused that maybe Finnious had forgotten about the magical device, or maybe he just had never found the time to retrieve it. In any event, if it worked, he'd be able to use it to get close enough to assault the necromancer and end his twisted scheme.

It was late afternoon when he decided that he could do no more. The food was nearly gone, so he set out for town. As an afterthought, he took his pack and the weapons he'd carried to the necromancer's tower. He folded the map and stuffed it in his pack.

It took a while for his eyes to adjust to the bright sunshine. Spending so much time indoors reading those musty, old tomes made the transition to sunlight a jarring one, but as he walked the short distance, his discomfort was replaced by a feeling of trepidation as the village came into sight. Up ahead to his right, Smedly Burrfour was fishing from the bridge spanning the Silver Fish River. Smedly was a few years older than Den, but they had been friends for years.

Many of the townsfolk thought the Burrfours were crazy. They all loved to tinker and had invented many wondrous things. They had also caused a few disasters. The thing people found weirdest about the family was that the Burrfours collected water from their roof. It was filtered, then piped inside where it could be drawn and used without having to go outside.

Some villagers mocked them, saying they were just plain lazy. Others couldn't see why anyone would drink water runoff from their roof when there were wells nearby and a perfectly good stream. Den just figured Smedly's family liked to be creative and their outlet was these outlandish inventions.

The older boy was sitting on the fieldstone wall, patiently waiting for a fish to bite. When he heard someone approach, he spun around quickly. As Den passed his old friend, he saw a look of suspicion cross the young man's face.

Thinking nothing of the encounter, he continued on his way. Passing by a small cottage, Hilda Wanewright was flapping a dust rag out her open window. When she noticed the young mage, she spat and closed her shutters with a little too much force to just be casual.

Den was becoming distressed by the odd manner which these people were acting as he crossed the porch to the Weary Wanderer. When he entered the inn, the few patrons turned, and the little chatter which he heard upon going inside came to a sudden stop.

Sheepishly, the young magic-user crossed the room and took a seat at the bar. Whispers broke out, but soon the tone returned to a low buzz as the customers lost interest in the mage. Den scanned the room, looking for his former comrades.

The kitchen doors burst open. Meg's back appeared first, but as she spun about, he could see the tray she was carrying held an array of breakfast foods. The aroma of the meals held a promise, which his grumbling belly anticipated. Bronwynn followed, back first, catching the door before it closed. As she turned, bearing another tray, she caught sight of the young wizard.

"Den," she acknowledged, completing her turn. "I was hoping you'd stop in. If I didn't see you today, I was going to walk out and pay you a visit. Let me empty this tray and we'll have a chat."

"Take your time," he assured. "I'm not in a hurry."

A warm smile spread across her face as she continued on her way. The mage watched as her lean, muscular body wove through the tables toward the patrons she was serving.

A tray crashing onto the bar directly to his left startled him back to the present. Heart in his throat, he spun about on his seat and saw Meg leaning across the bar. She was looking deeply into his eyes with her lips forming an amused smile. Her eyes twinkled as she pointedly asked, "Is there anything you want?"

Den swallowed deeply, trying to regain his composure. "Maybe some breakfast?" was all he could manage to get out of his suddenly parched mouth.

"Is that all?" inquired the serving girl in mock disappointment.

He could only nod as she let out a sigh and hoisted the tray. As Meg turned about to back through the door, Den could see a mischievous sparkle in her eye. Then, with a grin, she disappeared into the kitchen, the door swinging back and forth on its axis until it finally came to rest, obscuring his view of the room beyond.

Another crash sounded to his right, spinning the mage the other way. Once again, a tray full of empty dishes sat on the bar, this time, next to the tavern owner, Bronwynn.

"Do you guys have to keep doing that?" he replied, shock straining his voice as he looked up into her eyes, which were half obscured by stray curls.

The ex-swordswoman gave him a questioning look.

"That slamming a tray full of... Never mind." Den lowered his eyes to the tray, seeing a few half-chewed crusts lying on a plate stained with egg yoke.

"The town is full of rumors," Bronwynn said in a hushed tone. "We need to talk."

Scooping up the tray with one hand, she motioned to the kitchen with the other. Den followed her, envying her strength, as well as the grace she displayed as she spun through the double-hinged door.

The smell of the kitchen was euphoric, all of the different foods blending into a symphony of scents. As he looked around the room, he spied the back side of Meg as she leaned in front of the oven, pulling out freshly baked loaves of bread. He watched appreciatively as her hips swayed while she rubbed butter on the top of each loaf, humming a soft melody. Sitting down at a small table, he smiled at Meg as she brushed the back of her sleeve across her forehead in response to the warm work.

The room was stifling, the ovens having been burning since early this morning. His mouth watered at the sights and sounds of the kitchen. He was reminded of his mother cooking over the campfire, although the scents here were amplified from being in a room, rather than outdoors. It had the same, familiar clinking sounds.

As his memories faded, he noticed he was staring at Meg, who was flushing red with a happy smile. The humming had faded, as had the sounds of cooking. The serving girl sliced off two thick slices of bread and slathered them with butter and jam. She slid this in front of him without a word. Standing with her hands clasped in front of her, she waited for him to eat.

Den picked up the slice from the end of the loaf and took a bite. The warm bread melted in his mouth, the strawberry jam complementing the freshness of the ingredients.

"That's very good," he managed around the half-chewed food.

She beamed at his praise, eyes squinting as her already large smile strained her cheeks.

He swallowed the mouthful, and was about to take another bite when Bronwynn plopped a plate piled with eggs, bacon, and potatoes in front of him.

"Take the rest of the bread out and check on the guests," she told Meg with a smile.

The serving girl complied, and with a last look over her shoulder, she disappeared through the door with two baskets full of golden, brown bread.

"She's crazy about you," Bronwynn said, indicating the direction of the softly swinging door.

Den could feel his face flush. "Really?" he stammered like a child.

"Men are daft! You'd think a wizard would know a thing or two!"

The young mage's face grew even brighter crimson at the slight. "I didn't realize," he sheepishly replied. "My studies... I haven't been around many girls."

A fond look spread across her features. She wiped her hands on the apron at her hips and sat across from him.

"The town is buzzing with stories of skeletons," she whispered, changing the subject.

"I know," Den acknowledged. "The mayor visited me this morning."

"And what did he say?" she asked.

"He expects me to deal with it," Den explained. "He threatened me. The mayor said that people who live in fear don't re-elect mayors that let them stay living in fear."

"We need to talk to Mayor Blackthorn. We need to come up with a better plan than that," she gasped in disgust.

Den looked down at his plate dejectedly.

"I didn't mean that," she continued. "I mean charging only one man with protecting the whole town is ludicrous. Everybody is going to have to take responsibility for this mess."

Reaching across the table, Bronwynn took his hands in hers. Den looked into her face and, for the first time saw, the wrinkles in the corners of her eyes. Looking deeper, he realized her age.

He'd always harbored a secret love for the warrior woman, admiring her from afar. It wasn't until now that he realized their age difference. He was just a child in her eyes.

"I believe in your powers," she added, "but I think this is too much for only one mage."

Den bolstered under her words. "Let's go see the Mayor."

Chapter 17

Politics? I Thought This Was a Fantasy Book

Mayor Timby Blackthorn greeted Bronwynn warmly. He took her outstretched hand in both of his and gave her a welcome smile. Turning to Den, the mayor's face morphed into a grimace. Ignoring the young mage's offered hand, he turned back to the bar owner and asked, "What brings you to my humble home?"

"As you know," Bronwynn started, "we have a bit of an undead problem."

"I know," Blackthorn agreed, looking pointedly at Den. "I thought I'd already found a solution to that crisis."

Den looked down under the mayor's scrutiny. He felt ashamed that he wasn't taking care of this on his own.

"Timby," the bar owner countered. "You know this is much bigger than one mage can handle. There have been too many reports for it to be a single skeleton causing all of this turmoil. Goading a single mage into defending the town just won't be enough."

"What do you suggest?" the mayor asked.

"We need to hold a town meeting," she suggested. "We can alert the people and set up a watch. The people need to know what is happening and they should be a part of the town's security."

"Nonsense!" Blackthorn spat. "Springdale has never needed to post a watch while I've been mayor. It would be seen as a weakness. People don't re-elect a mayor who can't protect his people."

Den gathered courage and asked, "Your re-election is more important than the safety of the people?"

"I didn't mean..."

"The people would re-elect a mayor who gathered a militia and lead them against an undead foe," Den continued.

Bronwynn seized on the young magic-user's words and added, "I'd vote for a man who showed the strength to do such a thing."

The mayor squirmed at such a thought. His father, Ash Blackthorn, was such a leader, but Timbly had grown up in all the comforts wealth could buy. As a child, he'd been sheltered from work and, as a result, he had never needed to prove his worth. Even worse, he'd grown soft, and what little muscle he had possessed in his youth was now atrophied and lost with the passage of time.

"We could keep this to ourselves," he said in an uncertain voice. "Maybe the threat has passed."

"Or, maybe, it will get worse," Bronwynn mused. "Maybe, someone will add to the already wild rumors and make it sound like their mayor is risking the people's lives while hiding in his home and doing nothing."

The mayor's mouth dropped open and his eyes registered his shock. "You wouldn't do that."

"Oh, no," she assured him in a sarcastic tone. "But, I do own a place where rumors are spoken quite frequently. I'd probably be dragged into conversations about it. Who knows where these discussions will eventually lead."

Raking his thin, greasy hair back from his face, Timbly mulled over his options. Bronwynn was forcing his hand. If he did nothing, he'd be branded a coward, but he was no warrior. How would he fight such a terrifying enemy?

"We'll hold a town meeting," Blackthorn begrudgingly said.

"Excellent idea," the woman said. "I'll spread the word. We can use the inn to hold the meeting."

The mayor quickly ushered the two out, exclaiming that he had a lot to do and needed to prepare. When they were barely past the doorstep, Timbly slammed the door shut and loudly bolted it.

"That went well," Bronwynn announced with a big grin.

"I don't think he likes this idea."

"Nonsense," she said, mocking the earlier word the mayor had used. "You just have to know how to handle an elected official. Besides, I get to fill my inn with everyone in the whole town. I'll make a fortune in just one night."

Before parting ways, Den promised to help Bronwynn serve what was probably going to be a large amount of people.

The young spell-caster returned to the cottage and combed through another two books about the habits of the undead. He learned some of the secrets to their creation, as well as peculiar traits and how they behaved.

Some of his new discoveries were particularly disturbing. While all the undead radiated cold from the negative plane, sometimes it manifested in particularly unsavory effects to the living.

Skeletons can burn you with their cold, as he found out for himself near the barrows, while ghouls have a paralyzing touch. The most terrifying were ghosts and specters. Their very presence ages anyone in close proximity. Since the necromancer was just learning his trade, Den didn't think they'd have to worry about seeing one of them.

As luck would have it, he even found some passages about how to dispatch these dangerous creatures. Skeletons needed to be shattered. Arrows and edged weapons did little damage, but hammers and cudgels would make short work of them. Zombies needed to be cut up and burned, while ghouls couldn't be harmed unless the weapon was made of silver or bore some magical property.

Den found that his studies were more productive than they had been earlier. He chalked that up to his growing confidence. He was still unsure of his skills, but Bronwynn, and hopefully many of the villagers, were backing him. Even though he was scared, not being alone was making him feel more at ease with the situation.

It was nearly time to go to the meeting. His hunger growing, Den washed in his basin and dressed for the event. Foregoing his normal wardrobe, he donned robes, an old amulet, and hefted a staff. He felt a little ridiculous but wanted to look more like his station. He wanted to give the appearance of an experienced wizard. As a final touch, he tucked the Rod of Random Spells into his belt. Den was still leery of the strange device but it did complete the look he was going for.

As he walked down the dirt road, he noticed a gleam on his right hand. It was the ring he'd found in the necromancer's treasure room. The young mage had forgotten about it in all of the excitement.

It was a simple, round, silver ring that bore no visible markings. To a normal human, the ring looked ordinary, but to his wizardly eyes, it glowed a soft, blue tone. His master warned him about donning unidentified magic items, yet he felt compelled to place the ring on his right, index finger. At first, it appeared too large, but it immediately shrunk to a perfect fit. After a moment of dread, the young mage felt no ill effect, and turned his attention back to his walk.

I'll have to try to figure out what you are when I get back, he thought while looking at his new adornment as he strolled across the bridge. The village looked empty as Den passed homes on his way to the Weary Wanderer Inn. The lack of activity was replaced with the sound of many voices as he approached the inn.

On the porch, Den took a moment to gather his wits. A few calming breaths later, he opened the door and entered. The room was filled to capacity. The people who couldn't find a seat at the tables stood in clusters along the walls. It looked as if half the village had turned out for the meeting, though there were no children present. The majority of the families had sent an envoy to the meeting. The rumors of undead monsters roaming the village prompted the need for a protector to be left at home with them.

As people noticed Den, his presence seemed to be causing quite a stir. Villagers nudged one another or nodded in his direction. Hasty glances lingered a little too long to be termed casual. Maybe, it's the way I'm dressed, he speculated.

Eyes covertly followed him as he strode up to the bar. Bronwynn, to his left, scooped up a few coins after placing twin tankards of ale in front of the two men. She pushed a stray lock of hair from her brow and gazed at the young mage with a grin.

"Don't you look all wizardly?"

Den's cheeks glowed at the comment. "I wanted to look the part."

"What part?" she goaded.

"The part of a mage," he shot back, keeping his voice low. "You know what I meant."

The tavern owner smiled at his discomfort while pouring a glass of wine. "I'm sorry. You just remind me of someone."

"Finneous?"

"No," she murmured. "Someone I used to know."

"I came to help," Den said, changing the subject. "What can I do?"

"Nothing," she said flatly, setting the freshly-poured glass of wine in front of him.

Den's mouth worked as if to complain, but Bronwynn quickly added, "I don't want to diminish your status by having you serve the townsfolk. We need to have them view you as the wizard you are."

Her words comforted the young mage. He straightened with pride and absently smoothed the front of his robes with his left hand. Lifting the glass, he murmured, "I prefer ale."

"Wine will make you look more wizardly. Ale is for brawlers. Don't drink too much, or too fast. You may need to keep your head about you tonight," she said. A customer called for service and, with a parting glance, the bar owner sped off to take care of the villager's wants.

Leaning lightly on his staff, Den slowly scanned the gathered crowd. As his gaze swept over the people, he noticed that many of the folks looked away from him as he met their eyes, not wanting to be caught staring at the young wizard in their midst.

At the far end of his glance, he paused at the swaying form of Meg. She was lithely slipping between the tightly packed tables with a heavily-laden tray propped on one shoulder. A silly grin played across his face as he watched her hips shift while she unloaded the food and drinks from her tray. Moving his gaze up her back and along her long tangle of curls, he was astonished to see her looking back with an equally silly smile.

After Meg had deposited the last of her load and collected several coins, she wove through the throng to his side.

"Can I get you anything?" she asked, batting her dark, doe-like eyelashes at him.

Fighting down the lump in his throat, all the young mage could do was shake his head in answer to her question.

"Maybe later," Meg said with a wink, as she traced a finger along his jaw before leaving him to attend another table of customers.

Still flustered, Den watched Meg weave her way through the tightly packed tables. She likes me, he thought to himself. He'd always believed the young barmaid was pretty, but he thought she was just flirting with him for fun.

Den had always had a crush on Bronwynn, yet he knew they could never be. Not only was the tavern owner much older than he, she was also a warrior. He was just smitten by her good looks.

Beaming with a self-satisfied grin, the young mage began eavesdropping on the nearby conversations. It was then that he noticed the stoic demeanor of the crowd. No good-humored banter, the people were serious, even worried, as they exchanged rumors of the past few days.

It seemed that with each passing moment, the stories grew wilder. One skeleton passing by a house quickly became a group, clawing at a closed and barred door. Old and long-buried relatives seemed to be popping up everywhere. As the seconds passed, the villagers became increasingly agitated.

Across the room, Den spied his friends. Neither Hank nor Scree noticed him, but Pinch nodded in acknowledgment. The mage was about to go to them when the room fell silent.

Entering through the double door was Mayor Blackthorn. Timby was dressed in his finest brown doublet, with green calf-length pants and gleaming white hoes. He sported the gold medallion signifying his office, lying outside his fully-buttoned white shirt.

I guess he wanted to look the part, too, Den thought. Leaning back against the bar, he waited for the mayor to weave through the gathered people. Townsfolk shook Blackthorn's hand and tried to talk to him, but he politely extracted himself from every attempt by promising that everything would be answered in good time.

Instead of trying what looked like an impossible room crossing, Den stayed where he was. Leaning heavily against the bar, the young mage scooped up the glass and took a sip. The dark, red liquid was dry on his tongue, not like the fine ales that the Weary Wanderer Inn was famous for.

As Den settled his glass back on the bar, Mayor Blackthorn took his place standing on a small box next to the fireplace. The crowd fell completely silent as he drew in his breath to speak.

"People of Springdale," he began. "There have been many stories of undead creatures roaming about our town. I am here to tell you that this kind of awful rumor is not only false, but it is potentially harmful to our small town."

At his words, the formerly silent crowd began to stir. Whispers and quietly-voiced, bitter words rose among the throng. Timby tried to speak, but his words were soon lost in a sea of discord.

Raising his hands for silence, the mayor hushed the gathered townsfolk. The silence didn't return, but he did gain enough control to be heard.

"You have nothing to fear. We are safe here. Don't believe the prattle of old wives' tales."

"I'm no old wife," said Smedly Burrfour, "and I know what I saw. It was my own pa who has been missing for more than a year. At first, I thought he'd returned, but when he got near, I knew something was wrong. He'd returned, all right. Returned from the dead."

"I ran from him. My paw," he said breaking down in tears, voice quivering. "I ran like a scared child."

"Me and my family hid in our house for a whole night as a couple of skeletons wandered around our yard and scratched at the door," came another voice from the front table. It was Marla Magpie, who lived in a small, thatch-roofed cottage outside of town. "I am a wife, and I believe you are calling me a liar!"

Holding his hands up to ward off the harsh words, the portly mayor looked aghast. "No, no, no. No one is calling you a liar."

"You just said that these were old wives' tales. I know what I saw and every word of it is true. My husband stayed home to protect the children so I could come here and see what's going to be done."

The crowd rallied behind her in agreement. This meeting wasn't going the way Timby had hoped. Immediately, he changed his tactics. Like a good politician, Blackthorn had come up with a series of plans for various scenarios.

"We have a wizard in our midst," he countered. "I'm sure he can cast some spell to destroy these foul creatures."

All eyes turned toward Den. He had just started to swig another mouthful of the dry wine when Timby put him on the spot. He tried to act nonchalant as he forced the dry liquid down his throat. Taking a moment to steady his nerves, the young mage slowly turned and, with shaking hands, set the glass down.

"That's not how it works," he started. "One spell cannot slay all of these creatures. It will take many, and I can't be everywhere."

As the crowd started talking among themselves, he heard the name Finnious more than once. As much as he wished his master was here to deal with this mess, something inside him rose to the surface.

"I can place wards in some places on the outskirts of the village, but I can't surround everything. I'll need help."

Blackthorn pounced on his opportunity to look like a leader, "For the next few days, we'll set up a watch. All men will be pressed into duty for six-hour shifts each day. We will also patrol nearby cottages and will invite homesteads further out to stay in town."

"Who's going to pay for that?" asked a voice from the midst of the crowd.

The mayor visibly gulped. After licking his suddenly-dry lips, he answered, "This is why we pay taxes. We have money set aside for emergencies. The government will take care of you."

"Who will lead us?" asked Tam Slaney, the local blacksmith.

Rubbing his hands together, Mayor Timby Blackthorn narrowed his eyes and announced, "I will."

Chapter 18

The Proof is in the Pudding

The meeting continued a little while longer as the villagers finished the plans for their defense, but Den heard very little of it. His thoughts were on his responsibilities. He had little faith in his skills and less in his ability to use them in a tight spot.

In his mind, he went over all he had read about the undead. He studied their weaknesses and how to exploit them in order to end their unnatural life. He knew what he needed to do, but he was far from confident that he'd be able to cast the proper spell in a pinch.

Den was in so much of a fog that he didn't notice that the crowd had mostly left. He was hunched over the bar, staring into his empty glass, when a gentle tap on his shoulder drew him from his brooding.

Turning, he saw Meg's bright green eyes framed by her luscious, black hair. She was beaming at him.

"I'm so proud of you," she gushed. "I just know you'll save us from these terrible creatures."

The young mage felt that awkward lump in his throat again. Forcing it down, all he could think to say was, "Thank you." He immediately became embarrassed because it came out in a much higher pitch than he would've liked.

His squeaky words did nothing to diminish his stature in her eyes. He was a wizard, a young man with untold powers. She combed his hair back with her fingers and trailed them down along his jaw.

"Do you want another glass of wine?" she asked.

"Um... No," he said, regaining his normal voice. "I'd really like a beer, though."

"I thought mages always drank wine."

"The ones I've met do," he recalled. "I just love the ales here at the inn."

Meg gave him that coy look. "I hope that's not the only thing you love at the inn." After stating her thoughts, she went to fetch him an ale.

As she returned with his drink, Den slipped a few coppers onto the bar. "It's on me," she announced, giving him that proud look before moving away to clear a table. He leaned back and took a long pull from the mug. The ale Meg had brought him was the house summer blend. It had a light citrus flavor with a slightly hoppy finish, which made the drink very refreshing.

"Brawler," someone said behind Den.

Before he turned around, he knew who was speaking to him. "Not very wizardly," she continued as she pointed at the mug.

"Maybe if you didn't make such good beer," the mage shot back, punctuating his retort with another gulp from his mug.

The huge woman smiled at the compliment. "What did you think of the meeting?"

"At least the townspeople are mobilizing. That should help," he replied.

Bronwynn shrugged. "If you call putting weapons in the hands of farmers help, you're probably correct. They'll probably hurt themselves more than anything else."

"They will be more able bodies. More sets of eyes. I can't be everywhere."

"I'll be there with you," she assured Den.

"Thanks," he said, relieved. "I wonder if the guys will help."

"Those buffoons you went adventuring with?" the bartender asked.

"Yes. No!" he stammered. "They're actually good guys. In battle, they really handled themselves quite well."

"I'll bet," she said doubtfully. Bronwyn grinned once again in appreciation as Den drained the last of the beer from his mug. "Where are you off to now?"

"I'm going to patrol the village. Maybe just my presence will help to bolster the morale of the men."

Den rose from his stool and adjusted his robes. He wasn't comfortable in all this finery. He much rather preferred pants and a linen shirt, but he was dressed more for show than practicality. The one nice thing was that the robe had many pockets, both inside and out. In these, he was able to keep components for various spells close at hand.

Outside the inn, the air was cooling down. Night had fallen and some of the men were lighting bonfires about town. These would be the men who would provide tonight's watch. Mostly silhouettes, they stood in twos and threes, watching the nearby woods for any sign of movement.

The young mage walked to the nearest fire and joined the men standing about it. He was greeted with grim nods as the villagers, intent on watching the dark, resumed their duty. Bronwynn had commented that these men had no skill as soldiers, but, he thought, what they lacked in training, they more than made up for with enthusiasm and commitment. They were protecting their home. They would give their all to keep their families safe.

Continuing a circuit, Den visited a few more bonfires. Each was a mirror of the others. The men, frightened, stared off into the night.

As the evening wore on, so did the feeling of exhaustion. The people from the small village were used to retiring early, and the late hour was wearing on them. The one thing that heartened the young mage was the fact that with each bonfire he visited, the men stationed there seemed to get a lift in spirit.

Den's presence seemed to raise the sentries' morale. They stood taller, as if emboldened by his company. He could feel their confidence due to his proximity, which pushed his feelings of doubt from his mind.

"Do you think we'll see one?" Tam Slaney asked from across the blaze.

The mage took a moment and studied the huge blacksmith, cast orange in the glow of the fire. He still wore his leather apron over a soot-covered linen shirt. Sleeves pushed up over massive forearms gave credence to long hours spent at the forge.

"You mean one of the dead?"

At the big man's nod, Den continued. "Maybe. I think that they are just wandering all about the area."

Den didn't want to overly frighten the men by explaining their proximity to the necromancer. For that reason, he kept his experience with the skeleton to himself, as well. His company's foray into Marasmus's tower had probably diminished the ranks of the evil sorcerer's minions, and these were likely just some stray creatures that had wandered too far away to be under his control.

The other sentry, Jed Wainwright, asked, "What fell curse has befallen our tiny land?"

Just as Den was forming an answer, a cry erupted from a nearby fire. "Stay here," he commanded the others before speeding off to see about the cause of the ruckus.

His eyes took a moment to adjust to the dark as he hurried toward the quickly-nearing glow. As he did, Den could hear a struggle of some sort, growing louder as he drew closer.

By the time he reached the bonfire, everything was over. Two voices cheered as Den recognized the statuesque form of Bronwynn standing over a pile of bones and mismatched armor. The tall warrior was straddling the pile, examining a skull in one hand with Narbane gripped in the other.

"What happened?" he asked between breaths.

"Bronwynn killed a skeleton warrior," announced a jubilant Smedly Burrfour. "She smote him dead with one blow."

"He wasn't much of a warrior," she commented off-handedly. "His rotted bones didn't stand up to my single strike."

"It was amazing," Smedly quietly gasped his admiration. "Do you think it's over now?"

Den and Bronwynn locked eyes for a moment before he answered, "I don't think so."

Burrfour's jubilation washed from his face as he peered, once again, out into the night. The cold fingers of fear tightened their grip over the men as they searched the darkness for some unseen foe.

"That was great," the mage praised Bronwynn. "I'm sure glad you're here."

"Where else would I be?" she asked tersely.

Den immediately regretted his words. "I didn't mean... You are most welcome here. I just thought... You have an early day."

"Everyone out here has an early day. We all have a part in this, be it woman or man."

"Forget it," she continued, unceremoniously dropping the skull onto the other remains. "This one was old. It didn't have much holding it together."

"How do you know?" he asked.

Wiping her left hand on her leather pants, she replied, "This isn't the first skeleton I've destroyed. A novice must've cast the spell. Over time, it was allowing the bones to become brittle. Better magic would've made the creature much more resilient."

"Oh," was all Den could say.

"I'll stay over here. Why don't you cross to the other side of town and help there," she said, indicating the direction with her sword. "I think if we split up, we can be more of a help."

The young mage nodded and started across town. After a few dozen paces, a thin form hurrying in his direction intercepted him. As they drew close enough, Den recognized the familiar form.

"Pinch?"

"Den," the shadowy figure responded. "What happened over there?"

"It was a skeleton warrior," he answered. "Bronwynn took it down with one stroke."

"Good," the thief breathed in relief. "I was worried. That woman looks like she could protect the village all by herself."

"She probably could," he agreed. "I'm going over to the other side of town. Do you want to tag along?"

"Sure," he agreed. "The others are over there anyway. I was just coming to see what was causing all the commotion."

Den crinkled his nose in thought. "I would've expected Hank to be the one charging to the rescue."

"Hank..." Pinch mused. "He's been out of sorts lately. He's not acting right. I'd say it was kind of nice, him not being overly cavalier all the time, but something's changed."

"Well, let's get over there and see what's going on."

As the pair wove between homes and various shops, Den marveled at how silently his friend could move. Not only was he quiet, but Pinch was nearly invisible. Another thing was that the pattern of his cloak seemed to blend with its surroundings as it billowed in the night. The young mage sensed something magical about the garment.

As they were approaching a darkened home, they could see three skeleton warriors struggling with a partially opened door. The light from the inside illuminated human arms trying to force the same door closed.

"That's where Meg lives!" Den bellowed before stopping and unleashing a globe of power at one of them. The brilliant blue ball flashed forward and smashed into one of the monsters, shattering it into dust.

Pinch reacted at nearly the same time, a dagger magically appearing in his hand moments before he hurled it at another of the creatures. Although it struck its mark, the dagger merely chipped off a splinter of bone before skittering through its ribcage.

"That's why I hate skeletons," he chided. "There's little for a good dagger to stick into."

Before Den could prepare another spell, the thief pulled his sword and was racing forward, blocking the spell-caster's line of fire. Hefting his staff, he hurried after Pinch to help ward off the evil creatures.

The pair of undead had managed to yank open the door wide enough to gain entrance as Pinch entered the fray. He hacked furiously at the one still outside, but the edged weapon was of little effect. Much like the dagger, the thin, magicked bones left little surface for the blade to cleave. It merely skipped off the yellowed surface, causing minimal damage, if any.

Rushing past his friend, Den entered the yawning door into brightly lit chaos inside. Young children screamed as Meg stood defiantly in front of them, facing off against the skeletal attacker. Squinting as his eyes adjusted to the illumination, Den fired another globe of power at the creature, exploding it with similar effect as the one before. Dust flew outward, covering Meg and her helpless charges.

"I'm sorry," Den stammered his apology at causing such a mess, but as the final word left his lips, the woman of his affections came forward with an iron skillet raised above her head. The young spell-caster couldn't move, not knowing what to do. He could only watch as she brought the heavy pan down, striking the skeleton behind him smartly on its noggin.

He watched in horror as she continued to bash the prone form until every bone was shattered. That was when he gently told her to stop. That it was over. Catching her upraised wrist, Den eased the weapon from her hand and thanked her for saving his life.

Chapter 19

Confidence is King

Suddenly, Den realized that something was wrong. Where was Pinch?

Dropping the frying pan with a clatter, the young mage darted outside, only to find his friend sitting on the ground, holding his bleeding head. He helped the wounded man to his feet and led the woozy warrior inside the house. Meg, seeing the two, slid to Den's opposite side and helped as they laid the thief onto the kitchen table.

The barmaid brought a clean rag and pressed it to the injured man's head. "Bring me water and some more rags," she barked at the eldest of the children in her charge. "What happened?"

Pinch tried to rise but dizziness and nausea forced him back. Lying on the table, he explained, "I was trying to keep the beast outside, but my sword was useless, like I said before. The fell creature landed a lucky blow and dropped me to the turf. I was fortunate that it thought I was dead. I'm sorry I let you down again, boy."

"Nonsense," Den countered. "You've never let me down."

Pinch grinned at his words. At that same moment, the sound of battle erupted nearby.

"I have to get back out there," the wizard told Meg, who was wrapping a bandage around the head wound.

"I'm with you," the thief added, trying to get up. The barmaid gently pushed him back down while nodding her dissent.

"Stay here," Den told him. "I'll get Scree and Hank."

At the mention of the cavalier, the mage's friend gave him a skeptical look. He knew something was wrong with his comrade but he had to rally as many good fighters as he could. Who knew how many undead creatures were out there.

Back outside, the mage paused only long enough to let his eyes adjust to the dark. He could make out silhouettes, forms dashing about, but had no clue as to what they were doing. Den proceeded in the direction he and Pinch had originally been headed. As he neared a fire, he could make out the unmistakable shape of Scree, standing next to what Den took for his cavalier friend, Hank, and a few other men.

Before he started toward them, a glowing ball darted into the fire, and a specter rose from the flames, a cold, turquoise light radiating off of its form. It appeared to be a beautiful woman wrapped in a long cloak. As the men stood still in shock, the ghostly monster closed on Hank. The glow from the specter illuminated the cavalier's face as the creature stopped for a moment and studied her prey. The ghastly woman tilted her head to one side as she contemplated something. Then, she moved to menace the next closest man.

Scree was the first to shake off the effects of paralysis. He bolted forward and, with two hands, swung his hammer at the apparition. The blow connected with nothing. It flowed through the vaporous monster, drawing ghostly tendrils in its wake.

Undeterred, the dwarf tried to strike it again, but the attempt had the same result as before. By this time, the other men were hacking at the specter, but none could make their sword connect with the undead woman.

As the villagers around him attempted to bring down their foe, Hank stood motionless. Then, all at once, he flung the sword away from himself and sprinted into the darkness, away from town.

The ghost-like creature seemed to delight in the dismay of the defenders. Undeterred by the actions of the cavalier, they continued their struggle. As they rained blow after blow, she tilted back her head and laughed, the sound of which chilled the guardians to the bone. One of the men actually turned and fled.

As the monster prepared to strike one of the defenders, Den willed a blue globe of power into existence and hurled it at the specter. The undead woman screeched in pain as the ball exploded on her back.

Whirling about, the beautiful beast locked hate-filled eyes on the young mage. As she flew towards him, he managed to throw three more globes of power. Each impact caused an explosion, taking with it parts of the specter's body and leaving ghost-like tendrils fluttering from her wounds. By the time she intercepted Den, the specter had little more than her upper torso.

Her vapory hands clamped onto either side of the young mage's face, freezing his cheeks at their touch. Unable to concentrate, Den couldn't summon any type of defense. Screaming out in pain, he fumbled at his belt for the Rod of Random Spells. His whole body, chilled by the touch of the specter, felt numb and unresponsive. His fingers clumsy, Den managed to pull the wand, only to drop it to the ground.

As hope faded from him, Den saw a dagger slam into the spectral woman's forehead. She shrieked before puffing out of existence. A moment later, the dagger also seemed to disappear.

The mage dropped heavily to the ground. Nearly frozen, he curled into a ball and lay there, shaking uncontrollably, completely unaware of what was going on around him.

"Get him to the fire," Pinch commanded as Scree and the other defenders finally made it to the scene of the specter's demise. The dwarf nearly threw the wizard over his shoulder before sprinting back to the blaze.

Several cloaks were piled on Den's shivering body as rough hands briskly rubbed his arms and back in an attempt the return his body's natural warmth. As the numbness departed, his fingers and cheeks felt like hundreds of needles were pricking his exposed skin as his nerves came back to life. As he lay there enduring the pain, he overheard his friends speaking in hushed tones.

"Hank's gone," Scree groaned.

"What do you mean, he's gone?" asked Pinch.

The other paused before explaining, "He cast off his sword and ran away."

"Where?"

"Into the woods," the dwarf replied.

Pinch took a step toward the fallen sword. "How was he able to get rid of the sword? We tried ever since the mounds to lose that cursed weapon."

"I wouldn't touch it," Scree warned. "If you do, the blade's curse might attach to you."

The thief paused and, ignoring his instincts, left the blade on the ground.

The warm blaze near Den tempted him into a sitting position. This way, he could move closer to the fire in order to drive the cold away faster. As he scooted forward, the wind shifted, blowing the smoke toward the young spell-caster. Den's face wrinkled at the stinging bite of the hot smoke.

"Are you ok?" Pinch asked, placing an inspecting hand on Den's chin and tilting it upward.

"I'll be fine," he answered. "I should be asking the same of you."

"Never better," the thief lied, a hand straying to his bandaged head. "As my old pap used to say, it's a good thing I got hit on the head. Otherwise, I might've gotten hurt."

The rogue's hand trailed to a stray lock of hair falling across Den's forehead. The follicles had turned pure white from the power of the specter's touch.

"It makes you look more distinguished," he commented.

"What does?"

"You'll see," he said before turning back to Scree. "We need to grab our stuff and go after him."

The sturdy dwarf shook his head, "I'm right behind ya."

Den lost track of the two as they raced off toward the Weary Wanderer. Still too weak and cold to follow his friends, he concentrated on regaining his strength. The fire popped and snapped, throwing sparks tumbling overhead as more wood was piled onto the blaze.

Several villagers stopped to thank him for defeating the specter. Many felt he'd saved their lives. He was proud of his part in the struggle. This feeling was completely new to him.

He'd always been plagued by doubts about his abilities, second-guessing the exact incantation of a spell or hesitating in mid-gesture. Most of those incidents merely caused the spell to fail, but occasionally, they brought on disastrous results.

This time, seeing Meg in danger had made him push any uncertainty aside. He cast spells as if by instinct. Even after he'd left her to help others, he continued to be effective. As he gained confidence, more and more memorized spells became clear in his mind.

As he sat shivering, a smile of pride curled the corners of his lips. He'd done it. He'd mastered his fear. He truly felt he was a wizard, at last.

As Den reveled in his accomplishments, he noticed a young man reaching for Hank's discarded sword. Before he could shout a warning, the lad had grasped the hilt and raised the softly glowing blade to his face.

Instead of admonishing the youth, Den watched as the young man came under the control of the powerful weapon's ego. The mage knew that it was already too late, but a morbid curiosity compelled him to watch as what his friends had called a curse took effect.

The only visible sign of anything abnormal was the youth's fixation on the runes running along the blade. It was as if the symbols were speaking to him. There was no way the young man could decipher the ancient language of wizardry scrawled along its blade, so the sword must be establishing some sort of empathic bond with the youth.

On closer inspection, Den could see the glowing runes reflecting in the young man's eyes. The image seemed less a reflection than a connection between the two. It was the mark of a bond between the two that would last a lifetime. The young human's lifetime, to be exact.

Just then, a sudden weight struck Den from behind. Two arms wrapped around his neck and squeezed a tight embrace.

"Are you alright?" Meg asked, her lips brushing his ear.

The unexpected hug brought the young mage out of his stupor. He turned his head, bringing his face near hers. "I'll be fine."

Meg gave him another squeeze before releasing him to plop down at his side. "You were amazing," she stated.

"I was just doing my job," he countered. "You were amazing. The way you handled that frying pan was nothing short of astounding."

Meg struck him playfully in the chest. "No, I wasn't," she remarked coyly.

"You truly were," Den said with all earnest. "You could've taken them all down without any help from me."

Her grin spoke volumes. His words filled her with the same pride he felt for himself. She had risen to the challenge of defending her home. Without hesitation, she'd picked up the first weapon at hand and had smitten her enemy with a powerful blow. Meg had every reason to feel proud of her actions this night. She'd been both brave and strong in the face of a fearful foe.

The heat from her body and her proximity was exactly what Den needed. He didn't notice as the cloaks slid free from his torso. His body was already regaining the warmth it had lost but his mind was still a bit addled.

Meg's hand trailed to the stray lock of hair illuminated by the firelight. She seemed to pause for a moment.

"I like it," she said softly.

"What?" he asked. His level of concern had grown since the thief had said something similar earlier that evening.

Meg sighed contentedly. "This stray lock," she said. "It seems to have turned white."

Both of Den's hands shot to his hair. His fingers combed through the strands as if to rid himself of the offending tone. Repeatedly raking through the now gray locks, the mage made a vain attempt to rid his hair of some unwanted material. It was all for naught. The change in hue was permanent.

Meg squished him even harder and Den gave in to the ministrations. Laying back into her embrace, he let himself live in the moment. It was then that his friend's words sunk in.

"Hank's in trouble," he said with a start. Quickly sitting upright, he threw Meg's arms wide and sprung to his feet. She rose with him, a look of bewilderment crossing her face.

"What's wrong?"

Torn between his heart and his friends, Den stammered, "My friend's in trouble. I have to go."

Meg didn't know what to do. She shrugged and said, "Go where?"

Den froze for a moment. With his mind still foggy from the effects of the specter, it took him a few moments to think of where they'd gone. To get their stuff, he remembered before running into the darkness, toward the Weary Wanderer Inn, with all haste.

Chapter 20

They're Gone

Den wove his way around the dark forms of people. In his haste, he couldn't tell if they were friend or foe. He just didn't care. Hank was missing and the other two were in need.

He couldn't hear any more sounds of struggle. The only noise he noticed was the crackle of the numerous bonfires and the bragging of the men gathered attending them.

Feet pounding the turf, Den sped onto the porch of the Weary Wanderer Inn and through the double doors. Inside, he skidded to a halt. Between breathless gasps, he scanned the room. I hope they're still in their room, he thought while rushing for the stairs. A moment later, it dawned on the young mage that he didn't know which room was theirs.

Pounding furiously at the first door he encountered yielded no response. The next several brought similar results. It wasn't until a scared, old man peered out of a slightly cracked opening that he realized his zeal to find his companions was probably frightening the already scared patrons.

"Excuse me," he said to the wide-eyed man on the other side of the door. "I'm looking for my friends. You may have seen them. Two were human and one was a dwarf."

A shaking hand poked through the opening and pointed to the door across the hall. Before Den could thank him, the hand withdrew and the door slammed closed.

His breathing now steady, the mage said a soft thank you to the closed door before turning to the one the stranger had indicated. It was no use. No one was inside. They must've had their packs ready and just grabbed them on the run.

He hadn't thought of that. Now, he had no frame of reference for where they'd gone. He took a heavy step towards the stairwell, when the stranger's door cracked opened once again.

"He talked to it," the man said in a barely audible voice.

"What?" Den asked, not sure what the old man meant.

"The shield," he said in a higher register. "He spoke to it. I saw him do it. It didn't say anything back."

The young mage hesitated.

"I'm not crazy," the man justified his sanity. "I saw him do it several times. The dwarf would glare at me, as if in warning, but I heard him talking to his shield. Dark matters he did speak of."

"I believe you," Den stated. "I know you're perfectly sane."

The old man had no reason to lie, but what he said added another piece to the puzzle that Den had been struggling with. Pinch and Scree had unwittingly mentioned that Hank was having troubles. They had said something about a barrow mound and his sword, but Scree mentioned that Hank had thrown his sword down on the battlefield. It just didn't make sense.

Den thanked the old man and returned to the tavern downstairs. As he was stepping off the porch, Bronwynn met him.

"You left this," she said, offering him his staff.

"Thanks," he said, somewhat sheepishly, while taking the lost weapon. "It was more for show than to fight with. I forgot I even had it."

The huge warrior smiled at his comment. "It shows. At some point, you really need to use all of the weapons that you have at hand."

Den's head lowered at her comment. "You did really well out there," she added, seeing his discomfort.

Even though his head remained bowed, she could tell her words had a positive effect. She placed a hand on his shoulder and added, "It was an honor to fight at your side."

His eyes rose in pride, but he remained reserved. "They're gone," he stammered.

"Those rats snuck off?!" Bronwynn barked. "I knew it. Those no good-"

"They didn't sneak off. They went after their friend. He is under some sort of spell."

"They better return," she growled. "If they don't return soon, I'll sell off their stuff."

"They'll be back!" Den said in a hurt voice. "Besides, I think they took their packs."

Bronwynn shook her head. They'd been his first company, his first brothers-in-arms. It was only natural for him to hold them in such high esteem. Even though she viewed them in a less than favorable light, she understood his point of view, so she let it drop.

Den walked back out into the field of battle. In its aftermath, the scene took on a totally different light. Instead of the honor and glory he'd anticipated, what he found was a place of horror. Wounded cried, in some cases for their mothers, while narcissists bragged of their valor. Some men comforted their friends while others died alone, in agony.

The illusions Den had dreamed about a battlefield were a far cry from what one actually looked like. Even though some men thanked him for his part, the reality of what had transpired was more a caricature of the tales old warriors told.

He found himself wandering the field, asking if any had seen where his companions had gone. No one knew. It was as if the battle had all been a blur. The tales most told were, more than likely, an exaggeration of the true events.

All Den remembered was the feeling of fear. It was all-encompassing. The only thing that had torn him from its paralyzing grip was Meg. When he'd seen her in danger he had lost all inhibitions. Nothing mattered more than ensuring her safety. It was at that moment that he admitted to himself that he was in love with her.

Before this, he had second-guessed his spells. Den had doubted his abilities and questioned his decisions. When he saw his love in danger, that was all replaced with need. Necessity drove his words. His spells became instinctual. He no longer questioned anything and was in control of his abilities.

It was a turning point. Until this instance, he'd relied on the powers of his master, Finnious. The old mage was famous throughout the realm. He had lived in the shadow of this mentor. It was safe there. No one demanded much of him. He didn't need to perform. He only had to exist.

Now that he'd proven his worth, he felt different. He felt his value. He was a wizard of his own right.

He stalked the battlefield, staff thudding against the ground at his side, his gaze more appraising than it was before. He was in charge.

Chapter 21

Chasing a Friend

There was no time. Hank had thrown his sword onto the field of battle and run off into the woods. It was unbelievable that he had been able to rid himself of his weapon. What we had thought was impossible had happened so casually.

Scree ran to the edge of the woods and, without hesitation, plunged into the darkness of the trees. Pinch followed without question. The safety of his comrade was more important than his own.

The two barreled after their friend, heedless of their own safety. Branches, hidden by the dark, slashed at any exposed flesh as they continued in the direction of their quarry.

At one point, the duo stopped. Pinch, checking their surroundings for a moment, found Hank's trail and hurried in that direction. The pursuit lasted through the remainder of the night, the two pushing the limits of their endurance. As the first light of dawn tinted the eastern horizon, the travelers finally succumbed. Their weary limbs could push no further, and they collapsed, nearly falling asleep before they hit the ground.

Although exhausted, neither of the two slept long. The sounds of the awakening animals roused them from their brief slumber. Their purpose drove them on, even though both were soon spent again.

The two pursuers felt their hopes waning, but neither would give into despair. The feeling of need from their friend drove them on through the day and into the night.

The skills of the thief were stretched beyond their limits. His tracking ability was narrowly able to keep them on their course as they traversed the dense woodlands.

Scrapes, cuts, and skinned knees did little to dampen the spirit of pursuit the duo maintained. Throughout the day and into the night, they doggedly tracked their quarry. Neither discussing their descent, they kept focused and pushed on.

That was, until they came upon the bodies. They were peasants, mostly women. It looked like they had been out picking berries when they were assaulted, as evidenced by their spilled buckets. The two knew immediately that it was their friend who'd done the killing.

A great sadness fell over the two, draining them of any energy reserves they had. In the midst of the carnage, they both dropped and fell into a deep sleep, undisturbed by the death surrounding them.

Chapter 22

A Hero's Welcome

That night, Den slept in an empty room at the inn. After the initial assault, the incursion of the undead came to an abrupt halt. Those on guard were relieved by others, who quickly heard the sobering news of the battle. The entire village was abuzz with the fact that the undead had risen and were prowling the nearby area.

Mayor Blackthorn hid in his expansive home, avoiding the accusing voices of his constituents. His former assurances were revealed as hollow words. He feared to appear in public because he felt he'd seem foolish. His drapes drawn, he stayed inside to avoid controversy.

Throughout the day, townsfolk rapped at his door to ask for advice, but he left the door closed and their queries unanswered, not even daring to poke his nose outside for a second in fear that he might be discovered.

Rising late, the young mage descended to the lower level of the inn. Bronwynn was there, looking like nothing had happened, but Meg was very bleary-eyed. The night's struggle, having obviously worn on her constitution, showed on her face.

After seating himself at a table, he watched as others received their sumptuous breakfasts. He was eagerly anticipating his own, when Bronwynn abruptly gained his attention.

"We need to talk," she said in passing.

Being totally unfamiliar with his situation, the young mage missed her meaning. He watched as she passed by, but this time she seemed less the temptress and more the companion.

He guessed that she wanted to talk about the prior night's events, but he couldn't be sure. She continued her circuit about the common room, serving the scattered guests in order. Meg, in turn, caught his attention. He was hypnotized by the way she moved.

Den was startled from his enthrallment by a plate being dropped in front of him, its steaming contents rousing his hunger from the night's fast. The young mage dug into the food as if it was the first he'd had in days.

"We need something more powerful to help us destroy this necromancer," she said.

A little defeated, Den had no answer. He wasn't prepared for this conversation.

He was just coming down from a high. He had destroyed a specter. He sent it back to the negative plane. Now, he was being asked to find something to help defeat a foe that was a much greater threat than some kind of ghost, a necromancer.

"I guess Finnious might have something back at our cottage," Den mumbled. "Maybe an enchanted ring or an exploding elixir. It's not like I can cast some absurd Creeping Doom on him or something."

"After you finish breaking your fast, see what you can find. I'll meet you there after the crowd thins down."

Although it was still hot, his breakfast had lost a lot of its taste. It wasn't the food, itself. It was the pressure of facing off against that huge goblin again. That vile creature had killed his parents. It had murdered the two people he cared about most. It would have ended his own life if it wasn't for his master, Finnious.

Den became obsessed with the notion of taking his revenge on that monster, but old doubts began creeping into his thoughts. The goblin was powerful. It had used magic against his group. Who knew what it was able to do.

The young mage finished the rest of his sausage gravy, mopping up the remainder with his last corner of toasted bread. He dropped a few coppers onto the table and stood. Pausing, he searched for Meg. He wanted to speak with her, to inquire about her well-being. Mostly, he just wanted to look into her green eyes before heading home.

Sadly, she was gone. She was probably in the kitchen, filling plates for other patrons. Den didn't want to get her in trouble, so, with a sigh, he crossed the floor and left.

A few steps down the dusty road, he was halted by a small voice calling, "Den!"

The young mage spun on his heel and saw Meg approaching, her face red with anger. As she stepped within range, the young woman smartly smacked his chest, causing him to take a step back.

"You were just going to leave without asking about me and my family?" she demanded.

Before he could answer, she continued, "Aren't you even the slightest bit concerned about my safety? Am I so small in your worldly, wizardly mind that I merit no concern?"

His mouth worked wordlessly, but Den made no sound. This wasn't the hero's welcome he had envisioned.

Placing her fists on her hips, she rapidly tapped a foot in eager anticipation of his explanation. Those enticing, green eyes somehow made his mind turn to jelly.

"I wanted to talk to you," he explained, "but you seemed busy."

"So you just left," she added. "I'll bet it was for some important wizard stuff."

Grasping onto what Den thought was a reasonable excuse, he added, "Actually, it was."

Meg's eyes went from anger to rage. "So, my well-being doesn't rate above your high and mighty magic," she huffed. "I see."

It was as if Den had hit a wall. He shifted from a posture of a trapped, scared boy to an angry man. "Enough!" he bellowed. "I am off to secure a weapon capable of slaying our formidable foe. One of such power, the likes of which has rarely been seen in this realm."

He took a step forward, forcing her back. "I stayed in that common room waiting for you to appear, but fearing the repercussions of delaying your work, I left. If showing concern at the expense of getting you dismissed from your job is preferable..."

He lost his train of thought. Those very same green eyes, that had held so much anger moments ago, slowly turned to empathy, and even adoration.

"If these words are what you are wanting to hear," Den continued, "yes, I care. I battled the undead for your safety. Even in exhaustion, I worried about your-"

Before he could finish, Meg flew into his arms and kissed him soundly. At first, he reeled back in shock, but quickly embraced the moment and returned her affections.

The moment of their passion ended far too soon as they broke, and Meg, wearing a wide grin, turned and sprinted back into the inn.

Den was left standing, dumbfounded, with his arms still outstretched, holding empty air. In confusion, he mechanically lowered his arms, turned, and continued on his way. All the while, he wondered, What just happened?

Stunned from this encounter with his love, the young mage was distracted enough to walk all the way to his master's home without thinking of the potential danger he was in. It wasn't until he was safely inside and vested in searching through his master's magic items that he finally realized the hazardous terrain he'd ventured through while completely dazed.

Shock turned to pride, as he had once again conquered his fear. Even though it was due to distraction, he took it as a victory against what had been an insurmountable obstacle in his path to becoming a wizard.

Den spent a few hours sorting through various objects, searching for something that might aid in their fight against the evil necromancer. Wands, rods, and even the odd dagger were tossed to one side as the hunt heightened. Entire rooms were scoured and eventually abandoned, devoid of the artifact Den was in search of.

In the heat of his hunt, a rapping at the door interrupted him. He ignored it at first, but it continued, as if to annoy him into action. Finally, it became too much. In an annoyed rage, Den threw open the door, fully prepared to rebuff the uninvited intruder. What stood before him was something he'd never expected.

A towering warrior, resplendent in leather armor with metal embellishments, stood before the young mage. The armor covered half of her body, leaving much, mostly muscle, uncovered. The flesh that was exposed was crisscrossed with old scars, reminders of past battles won through loss and pain. The only thing that softened this amazon was the cascading hair falling well below her shoulders. It took Den a moment before he recognized her as Bronwynn.

"Come in," he finally said after a stunned moment of silence. The woman's exposed muscles rippled as she stalked into the room, her steps silent like his friend Pinch's had been.

"It's been a long time since I've been in here," she said, looking about as she entered the room.

"I didn't know you adventured with Finnious," Den responded.

"No," she corrected him. "I was sent here after he blew up his roof and it landed on Mayor Blackthorn's. He hired me to do it."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"It's fine," she continued. "It was my last job as a mercenary. I retired the next day. That is, until now."

"What do you mean?" Den asked.

"Face it, Den," she said, leveling her gaze at his. "You need me."

"I have my friends," he retorted.

"They're gone," she shot back. "Besides, I think I'm a wee bit better than them."

"Which one?" he asked.

"All of them," she replied. "The people I worked for were somewhat elite."

"Elite?" he queried.

"We were called the Dragon Slayers."

The young mage paused, stunned into a brief silence. After a moment, he stammered, "Real dragons?"

"It was only seven of them. I quit after that. The eighth was just because they said they needed me. I came here after that debacle."

"Debacle?"

"Oh, I was with a company who were hired to rid a town of a certain, troublesome dragon. It wasn't until we were in the depths of its lair that we found the dragon was with pups. It had three brood that were fresh from their eggs. After slaying the she-beast, our leader was about to dispatch the first of its spawn when I intervened."

"What did you do?"

Bronwynn took a moment before answering, "I blocked Murgo's swing."

"And that was it?" Den asked.

"He got really mad. You see, we were a diverse group. I don't mean diverse in just sex or species. I mean some of the Dragon Slayers were evil. Did you ever meet a paladin?"

The young wizard nodded rapidly, his wide eyes and gaping mouth showing his astonishment at what Bronwynn was revealing to him.

The swordswoman fidgeted with her odd pendant as she continued, "Murgo was our leader. He was as evil as he was fair. I was young and in love with him."

"How could you love someone who was evil?"

"He'd found me when I was very young. My parents were poor, and I was struggling to make a name for myself in the streets."

"If you had loving parents," Den interrupted, "what were you doing in the streets?"

The warrior-woman looked perplexed at being interrupted. "It's my tale to tell," she explained tersely. As she spoke the words, the innocent look on his face caused her to heed his question. "I wanted something more for myself. There had to be something better than marrying a pauper and living out my life out in squalor. I saw Murgo as my chance for a better life and I took it."

"He trained me. It was harder than anything I'd ever imagined, but I learned quickly and grew stronger every day. He was the father I'd always wanted. Smart and ambitious, he took what he needed and never looked back. One of the things he stole was my heart."

"I was so young and inexperienced. I had no defense against a man like him. He was so handsome and powerful, I found myself making excuses for his evil behaviors. I justified such horrible deeds. It wasn't until that poor dragon that I saw him for what he truly was."

"Wait a minute," the young mage cautiously interjected. With his hands held up like shields, he continued, "Poor dragon?"

Her gaze solemn, distant, she looked at the pendant she'd been toying with. "The dragon was an ancient, gold dragon. She wasn't evil. I really believe she was harmless. She'd probably had her pups by accident. They were, most likely, the last she could possibly conceive. Murgo made it sound like she was a threat to the nearby village, so we would be more willing to dispatch the old girl."

Bronwynn paused for a moment, waiting to see if she'd convinced the mage of the dragon's innocence. At a nod from the wide-eyed Den, she continued.

"Elissendine and I both paused at seeing such a venerable creature, but the others fell upon the aged beast. The fire she breathed was feeble, but she battled with a ferocity belying her age. It wasn't until Murgo dealt the fatal blow that I saw why she had fought so valiantly. Her pups were fresh from the egg, totally unable to defend themselves."

"So, you and Elissendine saved the babies?" Den inquired.

"One," the swords-woman breathed softly. She released the pendant she had been absent-mindedly toying with and looked at Den intensely. "The two of us drove the others off, but as they fled, Warferin, Murgo's foul mage, cast a spell. I used Narbane to deflect the dark magic, but was only able to protect one of the brood. The others withered and died before our eyes."

Den gasped, "There was nothing you could do?"

"Elissendine is a powerful druid, but it was beyond her ability to raise the dead."

Chapter 23

The Chase

Scree held his arm before his face as he blazed a path through a tight tangle of branches. The jagged twigs raked at his bracer, which warded the irritants from his face. As he pushed through, the branches whipped back to their normal position.

"Ouch!" Pinch shrieked. "Right in the eye! Are you trying to blind me?"

"Oh, stop your crying, you baby," the dwarf chided while pushing past another stubborn branch. A loud whack sounded in his wake.

"Come on!"

"Look," Scree explained while pushing down a small, but particularly stout sapling, so he could stride over it. "Maybe if you weren't walking so close on my heals..."

As the diminutive fighter stepped over the bent tree, it immediately sprang back with a great deal of speed. The height of its upper branches was about crotch high.

Scree stopped as he heard a sharp intake of breath from behind. Turning slowly, he saw his companion standing completely still, both hands cupped protectively over his privates. Even through the dim moonlight, the small warrior could see the wide-eyed look on the thief's face.

"Are you ok, Pinch?"

All his thin companion could utter was a low moan as he maintained his statue-like pose. Scree remained patient for several moments as he allowed his friend to recover. As time wore on, he began to grumble.

"Ok," he roared in frustration. "Maybe this patch of forest is too dense to pass through in the dark!"

"Ya think?" came the thief's high-pitched response.

Scree grumbled unintelligibly before offering in a solemn voice, "I just want to find Hank. I can't stand the thought of him being alone out here. Something's not right with him, Pinch. I just know it."

"I understand," the thin rogue agreed. His voice was still an octave or two higher than usual, but sounded determined. "Let's go a little farther and see if we can't pass this infernal grove."

The dwarf turned and resumed plowing forward. He could sense that his companion was following at a much greater distance than before.

A short while later, the two emerged from the woods and into a farmer's freshly-plowed field. Although walking across the large clumps of dirt was challenging, it was much better than the clutching growth they'd just left.

The moon was peeking through the clouds, casting long shadows before the two travelers as they approached the farmer's barn. Heads swiveling left to right, the pair scanned the horizon for any threat nearby.

Before they had made it to the door, the two spied three silhouetted forms. Judging by the way they staggered, the trio looked to be some type of undead.

"Let's get inside," Scree urged, but his friend was way ahead of him, already busy picking the padlock.

He anxiously pulled his hammer. "Why don't you let me bash it open?"

With a loud click, Pinch tossed the lock over his shoulder and pushed the door wide. "Why waste a good lock?"

The two swiftly scuttled inside and closed the door. The dwarf braced the door with his back as lifeless hands pawed at the other side.

"Find a way to secure the door!" he urged.

"What should I use?" Pinch asked, looking all about.

"I guess a lock would've been nice," said Scree snidely.

The rogue hurried forward, dragging a long board. "Sure. In hindsight, I should've kept it, but it did have a certain flourish."

"It was a cocky move."

As Pinch dropped one end of his heavy burden against the door to the relief of his friend, he said, "I don't do anything if I can't do it with style."

Unsure as to whether their makeshift brace would work, the two leaned against the door and, with their backs to it, slid down to a seated position on the ground. They could feel the zombies outside clawing at the rough wood in a feeble attempt to gain entry. The door rattled a bit, but the dead were safely contained outside.

As the night changed to day, the vibrations lessened. The pair slept with their backs to the door, snoring in rhythm with each other.

They woke hours after sunrise. Scree found a wooden cudgel in the debris of the barn and held it ready at the door as Pinch threw the portal wide. The dead had left long ago, departing for some better place to cause their brand of chaos.

The companions walked in the direction their comrade had taken, once again plodding over the hard clumps of turned earth the plow had left. Occasionally stumbling, they were very relieved to finally gain the firm, natural ground beneath their feet.

They traveled in the general direction Hank had taken, but they couldn't be sure. It wasn't until early evening that they found tracks that looked like his.

Chapter 24

A Lesson Learned

Den and Bronwynn searched what remained of the heaps of items and crates that lay scattered across the floor. There was no rhyme or reason as to what was in the old wizard's hoard. Bones, from long extinct animals, were mixed in with dried plants and bolts of strange cloth. Weapons and armor lay tangled in heaps alongside odd branches and stacks of strange, metal ingots.

Partway through their search, Bronwynn suggested organizing the objects. Looking at the various empty shelves lining the walls, she argued that they might miss something good if they just shuffled the piles as they sorted through the jumbled mess.

At first, Den panicked at the thought. Finnious was very touchy about people going through his belongings, but what the swordswoman suggested was true. There had to be something here.

The two began grouping items that seemed to belong together. Shelves were cleared and dusted before objects were placed in these groups. Human skulls soon grew to humanoid, in general, as the grouping broadened. Two entire wall shelves were devoted to random scrolls.

As they worked, the room seemed to grow. The floor space that had been occupied with so much debris was revealed and open. Tapestries were hung on walls and carpets were unrolled for the first time. The old wizard's cottage now looked like a warm and welcoming home.

The most disturbing thing was the amount of dead insects and rodents. Bones and empty exoskeletons littered the floor everywhere. Den used cantrips to sweep them up, depositing the mess outside into the edge of the woods.

"I can't believe you have spells to do such insignificant things like cleaning," Bronwynn said.

"They're not spells, they're cantrips."

"Cantrips?" she asked, clearly not understanding the word.

"A cantrip isn't really a spell. It's more just a simple act of will," he explained. "They can do useful tasks, like a puff of wind to clear a shelf of dust, or silly things, like causing someone to burp."

"You're kidding me," she chuckled.

Den didn't answer her. Instead, he crossed his arms and concentrated. The swordswoman giggled. It was short and sweet, but it was completely involuntary.

"You did that?" she asked. The young mage merely nodded. "That's amazing."

Getting back to the task at hand, any items the two deemed worthy of closer inspection were piled to the side. Staves, rods, and the occasional piece of jewelry were carefully added to the growing jumble. If it had the look of something enchanted, it was kept aside for later.

Both Bronwynn and Den were breathing heavily as they finished their chore. Dust-covered, they flopped into a pair of overstuffed chairs they'd discovered earlier, in a rather large, moldy box. Too exhausted to speak, they took a few moments to gather their thoughts.

"What now?" the swordswoman asked, nodding toward the heap of items.

Den gave her a condoning grin. "The master has a list, noting every item in his home. It right over there..."

His thought was cut short as he scanned the newly-organized space. Everything had been moved. Nothing was where it had been.

"Blast!" Den spat. "It used to be right over there."

"Wizards," Bronwynn groaned. "Don't you have a spell?"

The young mage felt his skin prickle as his nerves took over. He sheepishly glanced at the experienced warrior seated before him, a woman he'd admired as long as he could remember. It was then that his doubts returned.

"I guess, I could-" he started.

"Of course, you can," Bronwynn encouraged him.

Woodenly, Den rose and approached the pile of objects. He selected an innocent-looking amulet and held it in one hand. The silver bauble dangled before his eyes as he gestured with his free hand. Nothing happened.

What should've left an impression on his mind did nothing. Anxiously, he tried again.

Den reprimanded himself for his failing, and as he did so, his fingers missed a key movement. Another failure.

Sweat broke out on the young mage's forehead as he began another try. Before he'd gotten too far, a strong hand snaked over his shoulder.

"You need to relax," the woman's voice soothed. "Relax. Focus on only the task at hand."

Mesmerized by the voice behind him, Den went through the spell without a problem. In his mind's eye, he could see the image of a person wearing the amulet and speaking with various humanoids, fluently, in their native language.

"It's an amulet that allows the wearer to communicate with any being in their own tongue," he explained.

"Try another," the warrior encouraged him.

He selected a wide belt from the jumble. Repeating the spell, he envisioned a burly man transforming into a woman. "A belt of gender juxtaposition."

Bronwynn had moved in front of him. "A what?"

"A girdle that changes a man into a woman, or vice versa."

Den worked his way through the objects before him. A ring that improved dexterity and a dagger that could make its handler float were the next two objects selected. As they worked their way through the remaining items, they found nothing of note. The most valuable object was probably a rope that, when thrown, would bind one's opponent and hold said victim until the item's spell was broken.

As Den coiled the cord and hung it from a peg, Bronwynn kicked the pile of discarded items, scattering them about the room.

"A pile of junk!" she barked.

The young mage took a moment, his mind assessing what he'd learned before jumping to a conclusion.

"Individually, they might seem to be useless, but used together, they could be very powerful."

"Powerful to a novice," the warrior woman added, "but to someone of my experience, they are useless."

Den had just draped the Amulet of Languages around his neck and was admiring it in a nearby mirror. "What may be thought as the weakest magic item could save your life at the right moment."

"You sound like Finnious," Bronwynn accused.

The young mage visibly perked up at the comparison. The rest of the pile produced nothing of note. After Den had viewed the impression from the last item, he remembered his master stuffing a huge sack of items before he left.

"I believe Finnious took the more powerful objects with him," he stated while gathering the scattered items from the floor.

"We need something to give us an edge," she said absently, fingering her dragon tooth amulet once again. "What if we visit Skeggie?"

"The old witch down in the bog?"

"I wouldn't call her old within earshot," Bronwynn shot back.

Den frowned. "I don't think my master would approve."

"He never spoke of her?" she asked with a weird look.

"He told me she was dangerous, if that's what you mean," Den explained. "He said she was unpredictable. Not evil, mind you, but she doesn't follow the rules of good and evil."

The swordswoman exhaled softly. "Good and evil are actually a matter of perception."

Den's face wrinkled at her words, so she explained. "You perceive evil as something that threatens your sense of order and rules. Would you believe that many evil and good deeds are done under this pretense?"

"I can't see how-"

"Hold that thought for a moment," Bronwynn interjected. "When this town was young, people made settlements out in the surrounding countryside to claim land for farms. It wasn't long before they started losing cattle, so they petitioned the local lord to send his army to drive off the murdering wolves. They killed some of the animals before pushing them far off of their land."

Den crossed his arms over his chest and smiled triumphantly. "That's an easy one. The farmers had invaded the hunting grounds of those poor wolves. I feel for the cattle, but the wolves' typical prey was probably scared away from the new homesteads."

"So, you do understand," she said, patting his shoulder a bit more aggressively than Den would have liked. "I fear I misspoke. It wasn't wolves. It was goblins. Do you still feel the same way?"

The warrior could see the young mage struggling with this new twist. She had use goblins as her example due to the typical human response, as well as Den's own experience and hatred for the race.

"You set me up," Den growled.

"Did I?" Bronwynn feigned innocence. "If they were wolves, you'd perceive that the humans were evil, but goblins don't receive the same judgment? Come by the inn tomorrow morning and we'll pay Skeggie a visit," she said, changing the subject. "Bring a daypack and be prepared for battle."

Den's eyes narrowed. "I told you she was dangerous!"

"No," she corrected. "It's a day's travel, and there may be more undead wandering about."

The mage speechlessly watched her leave, her broad shoulders nearly brushing the doorframe as she passed through. Den spent at least an hour putting the final touches on the newly-organized room. In the end, he retired to his overstuffed chair with a pile of well-selected tomes.

The first one he cracked spoke of necromancers and their magic. They derived power from the living, as well as the negative plane, and imbued it to the dead. As the evening wore on, his eyes became heavy. Lighting candles and activating spheres of magical light revived him somewhat, but as he settled in, he immediately became drowsy. Turning the page, he was about to retire when a single word caught his interest. Lich. Halfway down the page, the next chapter began. It was entitled The Lich.

It described the lich as an undead sorcerer, but gave no details on how one would gain such a state. Most of the information was sketchy, at best, but the subject fascinated Den. He wondered why anyone would want to purposefully become something so twisted.

Applying the logic Bronwynn had shown him, Den puzzled the reasons. The wizard may have been conducting experiments that would require several lifetimes, or, maybe he or she was needed and was too old. It could be curiosity, but mostly, he determined, it was the want to become immortal.

Yawning silently, he leaned to the side. Using the arm of his chair as a pillow, Den fell fast asleep.

Chapter 25

Earlier, During the Battle

The power of evil is strong, and the power of the shield was overwhelming. It was almost as though the skull emblazoned on the shield's front was trying to talk to him. Sweat ran from his body as the sword and shield clashed.

Both magic items had stronger egos than the simple cavalier and easily gained control over him. It wasn't until the simpleton picked up the shield that the true battle for control began. The mental toll it took on the human was inconsequential when compared to the monumental struggle of good and evil.

As the two magic items battled for dominance, they tore the psyche of their possessor apart. He was no longer in control of anything. He literally lost himself to his possessions.

At the peak of the battle, he finally lost it. Casting the sword aside, he left the scene and ran off through the wild. It seemed as though the very woods were fighting against him. As he ran, the shield with the skull emblazoned on its front took total control of his consciousness.

The magic was never intended to overpower its owner, but the mental battle had taken its toll. The former cavalier was converted into his evil counterpart. He, at that moment, became completely corrupt. Whatever was left of the old Hank was no more.

When he broke free of the undergrowth, he came across some peasants picking berries. The simple folk had on chance. Weaponless, he surprised them and bashed them to death with his evil shield.

Later, Henry came across an old farm. The home stood apart from the barn. It was then that he realized he was a warrior without a weapon. He needed a weapon.

The farm door burst apart under his first assault. The people inside were nothing compared to his new strength. Man, woman, or child, he literally tore them all apart. He needed some type of weapon and they potentially stood in his way of said weapon.

In the end, all he could find was an old, rusty sword. Feeling no compassion, Henry continued on. The shield's intelligence took over and came up with a solution. It pushed him forward into the vale. The ancient weapon knew of a place, a place so hidden that few men could possibly know of its existence. And a weapon of untold of power. This would be an unholy marriage, an alliance of untold power.

Hank headed north. Although the landscape had changed, it was all the same to the shield and its magical knowledge. Years meant nothing to the shield. It was a thing of magic. Long-forgotten spells had crafted it, and it was of one purpose, to spread evil and chaos, to rid the world of men and replace it with whatever suited its needs.

He had brief moments of clarity, seconds where the item let its power slip, passing minutes when he realized he was out of control. It was then that the true madness set in. He saw snatches of his childhood, training in the yard with the other knights, and there were even glimpses where he was with Pinch and Scree.

He knew he loved those two. He even thought he should stop and try to find them, maybe to reconnect, but those moments were fleeting. The power of the shield was overpowering. It lied to him, saying sickening, sweet, evil things. It lied to him, saying sickening, sweet, evil things and twisting his vision of reality, making him doubt everything he knew or even what had been.

In the end, he was a hollow husk of his former self, a puppet for a magical item, a nameless hand which wielded a powerful tool. Like many such weapons, the name of the wielder faded with time, but the true power, the weapon, lived on.

People's heroic deeds faded into legend, while magical weapons lived on in the present, not only in mere lore.

Hank stopped at the top of a ridge. An estate lay before him. Instinctually, the shield knew what was contained inside.

The doors splintered, and eventually broke, before his assault. The old, rusty sword tore through bone and sinew, splitting flesh under its dull edge.

Men, women, and even children fell before Hank's rage. At times, he realized what he was doing, but he was not in control. His body was like that of a puppet. Even if he protested, he was helpless. They were just in his way, a mere hindrance.

In his mind, he screamed out his pain. Years of working for good, doing the right thing, was changed with a stroke of his rusty sword. First, the farmhouse, and now this estate. Where would this end?

Nearly as quickly as it started, it ended. Dead lay everywhere. Guards, family, and friends lay scattered, lifeless, throughout the keep. Blood ran freely from the farmer's sword, forming pools at Hank's feet. To the former cavalier, it was so surreal.

His body moved woodenly through the estate. Guided by magic, it felt as if he knew exactly where to go.

He passed into the master bedroom. Without hesitation, he strode right up to a large, ancient tapestry and immediately tore it down. Behind the artwork stood a door.

Runes of a lost time were emblazoned on the wood panels, but they meant nothing to the shield. Glowing blue, the glyphs exploded, tearing at his exposed flesh. If Hank had been half-conscious, he would've passed out from the pain.

He felt nothing. The shield made sure of it.

Behind the door was a small room. Inside was only one thing, a sword, hanging from a rack on the wall, its blade glowing red with arcane power.

Hank strode forward and eagerly ripped the blade from the wall. At that moment, his conversion was complete. He was now truly evil.

At first, the items competed for control of the human's mind. Hank's already-strained sanity was pushed to its breaking point. Screaming in anguish, he broke through the control for an instant. His grip loosened on each of the magic items. He was trying to discard the foul things but was unable to follow through.

Suddenly, it was over. Hand tightening again, Hank's freedom was quickly reigned in. Woodenly, he walked back through the estate. With each passing scene of horror, the bewitched fighter lost a little more of himself to grief and madness.

Before he could reach the front door, he was stopped by a half-human hand pressed against his plate-covered chest. The being standing in front of him was a one-handed half-orc, behind which were gathered his three friends.

"Look at what we have here," the creature growled past his pointed teeth. A lone, yellowed tusk caused his lip to jut awkwardly to the side.

"I think you owe me something," he continued, making a display of rubbing his chin with the cloven wrist.

Before the half-man could say another word, Hank's newly-acquired sword flew in a swift arc, separating the being's head from its shoulders. The onlookers gasped as their leader's head toppled toward the floor. Before it could bounce once, the evil cavalier raised his shield and rushed into their midst.

Henry's shield plowed two of them into a stone wall. The startled creatures squealed as the air was crushed out of their lungs. Keeping the pair pressed in place, he shifted around and swung wildly at the remaining attacker.

The half-orc tried to block Hank's awkward swing, but the magic-enhanced power behind the blow shattered the defender's cheap blade. The creature's piggish snout twitched nervously while its tiny black eyes followed the glittering shards of his sword as they flew through the air. This mercifully distracted the beast as the evil knight separated its head from its shoulders.

Its torso fell to the side as Hank spun back to his pinned foes. The two were desperately clawing at the wall, trying, in vain, to gain freedom. In their helpless position, they had no chance. Mentally, he tried to reason with the dominating intelligence of the magical weapons, begging them to grant the remaining foes a swift death. With purposeful malice, however, the blade slowly, deliberately, glided forward and severed both of their jugular veins.

Blood pumped wildly from the panicked creatures' arteries for an astonishingly long amount of time. Hank could almost hear the sword chuckling in glee as he was forced to stand and watch as his helpless enemies bled out in front of him. In such a short time, his life had changed. Everything he'd stood for was now in ruins.

Chapter 26

A Gift and a Trip

Den woke to the sound of a bird fluttering its wings in the chimney. As the desperate creature tried to free itself, it only worked itself deeper into the flue.

He stood abruptly, scattering the pile of books at his feet. The racket became louder, and the young mage shot toward the fireplace.

Kneeling at the hearth, he cast a simple spell. Within seconds, the noise stopped. Pushing up his sleeve, he reached up into the cold chimney and retrieved a somewhat-soot-covered chimney swift.

"You really should find a better spot to build your nest," he chided it. "If we get a cold spell, you'll really be in trouble."

He opened the front door and set the sleeping bird on the window ledge. Den took a moment to admire its beauty as he stroked the soot from its feathers. When he thought it was sufficiently clean, he spoke a strange word, breaking the spell. The swift woke with a shake. After a moment, it righted itself and flew off to a nearby tree.

Smiling inwardly, the young mage returned inside to prepare his pack. He still had some of the provisions he had taken earlier. As he scavenged to replenish some, his thoughts returned to his friends. The last he had heard, they were chasing after Hank.

The camaraderie he had felt was real. They had become friends. They were brothers-in-arms.

He left the cottage and met Bronwynn with memories of his friends in mind. The warrior woman was dressed as before. The only change was a well-worn pack.

"It's my lucky pack," she explained, having seen the young mage eyeing the strange pack. It truly must be lucky, lucky not to have been left in the midden heap. Its exterior was cross-hatched with cuts and slices. One strap had been mended so many times that it looked like none of the original strap remained.

In general, the lucky backpack seemed to be more a hindrance than anything resembling luck. But what did Den know? There had to be some story that made someone as accomplished as Bronwynn hang on to such a thing.

"She's waiting for you," the warrior said.

"Who?" Den asked.

"Meg. She asked for me to send you inside," she said, motioning to the inn's door. "I think she has something for you."

The young mage followed her gesture, and standing in the shade of the porch was Meg. As Den approached her, he could see tears in her eyes.

"It's going to be ok," he started, but her fingers to his lips stopped his words.

"I didn't want to be parted after having such harsh words between us," she said, a quiver in her voice. "I want you to have this and to know that I love you."

She pushed something soft into his hand and turned to leave. Den glanced at his hand and saw that she had given him a bracelet woven from her hair. It was a simple gift, but it brought a lump to his throat. He caught her by the wrist and spun her about.

"Thank you," he said. "We really didn't part with harsh words. In fact, the last time we spoke harshly, we parted with a kiss."

Meg grinned at the memory as the young spell caster reeled her in and kissed her passionately. "I love you, too. We'll be back before you know it."

After another lingering moment, Den rejoined his friend. As he moved to her side, he tied Meg's gift around his wrist with one hand. For a normal person, it would have been difficult, but, with a simple cantrip, he was able to secure it through magic.

Habitually clearing her scabbard, the swordswoman gestured ahead and they were off. They left the small hamlet and crossed the rolling hills beyond. Bronwynn was more stoic than his former companions. There was little friendly banter. There was no humor. She was as serious as she was deadly. He could tell by the way she walked that she was always ready for action. Like a coiled snake, she could strike at a moment's notice.

To the casual observer, the woman's smooth movements and rolling stride could easily be taken as being relaxed. That person would be wrong. She was anything but.

The fields became woodlands before they stopped for a hasty lunch. The young mage was just starting to relax when she urged him to continue on.

"Skeggie lives in the bogs," she explained. "If we tarry too long, we'll have to camp in that wretched place. I'd rather not have to spend a night at the mercy of the boglands."

As the day wore on, the surroundings changed into something more sinister. Den couldn't imagine where he'd ever seen so many thorny trees. Even the flowering plants looked dangerous. It was as though everything about the wilds had become angrier.

He also noticed that each footstep squished as the harsh terrain gave way to boglands. As they traveled deeper, pools of stagnant water formed on either side of their path.

In a nervous voice, Den asked, "Have you ever been here before?"

"Aye," she replied cautiously. "I have. The path remains as long as her magic and her life continues on."

"So, her magic maintains this pathway we follow?"

"She allows it," Bronwynn clarified. "Don't think too little of her strength, and never let down your guard. I don't know what Finnious told you about witches, but she's a very formidable sorceress."

Den marched on at her side, his boots scuffing the spongy earth but his mouth closed tightly. Finnious had mentioned her a few times, but hadn't made any mention of specifics. If fact, the only things he had learned of witches had come from books, and they weren't flattering words.

Most of the references made them sound like herbalists who were adept at slight of hand, their magic being more a trick than actual ability. From the sound of Bronwynn's warning, this witch had actual power.

The forest surrounding the bog grew thicker and darker. Strange sounds came from everywhere, and it felt like they were being watched. The feeling made the hairs on the back of Den's neck stiffen as he continued probing the depths of green for some unseen spy.

"I feel like we're being watched," he whispered to his companion.

"We are," she answered, not trying to hide her voice. "We have been since we entered this bog."

As the swordswoman noticed his alarmed look, she continued. "Skeggie has been aware of us for a long time now. She has ancient powers, maybe even some knowledge Finnious isn't even aware of."

Den swallowed hard. He knew his master was a very powerful wizard. If this woman was on par with his strength, what chance would a young wizardling have? Den wouldn't even have a chance if she decided to do him harm.

Knowing that they were being spied on did nothing for his confidence. His hand dropped to the Rod of Random Spells, and he wondered what it would conjure. If he was lucky, maybe it could deal some damage to the old crone. Shaking his head, he removed his fingers from the thing. It'd probably do him more harm than good. It was a last resort and should be treated as such.

Finally, the companions strode into a clearing. It was small and shadowed by gnarled trees, but it gave some welcome relief to the cramped pathway.

To the side of the opening was a ramshackle hut. Its makeshift door hung ajar, revealing a dark interior. The building seemed to blend in with the oppressive woods. The pair were loath to just pop inside. Instead, Bronwynn rapped smartly three times on the doorframe.

There was no response.

Another trio of knocks followed, but the result was the same. Her voice betraying concern, Bronwynn called out to the witch-woman.

"Skeggie," she voiced. "Are you about?"

No response was issued, so Bronwynn disappeared into the interior.

Den remained outside. Unsure as to what to do, he fought the urge to follow his friend. A tinge of fear guided his decision.

A moment later, Bronwynn emerged with a quizzical look.

"She's not inside."

They stood at the foot of Skeggie's doorpost a moment and wondered what to do next. It was the swordswoman who spoke up first.

"Maybe she's about somewhere nearby," she mused.

"If she knew we were here, wouldn't she come back and meet us?"

Bronwynn merely smiled. "Maybe we aren't her most pressing concern."

As the warrior's words sunk in, the young mage followed her out into the clearing. "There's another path over here."

They started down the narrow pathway as dusk settled in. Their pace was markedly slower than before as they negotiated the tight maze. The dense woods were quickly growing darker, but they pushed on until a soft voice could be heard over the croaking of bullfrogs and singing of insects.

As the two drew closer, the voice became more distinct. That is to say, they could hear it better, but the language was one neither of them could understand.

It was then that they found the old crone, squatting over the form of a large frog. A strange, green light shone from both of them. The witch's rhythmic incantation reached its crescendo, and the strange light faded. Suddenly, the amphibian lept onto witch's shoulder. With the frog perched there, she stood and turned toward the strangers.

"What spell did you cast on that toad?" Den demanded.

"It's not a toad," she hastily corrected him, her voice crackling with age.

"You know what I mean!" he threatened. "If you hurt him-"

"First, young mageling," she started. Her voice, losing the frail qualities associated with age, took on a more threatening tone. "I never hurt anything natural, but if you ever speak to me like that again, I may make an exception. Second, my friend was injured. I merely mended his foot."

Red-faced, Den was about to inquire further when Bronwynn stepped between he and Skeggie. "We have need of your aid, also," she said.

Looking past the towering warrior, the witch warned, "I know Finnious taught you better than this. What can an old woman do for you two?"

Flabbergasted, Den let Bronwynn take the lead. "We need a weapon powerful enough to defeat the necromancer who settled north of here."

"Marasmus Ebendoom?" Skeggie asked, clarifying whom they were inquiring about.

"I guess so," was all Den could answer. He was not only anxious about this bog witch, but somehow she knew his master. Even worse, she knew more about his adversary than he did. He suddenly felt very small once again.

"Don't doubt yourself, Den," the old crone continued. "I know more about the natural world, and even the unnatural world, than most beings. You came here thinking you'd find some feeble herbalist, a healer who uses roots and berries as a substitute for real power, someone who has no magical skill."

Before either of the others could say a word, she continued. "Just because I use magic in a different way, don't sell me short. I can do things that would make your master scared. I have the power of the goddess. Your highly-touted tomes make us out to be crazy. You'd better hope they're wrong."

Her words chilled Den to the bone. Worse yet was the silence. It was as if the whole bog held its collective breath.

"Come, children," Skeggie commanded. "I have a lovely stew potted above my fire. We'll need all the strength a good meal provides."

The witch wandered back to the clearing. As Den and Bronwynn followed, he leaned in close and said, "She must be crazy. There was no fire in her hut. It was empty."

Bronwynn shrugged and continued in the wake of the witch. Before long, they emerged into the clearing. With a wave of her hand, Skeggie's cold, dark hut became a cheery and bright cottage. Smoke curled from a fieldstone chimney and the alluring smell of stew had the young mage's belly growling.

Inside, the building seemed bigger than it had looked from the outside. Den knew a little bit about extra-dimensional spaces, so he wasn't surprised. To his amazement, Bronwynn didn't seem surprised, either.

What Den had understood about witches had been far from reality. This was no simple healer. What he was witnessing took true power.

"I can see it in your eyes, boy. You're shocked," Skeggie remarked while pointing a long, bony finger at him. "Don't believe everything you read in books."

It was as if she'd gazed directly into his mind. The old crone chuckled as she turned to the fire and the covered kettle hanging over the low flames. Steam followed the lid as she lifted it from the simmering pot. The scent of its contents was heavenly. It made the two travelers' mouths water in anticipation.

With a twirl of her finger, the contents in the kettle swirled as if Skeggie had used some sort of magical spoon. A slow curl of her finger brought a dollop of stew through the air and into her mouth. The witch smacked her lips as she chewed. "A few more minutes," she purred, setting the lid to one side. "Let's not sit about with our bellies rumbling."

As Skeggie crossed the room, the place erupted in chaos. Plates flew from their shelves and settled onto the table in front of the guests. Wooden spoons followed, as well as rough, ceramic mugs. These all came to rest on homespun linens situated under the plates.

The place settings weren't the only things gliding about the room. Out of a warming oven popped a loaf of bread, which was met and wrapped in a course cloth before it glided to the table. A pitcher of mead, some candles, and a crock of butter soon followed.

Den, trying to act casual, snatched up the pitcher and poured each of them a mug of the rich, golden liquid. "Thank you for the hospitality," he said, "and I'm sorry. I thought you meant harm to that frog."

"You're welcome on both accounts," she replied with a toothy grin.

Skeggie settled into her own chair and the two of them ate bread and drank mead while they waited for the stew to finish cooking. At one point, the witch took the frog off of her shoulder and set him beside her plate on the table.

Gesturing at the warty creature with a half-eaten slab of bread, Den asked, "Is he your familiar?"

"No," she said a cold tone, in her voice. "Don't believe all the stories you hear in town. He's a part of nature. I care for all of nature's children. They are no different from you or I. They are a part of the circle of life. Everything that surrounds us is part of the circle. Nature isn't inherently evil. It can be twisted, but what we perceive as an evil act is usually just survival."

"Just as we discussed earlier," Bronwynn added.

Exasperated, Den changed the subject. "Have you thought of a weapon for us yet?"

"No," she said, standing and proceeding to scoop large spoonfuls of stew onto some rough ceramic plates. "I won't have the power to divine an answer until tonight."

Den immediately thought of the magic she'd expelled preparing the food. At her age she was probably weak. She would need to rest.

Placing a steaming plate before him, she leveled her gaze. As she spoke, she shook her wooden spoon in his face. "I'm not weak. I saved poor Groak there, and he was close to death. The strain was more than most Wiccan could endure."

Den gulped. Every time he spoke, it just seemed to make things worse. "I didn't say anything."

"I know, boy," she explained solemnly. "I didn't mean anything. You see, I was cursed at birth with the ability of seeing."

"You have the gift of being able to see the future?" he asked excitedly.

"Curse, you mean," she corrected. "Imagine a life with no surprise, an existence where you can see nearly everything that'll happen, even your own demise."

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, lowering his eyes. "I never thought of that. But, if you can see the future, can you see ours? Will we defeat Marasmus?"

She shook her head slowly and answered, "Not everything is revealed. It's very much like prophecy. The future comes in strange, dreamlike snatches. The answers are never clear. They are like riddles that have to be unraveled. You're never certain until the future becomes the present."

"So," he mumbled, "you can't actually see the future."

"What I see is you in a very dark place, facing something much more powerful than that two-bit necromancer."

A shiver shook Den's whole body. What could be worse than Marasmus? he wondered.

"You will go from dark times to even worse, living on wit and the strength of your friends. In the end, you'll die alone."

Chapter 27

Consulting the Dead

After dinner, they rested. Den and Bronwynn went outside and sat in the field, while Skeggie retired to her pallet for a nap.

The few clouds turned from orange to black, and the sky filled with stars. Lightning bugs danced their mating ritual in the near-pitch dark. Den remembered his youth, dashing about with his friends while trying to catch the elusive insects. His father had fashioned tiny cages meant to contain the glow bugs, a sliding door being the only means of entrance or exit.

He could never bear to keep the diminutive creatures in their prison. Watching them probing for a place to escape, he always relented and freed them. Once, he did so inside his room, the lightning bugs flying all about the interior. His mother was irate, and she scolded him for his transgression.

As the night wore on, a full moon rose and climbed high in the sky, the light so bright, it rivaled midday. Den slid a blade of grass between his teeth and settled back to enjoy the evening when, suddenly, he was shocked to awareness.

Skeggie had returned and was silently staring at the two. "Are you prepared?" she inquired.

"We are," Bronwynn answered, not allowing for Den to misspeak again.

They returned to the cottage. The inside remained cheery, illuminated mostly by the fireplace. A few half-burnt candles gave enough light for them to avoid the scattered furniture.

Next to the hearth, the witch guided her clients to mismatched bentwood chairs. The old crone remained standing as she calmed herself prior to her spell.

Her breathing slowed before the first syllables of the enchantment flowed from her lips. Skeggie's hands wove in intricate motions, adding power to the strange words she spoke. As the spell gained strength, the room began to get brighter, magic causing the very air to glow a pale red as the ancient, evil spell took hold.

The very air seemed to crackle with power, and the two travelers felt a small bit of their life energy drain away. Just as Den was about to protest, a strange specter rose from the fire's flames and seemed to speak to the witch.

Skeggie spoke in response, the language some dark, lost one from a time long ago. Occasionally, she tossed a handful of some odd material into the flames, causing them to surge and burn an eerie, blood red.

The witch's spell was evil because it disturbed the dead in the negative plane. It also used a portion of the living being's essence to bring the specter over to this plane of life.

As the two conversed, a great ball of darkness arose from the ashes. It dimmed the blaze and darkened the room. The shade coalesced into the form of a skull and brought the room into near darkness.

Neither Den nor Bronwynn could tell if it was the specter or the witch who screamed. When they heard it, the room fell into darkness and an evil voice replaced it.

"You intrude in a place you're not welcome, witch," it rasped in a horrible roar. A brief moment of silence made the feeling more intense. "The dead is my realm, and I rebuke you. Be gone, or I will rend you asunder!"

For a moment, the specter and the witch stood their ground, neither giving way. Then came a hideous laugh, followed by a bolt of pure darkness which blasted the specter to nothingness.

Skeggie reached into a pouch at her side, then tossed a handful of its contents into the fire. The flame belched forth, rolling up the chimney and over the mantel. As it returned to normal, the heat left a black stain and several singed herbs that had been hung there to dry.

Den looked back at Skeggie. The old crone stood, wobbling for a moment, then toppled to the floor. The young mage started forward, but knew he would be too late. Just then, Bronwynn, lightning quick, was at her side, catching her before she struck the floor. Den was shocked at how quickly the swordswoman had moved.

Bronwynn lifted Skeggie's frail form and took her to the small pallet in the corner. The witch was unconscious, her arms and legs hanging limply as her head rested on the warrior's broad chest. Her bed was stuffed with straw, which made a rustling noise as she was laid to rest. The two stood and looked on helplessly as Skeggie lay still, her breathing barely visible.

"Do you think she'll be ok?" Den asked.

Bronwynn shook her head. "I'm not sure what happened."

"But, she'll be all right after some rest?" he asked again.

"Den," she began, "I was trained in the art of taking lives, not restoring them. You're the wizard. What, or who, did this to her?"

"Her magic's different from mine," he admitted. "I don't know what that was, but I think I know who that was. Healing isn't a wizardly thing either."

"I have a feeling I know who that was also. I guess we make her comfortable and wait."

And wait, they did. The two took turns feeding the fire, as well as checking on the old crone. As the morning light broke, Den noticed another was as concerned for the witch as they were. The frog that had been on the table was snuggled in, tight to her side, its throat billowing rhythmically as it stared at its friend.

The three waited throughout the long day, and still, she didn't stir. Near midnight, as Bronwynn was banking the coals, she heard a moan. On one knee, she cradled the crone's face and spoke softly to her.

"Den. Warm the stew," she commanded. "

The young mage placed the kettle over the flame and poured a mug of water. When he reached the witch's side, he handed Bronwynn the ceramic container.

It was quite peculiar, watching such a formidable warrior tending to the weak, old woman. Skeggie seemed even smaller when next to the swordswoman. Her pallor had always been gray, but he swore he could see a little color in her cheeks.

After a few swallows from the mug, the witch's face reached toward his and she breathed some unintelligible words. As he leaned his ear near, he was able the to make out her soft sentence.

"I'm not going to try that again."

They both smiled, and Skeggie, once again, fell fast asleep. The next morning found her shuffling over to the table with a loaf of bread in her hand.

Watching her shaky stride, the two felt on edge until the old witch had settled onto a chair and was busy breaking the bread.

Den and Bronwynn gathered what they could to set a breakfast table. Cheese, some salted pork, and a crock of butter were all they could scare up. They both felt a great relief as they watched the elderly woman slather huge gobs of honey butter onto the heel of the loaf.

Skeggie ate very slowly, keeping them both anxiously waiting for her to explain what had happened the other evening. Finally, she was done. A large crumb perched on her lower lip as she began to speak.

"That was no necromancer," she began. "That was a lich, if ever I've seen one."

Den purposefully dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a linen as his friend spoke.

"What happened? What was the spell you invoked?"

"I asked the dead about that weapon you wanted. It was telling me what you would need to defeat Marasmus Ebendoom, when he must've heard us."

Den began wiping his lip even more vigorously, all the while looking at Skeggie with wide eyes, trying to communicate his intent.

"That's when the necromancer... er... lich attacked you?" Bronwynn asked.

"It was," she replied.

The young mage, unable to communicate what he was seeing, began pointing at his bottom lip.

"What's the matter with your boy?" she barked.

"You have a crumb on your lower lip," he reluctantly explained. "I was just trying to-"

"You have a powerful lich as an adversary. He has reached across a vast distance and attacked us, and you are worried about a crumb?" She spat those words with a shocked look on her aged face.

"I just thought you'd like to know."

"I thought you'd like to know where this weapon I found for you was," she continued, "a small bit of information that nearly cost me my life."

"I didn't mean anything," he stammered. "I was trying to be helpful."

"Are you sure Finnious has a sound mind?"

"Excuse me?" Den asked.

"Your master," she clarified. "Are you sure he is right in the head? I mean, he sent you out to strike at the heart of an evil being, and you are concerned about the appearance of a bog hag?"

"He said I was ready," he answered.

The old witch shook her head. "It isn't like him to make such a mistake."

"Den's a formidable wizard, of his own right," Bronwynn said in her friend's defense.

The attention being off of the young wizard only heightened his anxiety. As the crone shot back another fired retort, he watched the crumb bobbing up and down with mounting angst.

As the hag turned toward him once again, the flake of crust dropped off of her lower lip to the floor. With the offending crumb gone, he was now free to concentrate on something else.

"What did the specter from the abyss tell you?" he asked in even tones.

Dumbstruck for a moment, Skeggie gathered her thoughts. "He said there was a cloak in a burial chamber nearby. The chamber holds few rooms, but many dangers. The ancient mage buried there wears a cloak that will render the wearer invisible."

It was Bronwynn's turn to express her displeasure. "That's it?! This is the powerful weapon we asked for?"

"That's what the spirit said," Skeggie said, somewhat taken aback.

"I don't see what a cloak of invisibility could possibly do."

"Listen," the witch said in a commanding, defiant voice. "The spirit world doesn't lie. It has no ties to this reality and only answers the questions we pose. If you have a problem with the information they offer..."

Anger burned in the swordswoman's eyes as she carefully measured her next words. "Have they ever been wrong?"

The witch met the warrior's gaze. "Not very often."

"So, they do make mistakes?" Bronwynn shot back.

"They have been known to err," Skeggie conceded. "Time is very different in the spirit realm."

Frustrated, Bronwynn stormed out of the cottage, the leather-hinged door slamming in her wake.

"I think she was looking for something more formidable, some type of sword or bardiche. A magic cloak really isn't a weapon," Den soothed.

"She's a seasoned adventurer," the witch complained. "She should know that even the smallest advantage can yield the winning edge in any battle."

"I'm sure she knows that," the young mage assured her. "I just think she was looking for something more distinct. I feel she is shouldering the burden of my youth, my inexperience."

"Then she is selling you short," she said.

The look on Den's face must've made her feel like she had to explain more in depth.

"I've lived alone for a long time," she explained. "The community of magic-wielders hasn't been too kind to me. In fact, they've been downright cruel to all of us witches. We live apart from society because of this stigma. That's why I am not fond of your kind. That's why I've been hard on you."

"But you are a powerful sorceress."

"Thank you," she said. "It's very rare that we're recognized as anything other than hedge-mages, hags with no real power. Our magic is different than yours. I draw power from nature, while you draw it from your inner strength."

"If you gain power from the natural world, then how were you able to contact the dead?"

She drew in a heavy breath. It rattled in her chest. "Death is natural. I can use some of the nearby life forms, but I also have to be near dead things. It's the act of reaching across the abyss that makes the spell I used evil. The dead should stay at rest. What I did was wrong, but I did it out of necessity.

"Oh," was all Den could offer.

"This home has been used by sisters of the powers of Wiccan for many years. I am only the current resident. The ones from the past are buried outside. They are from whom I pulled the power to create my spell."

"Grab the parchment from that shelf," she directed.

Den did as he was told, retrieving the rolled piece of blank parchment and setting it on the table. Skeggie unrolled it and set stones in the corners to hold the thing down. As the witch drew with an old feather, Bronwynn reappeared.

The pen made scratching noises as it dragged across the paper. Every few marks, she paused to dip the nib in an open ink fountain she'd pulled nearby. The image before the two travelers began to resemble a map.

"This isn't very far away," she muttered. "Along the way, the spirit told me that you'd find help."

"Help in what?" Bronwynn asked.

"He didn't say."

Chapter 28

A New Plot

Skum cursed under his breath as he wheeled yet another barrel of the awful, dark green stuff to the edge of the rampart which spanned the meandering Silver Fish River. He dutifully emptied its contents into the flow, causing a sickening slick to distort the formerly shimmering surface of the waterway. When the cask was drained, he rolled it off the edge to join its contents in the river below. The cask bobbed along with the rest of the polluted flow.

His master wanted an army, and he would have his army. It was all he could do. He had very little control over his body, and what minute control he had was rationed out by Marasmus. He'd tried to kill the sorcerer, but the old man had put some magical barrier in place, preventing his attack.

The huge goblin tipped another container over the edge, and then, feet flapping, readied yet another. His gaze strayed to the water downstream, watching the taint spoil the purity of the flow. Fish floated, belly up, on the surface, where the evil liquid mixed with the pure water. The liquid no longer shimmered in the rays of the sun.

Skum cast his gaze upward, his eyes squinting in the brightness. Sunlight. It reminded him of something, a memory, teasing him, just out of reach but on the verge of discovery. Then, shading his large, bulbous eyes with a hand, he remembered.

He had hated the sun. Its vile light used to burn his eyes, blinding his vision with its hurtful beams. The foul orb was nothing but trouble, forcing he and his kin to dwell in the dark safety of the underground. Nice, shady caves, cool to his skin, they used to sooth him and protect him, but now he was unaffected by the light. Lowering his hand, he stared directly at what used to cause him discomfort, and felt nothing.

Skum knew, at that moment, he was losing himself. His former self was being replaced by this living-dead thing he had become.

His body lurched into motion again. It shuffled forward and resumed its former actions. He tried to stop, but his body was beyond his control. It rolled another barrel into position, tipping the cask forward to spill its contents into the river below. When it was empty, he flipped the vessel over the bridge, causing it to splash into the flow and eventually bob to and fro with the rest of the casks.

Skum could feel his hands as they gripped the next barrel, his enormous biceps straining as he heaved it into place, but he was merely a spectator to the events taking place. He could refuse to act, but his body would continue against his will.

There had to be a way to break his master's hold. As the container added the last of its contents into the river below, he spied the dagger at his belt. As his body spun to retrieve yet another barrel, the goblin reached for the weapon. His hand obeyed, pulling the blade free of the sheath. He quickly plunged the knife repeatedly into his chest, magically enhanced muscles slamming the blade to its hilt with each blow.

Nothing happened. The dagger was covered with dried blood and gore, but it had not killed him. He looked down. His flesh was rent in the many places but he remained, dead, and yet undead.

He stopped before the next container and his hand reached for the barrel, dropping the dagger, as if forgotten. Skum looked blankly down at the fallen weapon as he rolled the next vessel into place.

What nightmare was this he was trapped in?

It was then that he got an idea.

Chapter 29

A Friend Found

"The tracks lead this way," Pinch said excitedly. "And they are fairly fresh."

The companions had been pushing themselves for days. They were trying to catch up to Hank. Pinch was an excellent woodsman. When he was young, his father had trained him in the skills of a ranger. Sadly, his father's good intentions were lost on the rogue. Even as a young lad, he was drawn to dark alleys and alehouses.

His mother cried herself to sleep, and his father would beat him every time they caught him near town, but the lure of the darker side drew him like a moth to a flame. As soon as his parents let their guard down, he would be off to his antics again.

At first, it was gambling. He liked the dice. The sound of them, rolling, made his heart skip a beat. He was good with them, too. He won far more than he lost, mostly by the luck of the lady, but that didn't stop him from making the odds better by cheating.

Drink and women were often the downfalls of a good man, but they were nothing to Pinch. He liked excitement. He began stealing, simply for the thrill.

When he was young, it was easy. No one suspected the small boy of cutting their purse. He was a cute child, and his lack of skill was made up for by his acting abilities and small size. If a mark suspected him, he could cry at a moment's notice. This saved him countless times, but as he turned into a young man he quickly lost his edge.

At twelve or thirteen, Pinch ran away from home. He could no longer resist the call of the streets. Having learned how to brawl, he no longer feared his father's clumsy blows. He was afraid he would turn on him in a moment of rage, so he ran off to protect his parents. At least, that's what he told himself.

He knew his mother would be heartbroken, but he wanted to keep her safe from repercussions of a scheme gone wrong. His reputation was growing, and so was the list of his enemies.

He saw his parents, at times,rom the shadows of an alley or the darkness of an alehouse. He always remained cloaked in the shadows of his surroundings, never succumbing to the urge to feel the love of family.

A year or two later, he began adventuring. This developed his fighting skills even more and taught him how to survive in the world. He visited cities far away and saw sights that few ever had. He never looked back.

The only problem Pinch had with his life was his companions. Being who he was, he tended to join up with people who were chaotic in nature. They were typically very bad people. In most cases, his exploits were incredibly lucrative, but a few turned out terribly wrong. It was after one such bad adventure that he met Hank and Scree.

He was with a particularly dark group of warriors, who were planning an attack on a wizard. The mage they were going after happened to be good. He also happened to be on the hit list of a particularly evil, dark paladin named Maliki.

That was who was paying the bills. He'd directed Pinch and his crew to invade the tower of the wizard Zaketh. He was reported to be old and feeble, but with a massive treasure horde. All the dark paladin wanted in return was the wizard's head and a strange set of shackles.

The rogue had never had dealings with anyone who wielded magic. He had no idea that age only enhanced the power of their kind. This mage seriously overmatched his group.

The only thing that saved Pinch's life was the fact that he was so dexterous. His speed and agility gave him the ability to dodge the worst of the wizard's spells.

Lightning flew and fireballs exploded as his friends fell under the powerful onslaught. Within minutes, the thief knew he had to flee for his life.

Using all of his skills, he managed to slip away as his comrades paid the ultimate price. As he crawled from a sewer and wandered the woods, the world began to spin. His wounds were bleeding unchecked, and he was in danger of dying from the loss of the precious fluid. His mind slipped into darkness, and he edged closer to death's door.

Days later, he awoke in a camp with a grumpy dwarf and a shining knight. As Pinch mended, he lied to the two. Afraid the goodly warrior would turn on him, he fed them a story of being a wandering ranger who'd been attacked on the trail.

He could see that the dwarf was skeptical, but the naive knight bought the story after its first telling. They shared their food and nursed him to health. The camaraderie they showed pulled at the little humanity left in the thief. He saw their unselfish nature and felt true friendship. They were on an adventure of their own, so he joined them for that exploit and many more afterward.

He needed to find Hank. The thief needed to help him. The big cavalier was one of the two reasons he'd stepped out of the darkness and began working for the other side. He owed him everything.

"Crap!" Scree cried from behind. "We've drifted off the trail again."

His friend's voice brought Pinch back to the present. Scanning the ground at his feet, he quickly located where he'd gone astray.

"This way," he indicated with a nod as he started in the new direction. "It looks like there's an estate up ahead."

Hank's tracks led toward the massive building's front door. Before they'd made it halfway there, they saw him emerge into the early evening's light. His armor was mostly covered with blood and gore. His new shield hung from one arm, and what looked like a new sword was gripped in his right fist.

As the pair moved toward their former friend, they called out to him. Oddly, he didn't respond. It was like he didn't recognize them. Their stride slowed to a cautious crawl as both Scree and Pinch braced for a struggle.

When the two drew close enough, they recoiled in horror as Hank's red, glowing eyes locked on them. His mouth twisted into a hateful sneer as he hefted his sword and shot ahead.

Pinch was met by his friend's shield. Plowed to one side, he rebounded into a series of handsprings, narrowly avoiding a slash from that wicked-looking, glowing sword.

Scree's hammer pounded at Hank's shield. Metal on metal rang loudly in the clearing. The dwarf worked his weapon like a master. The spinning hammer deflected blow after blow, even off of the haft.

As Pinch joined the fray, the two begged their enchanted friend to stop. Pleading, they tried to reach his deluded mind. With a growl of fury, Hank redoubled his efforts, his former comrades escaping death by inches.

The two were on their heels, driven back by the magic of Hank's sword and shield. Defensively, they parried his blows, all the while, they begged him to stop, to snap out of it. They tried to reach his subconsciousness, where they were sure some part of their friend remained. As their defenses were beginning to fail, the glow faded from the knight's eyes. He blinked for a moment, struggling to regain rational thought. As quickly as it came, it went. The magic started to retake him Scree took this opportunity and landed a blow with the back of his hammer's handle, rapping Hank firmly on his forehead.

The armored knight dropped with a rattle, his sword and shield dropping to the turf beside him. For a moment, the old Hank had regained his senses. That was all it took to save his friends.

"Bind him!" Scree bellowed, but his words were already too late. Pinch had a stout rope in his hands and was wrapping it tightly about Hank's limp wrists. Scree kicked the vile sword and shield away. As his boot struck them, a flash of power shocked him. Momentarily, he could sense the powerful egos of the cursed items. It only made him more enraged, so he booted the two objects further away from his friends. As he did this, he knew that the spell they had on his friend would not be broken so easily.

By the time Pinch was finished binding Hank, the knight was nearly wrapped head to toe. The thief wanted to take no chances, having felt the power of the magic that had controlled his cavalier friend.

"He looks like a mummy," Scree commented. "I think ya missed a spot."

Pinch gave his diminutive friend a disgusted look. "Do you want to face him later, when only one of us is on guard and the other is sleeping? He almost bested the two of us."

"I coulda taken him," Scree growled.

"Maybe," the thief shot back, "if we weren't holding back. He's our friend."

The dwarf grumbled, "Were you holding back?"

"That's beside the point. We need to try to find a way to help him."

"And how can we do that?" Scree inquired.

An idea came to Pinch. He looked about in the twilight, as if to regain his bearings, before answering. "I have an idea. Not too far away from here, there's a group of monks. Healers. I stumbled into them after a not-so-successful adventure, and they helped my companion and I out. These healers have some strong magic. They may be able to bring Hank back to us."

Satisfied with his friend's plan, the dwarf relaxed noticeably. Pinch even thought he noticed a slight smile once as he sparked some tinder, starting this evening's fire.

Scree gathered wood as the thief stood guard. They dared not leave Hank alone, but whether he was truly unconscious or just pretending was unknown. The knight didn't open his eyes throughout the night.

As morning broke, they silently packed their belongings. The cavalier remained, lying still in his cocoon of rope.

Pinch bit off a piece of cheese and gestured at Hank. "How hard did you hit him?"

Scree took a moment to look at the still form of his friend before saying, "Not this hard. I think he's playing possum."

The thief took a pull from his water skin before pouring some on Hank's face. The knight bellowed, struggling in his bindings, all the while glaring at his captors.

Pinch offered his bound friend a bite of cheese, but the cavalier refused, nearly biting a chunk out of the rogue's hand.

After quickly avoiding the attack, the thief mumbled, "I think I liked him better when he was playing possum."

The biggest problem they had left was how they were going to get Hank to the healers. The knight wouldn't walk there willingly, and they couldn't carry him there, so they settled on building a litter. After strapping him to it, they would be able to pull him.

"What do we do with those things?" Scree mused in disgust of the cursed items.

Pinch crossed over near the foul things and began kicking old leaves and brush over top of them. Scree joined in and helped until the artifacts were sufficiently hidden from site.

As they started away from their camp, the knight's eyes never left the spot where his shield and sword lay buried.

Pulling the litter was hard work. Luckily, the weather was cool and fair. The two strong adventurers covered a great deal of distance before breaking for the night.

They left Hank strapped to the litter. He had become completely docile, but they didn't trust him. This could be just an act. Their friend could be trying to lull them into a false sense of security.

Even though the knight was complacent, he drank very little and ate even less. He no longer struggled. He just remained lying still in the litter.

The next day brought them to the healers, a cluster of cottages surrounding a larger main building. They all had stone walls and thatched roofs. Though the buildings looked old, they were all well-maintained. People milled about busily, but as the three drew nearer, several people broke from their daily routine and ran to give aid.

The villagers relieved Pinch and Scree of their burden, shouldering the weight of the litter. Others offered to carry their packs, while still more tried to care for Hank.

An elven woman began asking questions. They were neither accusatory, nor were they invasive. She only probed for information as to the illness that afflicted the man in the litter.

As the two explained what had happened, her face grew grim. She introduced herself as Iseldur. Scree introduced the two of them, but the elven woman gave Pinch a funny look.

"Jasper?" she asked.

Pinch lowered his head and nodded. "You remember me, Iseldur?"

"I'm an elf," she exclaimed. "We never forget."

The thief explained that he had given a false name to the old group he'd been traveling with, because they were not trustworthy. He thanked the elf maiden for her help years ago and gushed about how wonderful their services were. He heaped praise on Iseldur and her people in general.

Hank was taken to a cottage so he might be examined and treated, while the other two were given their own place to stay. They bathed and were given food and drink. The next morning, Iseldur woke them early.

"Your friend is in mortal danger. He has encountered several powerful artifacts, each of which tried to control his mind," she explained in a soft voice.

"Can you help him?" Scree quickly asked.

"Maybe," she offered. "Do either of you understand how magic works?"

As they both shook their heads side-to-side, she continued. "Simple magic can be imbued in any object, like that belt you wear. It is a belt of strength. It empowers the wearer at all times."

"Your dagger," she said, turning toward Pinch. "Its magic is only activated as you throw it."

As she spoke, the thief's hand strayed to the knife sheathed at his hip.

"Other magic items activate only through the use of a spoken trigger word. It depends on the nature of the item and what the sorcerer intended as he or she enchanted it."

Although the two companions already understood this, they listened patiently.

"Some wizards give multiple powers to items. As the enchantments become more powerful, they sometimes give the object something akin to life. We call these things artifacts. These magical items sometimes gain self-awareness and, with it, the object is able to have wants and needs of its own. This is not necessarily bad. If a good warrior, like your friend, wields a good sword, they both have a common purpose. With the same goals, they cooperate, and everything is fine."

"That's what his old sword was like," Scree added.

"Exactly," she confirmed. "But, when he acquired the shield, the two enchanted artifacts warred over what their goals would be. The struggle nearly shattered Hank's sanity. We believe that there are two powerful artifacts controlling your friend's mind."

Scree looked at Pinch. "It's that sword," he said resolutely. "Just kicking that thing aside sent pain through my whole body."

Pinch turned to Iseldur, hope in his eyes. "What if we gave him his old, good sword back?"

"That sword has now rejected the knight. Their bond is broken."

"What should we do?" Scree pleaded with a quivering voice. His heart was breaking at this dire news.

"If the magic is destroyed, your friend will be free once again. There is a mage named Finnious who lives in Springdale. He may be able to assist you."

"He's not there right now," Pinch said. "He is off on his own adventure. But, there is another."

"Den," Scree added.

Iseldur placed a slim hand on each of the men. "Then find this Den you speak of, and make haste. We will do what we can for your friend in your stead."

Chapter 30

Tomb Raiders

"I wonder what she meant by 'you'd find help'," Bronwynn muttered, mostly to herself.

"The spirit," Den corrected.

"The spirit's going to help us?"

"No," the young mage corrected. "The spirit told us that. Skeggie was just the medium it spoke to."

Bronwynn harrumphed in disgust. "You know what I meant! You're sounding more like a wizard every day."

Den grinned his pleasure at what he perceived as a compliment.

"I didn't mean that in a good way," she chided.

They followed the witch's directions most of the morning. As they traveled east, they left the bog behind. The hills rolled softly and the two fell into a traveler's gait. This was another term for a walking pace that ate distance at a great rate.

As they crested a particularly tall hill, Bronwynn looked up from her map and surveyed the ground before them. "If her map is accurate, the place she was speaking of will be somewhere over there," she said, gesturing at the hills to their right. Oddly, the grass there had a brown tinge and the scattering of wildflowers seemed to avoid this area altogether.

"Why do these dungeons all look the same?" Bronwynn mused.

"This isn't a dungeon," Den corrected.

"They're all dungeons," she shot back. "Tombs, basements, you name it. We, in the business, call them all dungeons. It's kind of a catch-all term."

The young mage looked at her skeptically before the warrior continued. "You call all horses, horses, but there are many types of horses."

"But, no one gets tortured in a horse."

"That's not what I'm saying. I guess you have to be an adventurer to understand," she said. "The term is directed at what happens in such a place."

"I don't understand," he conceded.

"In all those places, the adventurer gets tortured," Bronwynn explained, through traps, spells, and monsters."

"I still don't get it," he breathed.

"You will soon," she declaired, reaching an arm out in front of her. "Here we are."

Den followed the swordswoman's gesture across the long, dead grass. At the other side of the lifeless weeds stood an iron door. A few rough stones revealed what the frame of the door was moored to, but that quickly vanished into the parched, brown turf.

The two adventurers made their way to the metal porthole. Its rounded edges were rusted from the centuries of neglect. The only adornments were a circular pull ring and a simple-looking lock.

"How are your thieving skills?" Bronwynn asked.

"My what?" came the expected response.

The warrior woman shrugged. "I guess mine will have to do."

At that, Bronwynn produced a set of small tools, tiny picks and other implements she proceeded to insert into the locking mechanism as a means to force open the rusted mechanics.

As time wore on, the young mage wound up sitting, and then lying, on the brittle, dead grass. He ignored the cursing of his friend as she continued to fumble with the ancient mechanism in an attempt to open the aged door. Suddenly, there was a loud clang as the swordswoman reached her breaking point and punched the stubborn lock.

"Youch!" she cried, shaking her hand as if to rid herself of the pain. As Bronwynn shook her hurting knuckles, she strung together a symphony of vulgarity few civilized people ever heard. It was an artwork of curse words, a masterpiece of cussing. Den could only admire her vocabulary of coarseness.

"It seems the lady is in need of assistance," a voice rang regally from above.

Den and Bronwynn both looked toward the top of the hill directly above them. Sitting comfortably in the lifeless grass were Pinch and Scree.

Without a word, the thief scrambled down the slope and plopped in front of the barred porthole. With an exaggerated gesture, he excused himself before slipping in front of the iron door. A few short moments later, he dramatically pushed open the heavy iron barrier with a single finger.

The rusted metal door squeaked as it swung wide. As it disappeared into the darkness, a loud scream sang out from deep inside.

"Are you sure you want to go inside?"

"We need something in there," Den explained.

The thief cocked his head with a quizzical look on his face. "You know there's some specific item inside this musty, old tomb?"

"Yes. And, it's a long story."

Giving the mage an exaggerated nod, he replied, "We'll help you, but in return, you have to come with us. We were looking for you."

It was Den's turn to look dumbstruck.

The thief replied, "It's a long story."

Den broke his silence and unloaded a barrage of questions on his friends. They tried their best to answer him, explaining where they went and what happened to Hank. That's when they told Den that they needed him to return with them to the village of the healers.

The young mage was relieved that they had found him and that he was in good hands, but he couldn't be deterred from his current quest. He explained Bronwynn and his encounter with Skeggie and what they were after.

When Scree and Pinch heard what Den was after, they readily agreed to help them if he would travel with them to the village of healers to try to save Hank.

The bargain struck, the four decided on a marching order and stealthily entered the dungeon through the yawning iron door. The air inside was cold and clammy. Bronwynn lit two torches and passed one to the thief. The stone stairs leading down were slick with moss. Everyone followed Pinch, relying on his skills as a rogue to see them past any trap.

The first they encountered was on the second step down. The thief jammed the mechanism and uncovered two more on the way down to the passage.

The hall slopped downward, dust forming a thick layer over everything. The walls, carved smooth by skilled craftsmen, were painted with images of a long-forgotten war. The artwork was dulled by time and moisture had obscured large sections of paint. Den was torn by the loss of such knowledge and the fear of what lay around the next turn.

A door appeared to their right, and they stopped to investigate. Pinch laid an ear to the rotten, wooden door. A shake of his head signaled that he heard nothing. Before he had his lock-picking tools out, Bronwynn kicked the putrefying door in.

"Did you see that?" Scree appealed.

"What did you see?" Bronwynn asked.

The dwarf shrugged and released his grip on the hammer at his waist. "It was probably nothing. Just a trick of the shadows."

Scree felt a strong hand on his shoulder. When he turned, Bronwynn was staring down at him, her face a mask of concern. "What did you see, master dwarf?"

"I thought I saw a human form move over there, but it couldn't be. It would've had to have vanished right into that wall."

Inside, the four found moldering beds and some similarly-deteriorated furniture. Scree surmised that these were probably the quarters of some fanatics, who were possibly buried with the deceased mage. Mayhap, they were his servants, or they could be his underlings. In any event, they weren't there anymore. The only remains of their existence were their beds.

Back in the passage, they crept onward. Odd sounds echoed from deeper in the tomb. The noisiest of the companions was Scree. Although the sounds of his armor clanked and clunked softly, they were pretty much suppressed by the leather connecting the various pieces together.

Suddenly, Pinch stopped. He'd been dragging a finger along the wall as he walked. He turned back to inspect something. He brought his torch close and traced his finger straight upward, then horizontal.

"It's a hidden door," he whispered, handing the torch to Den. Using both hands, he probed the surface for a trigger to open the door.

"I love a good thief," Bronwynn said in admiration.

"Rogue," Pinch corrected.

"He likes to be called a rogue," Scree explained. "He says it sounds more classy."

"I don't know how anyone can go adventuring without a rogue," she said, emphasizing the last word.

"He really is the best," the dwarf added.

"Here you are," Pinch announced, depressing a small, rune-shaped section of the wall.

The companions readied themselves. The three drew their weapons while Den brought a spell to mind. The very floor rumbled as stone grated against stone. The outline of the door was soon revealed as the portal slowly slid inward. After moving slightly inward, the door changed direction and shifted to the left.

As the dark opening widened, the stale air, trapped for decades untold, mingled with their own. The four gasped at the foul stench which emitted from the chamber.

"I'm going to be sick," Den said while raising a hand to cover his mouth.

"It reminds me of staying in that tiny inn with Scree during the cabbage festival," the thief goaded.

Pinch snatched the torch from Den and boldly moved into the room. The smell was worse inside. Shelves held mysterious jars covered with dust. On various tables, strange tools were scattered haphazardly. Other tables and shelves were turned over or smashed. The floor was covered with a scattering of debris.

Scree lifted one of the overturned tables and set it upright again. The surface of the top tapered downward at a slight angle toward a thumb-sized hole at its center.

Absently tracing the hole with his index finger, the dwarf mumbled, "I wonder what this was for."

Den, who was looking at some of the tools nearby, answered offhandedly, "Those were made to drain the bodily fluids from the deceased."

In shock, Scree jerked his hand back and began wiping it on an exposed part of his shirt.

"Do you think whatever killed them was catchy?" he asked with an audible gulp.

Much to his chagrin, the young mage mused, "It could've been, several hundred years ago, that is. Relax, Scree. Any infection left in here was gone a very long time ago."

"What was this place, Den?" Bronwynn inquired, looking at a beautifully carved stone jar.

"I'm not exactly sure," he began, "but it looks very similar to something I read about recently. I believe that jar you're holding contains a human heart."

The swordswoman rapidly replaced the vessel on the shelf where it belonged.

"If I'm correct, this is a room where the dead were prepared for the afterlife. They called it mummification. That shelf full of jars holds the major organs of the dead. The larger ones are packed with food for the afterlife."

"What's that noise?" the thief asked.

"I don't know," Scree responded. "It's coming from the other side of that far table."

The dwarf was the first to make it to the source of the noise. "There's a hole in the floor a- Ahhh!"

The others rushed to see what was the matter as Scree flipped the table over and was in the process of trying to push a set of shelves on top of that. The problem was that the shelves were fastened to the wall.

Something banged, and the table slid to the side. From underneath the overturned table rose a dark gray, humanoid creature. It stood completely naked, licking its fangs with an extraordinarily long tongue.

Scree hurled a ceramic jar at the creature, missing by a wide margin and sending it smashing against the stone wall. The others rushed forward, weapons in hand.

As his companions approached the monster, its friends joined the party, also. Dark gray horrors virtually poured from the small hole. First five, then ten, then an even dozen crowded that far corner of the room. Bronwynn's sword arched through the air and nearly split one of the beasts in half. As she pulled the blade free, two more tackled her, bringing her to the ground.

Pinch's dagger had little effect, so he drew his sword and hacked at one of the ghouls holding Bronwynn down. Scree beat back a small pack to one side as the rest of the snarling ghouls surged forward.

For just one second, the young mage froze. The vicious-looking monsters, with their snapping maws, caused him to balk. Then, it happened. He knew what to do. The wizard lifted his hand, palm outward, and began to utter a spell.

The lead ghoul was scant inches from him when it, and the ones behind, were grasped in a giant, unseen hand and pushed across the room. The whole lot of them smashed against the wall in a tangle of arms and legs.

As his enemies regrouped, Den fired off a few small balls of energy at the two still clinging to Bronwynn. The crackling spheres slammed into their struggling forms, knocking them off of his friend.

The huge woman sprung lithely to her feet, summoning her sword back to her hand with a word, as Pinch rushed the dazed ghouls and delivered the coup de grase.

Turning back, the creatures he was formerly fighting were rushing forward, once again. Den's lips maneuvered through impossibly complex words, and from his extended hand shot sticky strands of webbing.

The bruised and broken ghouls slowed, and soon became entrapped in the gooey mess. Struggling, they could only growl their rage.

The others, having dispatched their foes, joined him at his side.

"What should we do with them now?" Den asked.

"Kill them," the three chorused in response.

That was something the young magic-user wasn't prepared for. He had never killed a living being. Skeletons and specters were one thing, but to willingly approach a humanoid and end its life was beyond him.

Pinch's arm flew forward, and his magic dagger appeared in the forehead of one of the nearest ghouls.

"Stop that!" Den commanded.

As the magic blade reappeared in the thief's hand, he demanded in a shocked tone, "Why? It's not like they aren't dead already. I'm just putting them out of their undead misery."

"They're undead?"

"Them ghouls sure ain't living, boy," Scree added.

The young mage grinned. "They're ghouls!"

"We have to keep in mind that it's his first time," Pinch casually said to Scree.

"He also took down eight of those ghouls, himself," Bronwynn growled from behind the group. "I'd say he more than proved himself."

Chapter 31

The Poison Plan

Skum actually felt happy. He had a spring in his stride as he traversed the myriad of hallways and stairs to his master's laboratory. The tower was quickly beginning to fill with undead of every sort.

It seems when Marasmus turned himself into a lich, he somehow increased his powers. Worse yet, that huge piece of onyx magnified his already-enhanced abilities. He was able to summon simple undead by sheer force of will. The baron was also able to control all of these creations much better than he could before.

When he was just a necromancer, Marasmus was only able to assemble simple forms. Zombies and skeletons were within his limits, but when he tried to make a specter, it had quickly escaped his control.

Wizards gained abilities as they aged, but in their final days, they all lose ground. Their power wanes as their mortality slips from them.

Marasmus must have sensed that he was at his end when he made his transformation into a lich. Skum had misinterpreted his angst and insistence as merely impatience, instead of desperation.

Earlier today, he'd had an idea. That foul liquid he was pouring into the Silver Fish River killed everything. Like a festering sore, it harmed anything it touched. Within minutes, the landscape died.

Trees withered and shrubs wilted. Within hours, the landscape was devoid of life. If he could get his master to drink that same stuff, maybe he could have his revenge and his freedom.

When that was done, he wouldd drink some himself. That way, he could bring an end to this unnatural state.

While he felt like he was not being watched, he filled a bottle with the terrible stuff. This, he added to another bottle, mostly filled with wine.

Even though his master was undead, Marasmus still liked his wine. Skum knew first hand that he didn't require food or drink, but his master continued to imbibe large quantities of the liquor.

His plan was simple. He laced several bottles with this nasty liquid. If the first glass didn't get him, the goblin chuckled, the last one would.

Chapter 32

That's not My Mummy

Nothing in the room proved useful or valuable, so the group moved on. It seemed the ghouls were possibly drawn by the influx of fresh air. The scent of the companions being drawn down the foul hole when they unsealed the door. Knowing there was meat in the room probably drove the ghouls mad.

After convincing Den that the ghouls were undead, he dispatched the rest of the evil beasts by igniting the web. The inexperienced wizard was tortured by the sounds of their end. Even though they were undead, wretched beings, he was horrified by how they died.

Venturing deeper into the dark crypt, the four entered a large, circular chamber. The domed ceiling caused their every movement to be magnified and echoed throughout the room. Like the other rooms, debris was scattered everywhere, and on top of that was a thick layer of dust. The chamber looked like it had been undisturbed for centuries.

As the companions approached its center, their tracks in the dust revealed something. As they cleared the surrounding area, they saw a summoning circle, painted in red, which dominated the center of the floor.

"That's some heavy magic," Pinch muttered as they all turned toward Den.

"I've never seen its like," he acknowledged. "Not even in books."

He immediately regretted his last comment. It made him seem unprofessional somehow. He should have let the first part of his statement stand.

The room held nothing else. At least, nothing not covered by the ever-present dust.

Three doors all stood in opposite directions. The one they had entered through represented the fourth point of the circle. In the end, they chose the door on the right. They did so because they thought it just felt right. Coincidentally, it didn't smell as bad in that direction.

The door was locked, so they had to employ Pinch. He set to work, eagerly, and the ancient locks proved to be little challenge to the experienced thief. With a resounding click, the tumblers gave way to the sophisticated ministrations of the master.

The room proved to be one big trap. From the pitfall on the first step to the poison darts three steps in, Pinch was onto every nuance of the booby traps inside.

Exiting the room, they tried the next door. It was the one they were looking for. About thirty feet from the doorway they presently stood in was a skeleton dressed like a wizard. It was seated on a throne made of what looked like insects, and seemed as natural as the day before he had died.

Den wondered why someone would intentionally make such a display of their death, but there it was. Hanging behind the corpse, draped over the back of the throne, was the cape they had come in search of. Looking about the room, the young wizard saw no need to fear this place. There were no hidden alcoves, no corners to hide in. It was just the skeleton of a dead wizard and the heroes.

If anything, the four had it outnumbered. They had defeated every trap, all the monsters, and everything this hack had set before them. This was their time. They weren't going to let some ancient magician cause them pause.

Pinch gave Den the all clear, and the young spell-caster stepped toward the moldering, mummified skeleton. The dead wizard's body was wrapped loosely in some muslin cloth. Very little of its skeletal body showed through the various layers of fabric. As he trod the dust-covered floor toward his goal, the young wizard thought he saw the wizard's skull grin. Not the smile of a normal skull, he thought he saw it actually grin.

About ten feet from his goal, the creature rose. Its laughter chilled him to the bone as it raised its boney arms and conjured a spell.

Den flew backward, hurtling through the air and into his friends, the four of them colliding and tumbling into a chaotic heap. The torches they had been carrying were thrown clear of the group, sputtering, but continuing to burn. The room remained lit, somewhat dimly, but well enough to see.

"What the heck was that?!" Scree cried.

"I don't know!" exclaimed Den. "I sure didn't expect that."

As the company untangled themselves, they stood and watched as the mummified mage approached them. The loose ends of its bandages flowed in the air as if blown by a breeze. Bronwynn was the first to fully recover. She raced forward and deflected one magical blow, only to succumb to another. The second spell sent her flying against a distant wall.

Den racked his brain for some magic that might help, but nothing offensive came to mind. The only thing that seemed to keep damaging the monster was the thief's dagger. Every time it was thrown at the horror, it functioned as it always had. After sticking in the creature, it teleported magically back into Pinch's hand. The enchanted blade did little true damage, but it was proving quite irritating.

Scree's frontal assault was rebuffed in the same manner as Bronwynn's had. As the two fighters recovered, the mummy turned his ire on Pinch. Although the dagger caused little harm, it was an annoyance. Snapping its hand forward, the gesture caused a bolt of lightning to fly from the undead mage's fingers. Only the rogue's heightened dexterity allowed him to leap out of the way, avoiding a shocking end.

Bronwynn and Scree kept rushing the mummy, but as they closed on him, they were driven back by a cone of cold originating from the creature's bony fingers. This gave Den an idea. As his friends rushed forward once again, the young mage gestured at the undead wizard's head. Balls of blue light sped at the horror, exploding with force on its face. They didn't hurt the monster much, but the ruse worked. It distracted the mummy.

The dwarf's hammer slashed through the creatures muslin-wrapped body, trailing tendrils of cloth and an assortment of bugs as it glided through. The swordswoman's blows also shook the monster, sending more of the carrion insects spraying in an arc. Each new slice caused the creature grievous injury. As the mummy struggled to counter their attacks, Den whispered a quick word and softly blew through his lips.

The resulting spell caused a gust of wind that battered their mummified foe. This opened the creature to more powerful strikes from the warriors, which spilled even more insects. The mummy's entire body was made up of the tiny pests, their writhing forms weaving the semblance of the mage's former body.

As the monster tried to cast enchantments to counter the attacks, it absorbed blow after blow, breaking its concentration and ruining its spells. Every time Scree or Bronwynn hit the thing's body, more insects sprayed across the room, but as quickly as they were struck from their host, the bugs skittered back and merged with the rest of the mass.

All at once, the form of the mage collapsed into a carpet of crawling pests. The swordswoman recoiled in horror, but the dwarf began hopping about, squashing as many of the tiny creatures as possible. Mastering herself, she joined her companion, leaping about, following the swarm before it scurried under the dust and disappeared from sight.

As the last of the bugs scrambled from view, the two stopped leaping. "Where'd they go?" Scree bellowed, kicking at the dimly-lit layer of dust covering the floor.

"Maybe this will help," Den chimed in. At a word, a ball of magical blue light appeared, inches above his outstretched palm. Raising his hand, the ball followed his gesture and floated to the ceiling. Then, the young mage turned his wrist and pointed, causing the light to grow both larger and brighter.

"What the heck, Den!" Pinch barked. "You could've done that from the beginning?"

"Um... I guess so," the wizard mumbled.

"Guys," Scree said absently, looking at his feet.

"And, you watched us light torches?" the rogue pressed. "I lugged that stupid torch through half the rooms in here. When we got thrown together a minute ago, I nearly burned my eyebrows off!"

"Guys," Bronwynn called, a little more strongly.

"I didn't make you light torches. You did it before I could say anything. I thought that was what you wanted."

"Guys!" the two barked at the same time, drawing the attention of their arguing friends.

"WHAT?!" Pinch demanded, turning on the two angrily.

"That!" they both chorused while pointing at a spot near the back wall, behind the throne.

Bubbling up from the dust-covered ground was a growing mass of insects. Pests of all sorts wriggled out of the cracks in the wall adding to the jumble of writhing forms.

Scree and Bronwynn rushed forward and attacked the nearly-reformed creature. Their weapons scattered bugs across the floor, but the mummy was drawing more and more creepy-crawlies from the surrounding area. So many insects came that the very ground erupted as they issued forth.

Double its original height, the monstrosity towered over the heroes. It let loose a loud roar and backhanded the pair of warriors it was engaged with, causing them to fly through the air halfway across the room.

The magically-enchanted dagger Pinch was hurling was doing little good, so he sheathed it and rushed forward, pulling his sword as he went. Scree and Bronwynn both scrambled to their feet and raced to engage their enemy once again, the dwarf snagging one of the torches on his way.

Den pelted the monstrosity with bolts of energy, blowing handfuls of bugs away, but the divots in its seething flesh were quickly replaced with more of the pests. Whipping its arm at the approaching rogue caused the appendage to detach, throwing a stream of louse and knocking the man off his feet.

Pinch rolled on the ground, ripping his clothes from his body, trying to swat the stinging and biting insects away from him. Bronwynn and Scree joined the fray once again, each bashing at the foul creature, its muslin wrappings now mostly torn away.

The two spent most of their time dodging wild blows from the gigantic monster's enormous arms. Parrying did little good. Each time it was attempted, the bug-limbs simply flowed past their block. The swordswoman was bashed aside by one such blow. A moment later, she joined the rogue, ripping off armor to get at the pests which were tearing at her flesh.

In desperation, Scree struck the side of the mummy with his torch. The monster lurched back and howled in pain. Charred, lifeless insects dropped from the wound, while others recoiled, as if in fear. The creature swatted the dwarf aside, sending the torch pinwheeling through the accumulation of dust on the floor.

Den, seeing the effects the torch had on the mummy and noticing that he now had a clear shot, sent magical flames into the creature. As the fire burned away the swarm making up the monster's body, it shrank. Shrieking, the beast tried to flee, but it had become engulfed in flames. The old muslin, as well as the insects' exoskeletons, conducting the spread of the flames and soon brought the monstrosity crashing to the floor.

There was no escaping the fiery death. The bugs, that had earlier scurried through the dust to safety, were so quickly consumed by the flames that they had no chance.

As the mummified mage's unnatural life came to an end, so, to, did the enchantment driving the insects to attack the two companions. The now-free pests skittered off of Bronwynn and Pinch and escaped to live a natural life in the tomb.

Nearly naked, the pair rose from the dust-covered floor, rubbing at the nasty, red welts now covering their bodies.

"I don't feel so good," the thief slurred through puffy lips. His swollen tongue struggled with each syllable as he gingerly pulled his shirt over his head.

"It's the insect bites," Scree spat, regaining his feet. "I think I still have some of that healing potion in my pack."

Shrugging out of his shoulder straps, he dropped the pack to the dusty floor and nearly climbed inside searching for the lifesaving elixir. As he did so, Den hurried to Pinch's side.

"He's not getting enough air. I think his throat is swelling shut," the young mage urged. As the last of his words left his tongue, Bronwynn dropped to the floor of the tomb.

"Got it!" Scree announced, hurrying to his friend's side. Biting down on the cork, he pulled the stopper free with a pop. Without wasting a moment, he put the vial to his companion's lips and let the thick, syrupy liquid flow between the thief's swollen lips.

When approximately half the contents had oozed into Pinch, Den pushed the potion away. "Take the rest over to Bronwynn."

Already, the rogue's condition looked much better. The magical liquid was shrinking the swollen flesh, and his breathing seemed unrestricted. Without a word, Scree raced to the beautiful warrior and administered more of the healing elixir.

"Save some," Bronwynn cautioned the dwarf. "We may need some later."

Nodding his assent, Scree used only what was necessary, keeping a small amount just in case they might need it later. He put the vial in a pouch he hung from his belt.

Chapter 33

The Treasure Room

The group spent the rest of the afternoon allowing the two companions, who had suffered and nearly died from the numerous bites, to rest and recover their strength. The healing potion had saved their lives and healed most of their wounds, but, feeling the need to save some, there just wasn't enough to completely relieve them of their injuries.

"I wonder what time of day it is," Den remarked to Bronwynn.

"It's probably nearly dusk."

The young spell-caster looked about nervously.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"It feels odd, not leaving here before it gets dark," he explained as Scree looked anxiously at the glowing orb near the ceiling. "Never fear. It will stay glowing until I either make it go away or I die. A wizard's power comes from his inner strength. When my strength fades, so will my magic."

"Is that different than where the necromancer's power comes from?" the dwarf queried.

"His comes from both life and the negative plane. That's what sorcerers call the land of the dead."

"Hel," Scree mumbled.

Bronwynn looked suspiciously at her diminutive friend. "What did you say?"

"Helgafjell," he said more audibly.

The swordswoman eyed him skeptically, but let the gaff pass. "I understand your trepidation about spending the night in such a dank and fell place. I remember a dungeon my crew spent nearly two weeks in. You get used to the musty air."

"Nearly two weeks?" Pinch asked from behind the throne of the mummified sorcerer. Ever since the thief had recovered, he had been snooping all over the room, probing for some hidden cache of treasure.

Bronwynn sighed heavily and explained. "It was an old dwarven mine that had been overrun by dark elves. The complex was quite extensive." As she spoke, the warrior watched Scree to see how he'd react. The look on his face was blank, as if he were lost in some inner struggle.

"What kind of ancient sorcerer goes through all the trouble of creating an elaborate tomb, only to be buried with one lousy piece of treasure?" Pinch grumbled, pointing at the garment which was still strewn over the back of the throne. Reluctantly, Den walked over to claim his prize.

"There's still another door," Bronwynn observed.

"Are you sure you're up to it?" Den asked while stuffing the robe into his pack. The rogue and the swordswoman exchanged glances before emphatically stating, "Yes!"

The loud voices snapped Scree from his daze.

"That's got to be the treasure room!" the thief declared, brushing his hands together as if to indicate his disdain for this room. Before they could make it halfway across the room, he halted and planted his hands on his hips. "Wait a minute!"

The group stopped in their tracks, hands immediately falling to their weapons' grips. A moment of silence followed before the rogue continued. "If the sorcerer is dead, how did he magically reanimate and attack us earlier?"

All eyes turned toward Den. He looked back at them incredulously, explaining. "He was mummified in the second room we entered. You remember, the one with the tables which had holes in the middle?"

Scree audibly gulped at the memory of tracing his finger along the edge of one such hole. "One of the people who prepared him must've used some necromancy. That type of spell can last a very long time."

The group filed out into the massive circular chamber. The only door they hadn't explored was now on their right. Walking through the large, domed room was surreal. The companions' passage was marked by haphazard footprints in the dust. As they approached the door, the group fanned out. Pinch, standing to one side, examined the door and its lock.

When everything seemed to check out, the thief signaled before pulling the door open. Den immediately guided the glowing orb of light into the large room. Boxes and containers were strewn all about, many were smashed open. The rogue hurried about the business of scouring the debris for something of value.

"Are you kidding me?" Pinch cried, tossing a book over his shoulder. "Books? This is your treasure hoard? A bunch of musty, old tomes."

Den entered the room and drew a book from the nearest box. The cover was somewhat rotten and the pages were filled with wormholes. As he turned them, he could make out the mage's scrawling handwriting. "This seems to be a journal," he said. "These were treasures to him, or to any spell-caster. We are all academics."

"We need to preserve this library," he said before casting a hasty cantrip on the journal he was holding.

"You want these rotten, old things?" Scree asked in disbelief while lightly kicking over a stack.

"I can preserve them," the young wizard exclaimed looking somewhat horrified at his companion's last action. "The knowledge set down in these books must not be lost."

"How in the heck do you think we can get these books out of here?" Bronwynn asked.

Den slipped his backpack off and pulled out an ordinary-looking sack. He began waving his free hand over the cloth and saying strange words in a peculiar tongue. His voice and gestures reached a crescendo, and he pointed to the bag.

The young mage found a somewhat clear area in the room and opened the sack. An impossibly wide opening led into a large room. "We can put them in here."

"How'd you do that?" Scree muttered, clearly not comfortable with what he was experiencing.

"It's a magically-created space. The books will be safe inside here. This way, I can carry all of these books and they'll be practically weightless."

"You had that the whole time?" Pinch asked.

"Yes."

"And you didn't think to tell us this?" he continued. "We could've put our packs in there. I've worked my ass off carrying this heavy-"

Den put a hand on his friend's chest, stopping the thief's sarcastic observation with one of his own. "What if we got separated? Or the magical pouch got destroyed? You would have lost everything."

"He's right," Scree agreed. "If I had to root around in that magically-created doohickey, I might not have gotten the healing potion to you in time."

Pinch shrugged, "I hadn't thought of it that way. I'm sorry Den. It's been a long day."

"What's that?" Bronwynn breathed loudly, her voice loud enough to draw attention, yet soft enough to go unheard.

As the three looked in the direction she'd had indicated, they could see shadowy silhouettes of humanoids. They seemed to be appearing from nowhere, but skulked in the shadows, as if in hiding. As the companions watched, one of the shades reluctantly left its concealment and, emboldened, it approached a small box near the far wall.

"That's what I saw back in the first room," Scree muttered.

Bronwynn, sword in its sheath, slowly moved ahead, her hands held out at her side in a non-threatening manner. "It's ok," she soothed. "I'm not going to hurt you."

The shadow raised an arm and waved her off. Taking the cue, the swordswoman backed off. As she did so, the ethereal being pointed directly at Den. His throat suddenly dry, the young mage cautiously started forward at an even, measured gait.

As he reached the container, the shade pointed at the box's opening. Inside the wooden crate lay a single book, its well-worn leather cover soft from use. The oil from countless hands gave the bindings a mottled patina, darkening its edges.

Not taking his eyes off of the shadowy figure, the young mage reached for the tome. As his fingers neared it, the shade pulled back, diminishing into the distance. As the figure disappeared along with its companions, the spell-caster chanced a glance at the prize held in his hands. The title, written in black ink, its gilding all but worn from the cover, contained four words: Musings in Second Sight.

"What is it, Den?" Scree asked anxiously.

The mage tilted the open book toward his glowing sphere and turned a few surprisingly-well-preserved pages before answering, "I believe it's a book of prophecy."

"Another book!" the rogue moaned. "Is there nothing of any use in this rotting hole in the ground."

"He always gets this way while underground," the dwarf explained to Bronwynn.

"It affects us all that way," she said offhandedly.

"Not me," Scree countered with a grin. "Us dwarves love it when we are in the sweet embrace of the earth. That big, wide-open sky is quite unnerving."

"I didn't mean-" she started.

"No need, lass," he soothed. "We don't understand why you humans shun the security of the depths, yet build cave-like shelters on the surface. My kind believe humans are in some type of denial."

"What do you think they were?" Pinch asked as the last of the ethereal beings vanished from view.

"Who," Den corrected.

"What?" the thief asked seeming somewhat confused.

"Those shadows were people, so they would more correctly be referred to as who."

"You sound more like Finnious every day," Bronwynn observed.

The young spell-caster grinned at the comparison. "I believe they were the spirits of the embalmers. That would explain their presence in the first room, which was probably their quarters. Many ancient leaders had their servants buried with them, trapped alive in their master's crypt to continue their service until eternity. They were, quite possibly, happy that we killed the archmage and freed them to move on to the next world."

"Hel," muttered the dwarf, once again. Barely hearing his utterance, Bronwynn squinted as she scrutinized the word she'd heard before.

The crew spent the next hour carefully storing the contents of the library in Den's magical bag. The mage took charge, guiding the others in the correct way to carry and stow the precious literary treasure.

Once finished, they made their way out of the crypt. Pinch, once again, took the lead. He checked the way back to the outside for any traps he had missed. By the pace they walked, he was fairly sure they were safe. They ascended the stairs out of the tomb into the darkness, stars overhead sparkling in the cool, clear night. A hasty fire was sparked and stoked into a cheery blaze.

A rotating guard was set. Den, now confident in his power, no longer feared his turn at the duty. In the morning, talk turned from the crypt to the village of the healers.
"They need a wizard of your talents, is what they said," remarked Scree. "They even mentioned your master."

"I don't know what I can do for Hank," he explained.

"Never you mind," the dwarf said in a calm tone. "We'll let them explain when we get there. If we push hard, we should be there by tomorrow night."

Chapter 34

If at First...

"Here, master," Skum said. His voice was somewhat cheery, which, coming from a massive, undead goblin, was quite disturbing. "I brought some wine for you. I thought you might like some."

The lich appeared not to notice Skum's presence as he studied an ancient tome. Marasmus, now having no need for sleep, had started reading many of the old books he couldn't get around to when he was merely mortal. Now, when he wasn't adding to his undead army, he was delving into worm-riddled pages of some arcane text.

The massive goblin swallowed hard and summoned his nerve. Shuffling forward, the goblet shook as he forced himself to near the lich. Wave after wave of powerful fear wracked Skum, but he focused on his plan and forged ahead.

Upon reaching the baron's side, he went to set the goblet on the book-strewn table. As the container neared the wood, the lich swatted his hand aside.

"Bah!" Marasmus barked. "You'll spill it on my books, you dolt!"

Eyes wide, Skum steadied the sloshing goblet, afraid of spilling the contents and losing his chance. As the poisoned wine calmed in the container, he breathed a sigh of relief.

"I'll put it over here, master," he said, setting the goblet on a table to one side. This one was free of anything that could be harmed. "Will there be anything else?"

"I want you to find me more playthings," the lich growled. "Or, maybe a town to attack."

"You'd have to have an army to do that," the goblin replied.

Marasmus nearly jumped from his chair and, after snatching up the goblet of wine in one hand, grabbed the front of Skum's worn jerkin in the other and pulled him to a nearby window.

"Like this?" he asked, releasing the humanoid and sweeping his now-free hand grandly before them.

Many stories below were the old ruins of a graveyard. Hundreds of skeletons and zombies milled about, enthralled by the power of their master and his onyx relic. The undead shambled about without purpose, awaiting the command of their creator.

"How did you come by this?" the goblin asked, astonished.

Marasmus glided back into the room, stopping beside the onyx relic. Strange runes carved into it glowed green, some casting their light outward as if projecting their power to some unseen purpose. "Some of them were brought by you, but many more were drawn by the magic of this stone. Before this treasure fell into my hands, I was weak. With this relic, I was able to raise the long-dead occupants of the graveyard below."

The lich softly, lovingly, ran his hand down one side, the stone's glow casting the undead sorcerer's gray skin in a green light. As the undead wizard turned back toward his goblin henchman, Skum blanched as the lich's gaze swept over him. His knees nearly buckled as the fearful feelings intensified. The former necromancer's power nearly made the very air crackle with the magic he contained.

The baron smiled as he explained. "While you were off trying to kill yourself, I was drawn into the depths of the Old Elindill Mine. It was there, I found my prize. This unholy relic has imbued me with great power. In ancient times, it was called Gor," he said haphazardly, gesturing wildly with his hand holding the goblet.

Skum's jaw dropped as he watched droplets of his tainted wine slosh through the air and onto the stone floor. The lich was so enthralled with describing the black stone that he had clearly forgotten what he was holding.

"The language," Marasmus continued, "as well as these runes, were long forgotten, at least until now. This beautiful piece of onyx is teaching me."

The lich's evil grin grew even larger as he leveled his gaze at the massive goblin. "And the power..." a small stream of smoke drifted between the two, catching both of their eyes. The baron's gaze followed the stream of gray smoke to its source. Small pools of spilled wine sizzled on the flagstone floor as the poison burned away the living organisms which had collected in the seams and cracks.

"So," the baron chuckled, casting an evil glance at Skum. "You tried to poison me. Don't you like the immortal body I've provided you with?"

Still ghoulishly smiling, Marasmus raised the goblet to his lips. With bated breath, the goblin's hopes soared as the goblet touched the undead spell-caster's lips. At the last second, Marasmus pulled it away.

"I don't know whether to be angry or proud of you, my petulant traitor."

Again, the cup was lifted, and before it could be tipped, cruelly removed.

"Your betrayal should be punished in some way."

The gesture was repeated again, just as deliberately and agonizingly as the last time.

"What would hurt you the most?" the lich cooed menacingly, the goblet's edge now resting on his lip. "An eternity under my power."

Raising the cup's stem, Marasmus emptied the remaining liquid into his dry, cracked mouth and swallowed it in one gulp. Skum stood stiff with shock as his master wiped his mouth with his sleeve. The cloth erupted in smoke as the toxic ingredients reacted with the grime in the fabric.

"You can't poison me, cave dweller. I'm immortal now. I own you!" he growled, ignoring the sleeve of his robe as it burned away.

Chapter 35

Disaster Strikes

Scree and Pinch lead the way. The two set a pace that covered ground at a rapid pace. It was easy to see that they were very worried about their friend.

The rolling hills soon gave way to a forest. The trees' blowing branches clacked merrily as their leaves allowed the sunlight to stream through in swirling beams. As they rounded a bend in the path, Bronwynn held Den back, slowing her pace to a leisurely stroll.

"There's something odd about that dwarf," she said in soft tones.

"I wouldn't say he was the oddest of them," Den agreed.

The warrior shook her head rapidly and continued. "When you were speaking of the land of the dead back in the room with the mummified wizard, he mentioned Hel. When I asked him what he'd said, he corrected himself and said Helgafjell."

At the young spell-caster's confused look, she explained, "Hel is the place where dwarves who don't die honorably spend their afterlife. Helgafjell is the inside of a mountain where warriors spend eternity with ale and roaring fires. I think he's done something bad."

"Maybe he misspoke," he countered.

Shaking her head once again, she said, "I don't think so. He said it again where we found all the books. I don't think he noticed that I'd heard him, but he clearly mentioned Hel, once again."  
Den considered her words as he absently picked a stray piece of grass and placed it between his teeth.

Ahead, the two who had been leading were now waiting. "Hurry up!" Pinch called eagerly. "We want to make it there before nightfall."

For the rest of the afternoon, the group traveled quickly. Hank's fate drove them onward. What food they ate was consumed while on the march. It was early evening when they smelled smoke.

"Just wait till you get a load of this place," Pinch announced. "Their leader, Iseldur, might be a little stiff, but she's a good woman. And the food is very good. By the way, if she calls me Jasper, just go along with it. It's a little game we play."

"Uh huh," Bronwynn moaned skeptically.

As the group drew closer to the village, the smoke became more dense. The four quickened their pace, each realizing that something was wrong up ahead.

They broke into a sprint as the smoldering ruins came into sight. Small fires clung stubbornly in areas protected from the wind. Scree and Pinch immediately sped off in the direction of the building Hank was housed in. After only a few strides, something caught the thief's eye, and he veered off course. Den followed the rogue to a mangled body lying in the grass, while Bronwynn chased after the dwarf.

"Iseldur," he gasped, his voice strangled with pain and loss. Pinch brushed her hair from her eyes and cradled the elf's lifeless form. With tear-filled eyes, he looked beseechingly at the young mage. "Can you do something?"

Den shook his head side-to-side and answered, "Restoring life to the departed is beyond my ability."

Feeling awkward, the spell-caster left his friend to grieve. With a detached, critical eye, he surveyed the battle scene. People of many different races lay scattered everywhere. Looking at their twisted forms, Den deduced that they were fleeing something. The odd thing was that there were no fallen warriors present. This wasn't a battle. It was a slaughter.

Seeing Scree and Bronwynn reappear, Den made his way back, meeting them at his mourning companion. His eyes now dry, Pinch laid Iseldur back on the turf.

"He's gone!" the breathless dwarf gasped.

Breathing a heavy sigh, Pinch rose to his feet and faced the three.

"Maybe we can pick up his trail," Scree urged.

The rogue scanned the scene around him and quickly summed up what had transpired. "Too many villagers fled in too many directions. It's beyond my ability to single out his tracks. Hank's gone."

"Maybe we can guess his direction. He couldn't be far," the dwarf pleaded.

With a last look at Iseldur, the thief concluded, "He's gone. In more ways than one."

"There has to be something we can do!"

Pinch placed a hand on his diminutive friend's shoulder in consolation. Looking back at the other two, he answered, "There is. We will avenge Hank by helping Den and Bronwynn bring an end to Marasmus. It was his treasure room that produced that foul shield. I blame the necromancer for what happened to Hank."

"He's actually a lich," Den corrected.

Pinch gave him a dumbfounded look.

"He was a necromancer, but he turned himself into a lich."

"Then we kill the lich!"

The mage nodded. "Let's go kill the lich!"

The companions walked for an hour before stopping to set up camp. They wanted to be far from the village so the unburied dead that surely would attract scavengers couldn't threaten them during the night. They also wanted to get closer to Springdale.

As the young mage gathered wood for the night's fire, his mind reviewed the events of the last few days.

Den wanted to go back to town to make sure everything was still all right. He felt guilty for leaving when he did, but Bronwynn had agreed that they needed a powerful weapon. The spell-caster just wasn't sure the robe of invisibility was really what they needed.

Skeggie was a powerful witch and had contacted the dead, but Marasmus had interfered. Could the lich have guided them away from some other artifact, diverting them from something more powerful than a cloak of invisibility?

After setting down his wood and pulling the magical garment from his pack, Den held it out before him and cleared his mind. After uttering a few strange words, he began to get an impression of the cloak's power. He could envision past owners donning the item and vanishing. It was also used to hide animals and even inanimate objects. How could this cloak be the item of power he so desperately needed?

Den clenched his fist, feeling the strange ring on his index finger. He eyed the adornment, as if for the first time. Brow wrinkling in curiosity, he brushed back a stray, white lock of hair and cleared his mind, once again. Tongue twisting he repeated the spell once again, and at first, he could read nothing. Then, he saw a small, wizened man casting a defensive orb around him and several friends, the barrier shielding its wearer from all sorts of assaults, both physical and magical. It also allowed the people inside to continue launching their attacks from the safety of the shield.

A hand on his shoulder brought him back from his trance. "Are you ok?" Bronwynn asked.

"Huh?" he said sleepily. "Oh. I'm fine. Just fine."

The swordswoman smiled. "Scree is having a fit. He wants to know where that blasted mage is with the firewood. I think he's hungry."

Den repacked his cloak and scooped up the wood, juggling the last pieces as he hurried back to the others. Soon, a cheery fire danced inside a ring of rocks. A brace of hares were spitted above it, dropping sizzling gobs of grease onto the coals. It seemed that Pinch had a knack for hunting. His magic dagger was quite effective at killing small game.

That night, they kept guard in pairs. They knew Hank was somewhere about, and they were also anxious about roaming undead, but in the morning, they found that their fears were unwarranted. Nothing had occurred that was out of the norm.

The four quickly broke camp and fell into their usual marching order. Once again, Pinch and Scree set a rigorous pace, they wanted to get back to Springdale before dusk. Foregoing lunch, they ate as they walked, once again. By early evening, they were approaching the outskirts of town.

"Something's wrong!" Bronwynn warned. At a questioning look from Den, she continued, "I've lived in Springdale for many years. It's too quiet. Something is very wrong!"

After speaking, she broke into a run. The others followed, only a few steps behind. The warrior slowed to glance into each window she passed. By the time she had gotten to the center of town, Bronwynn had reached a startling conclusion. "Everyone's gone," she gasped.

The others didn't question her words. Looking everywhere, they scanned the area, looking equally for threats and signs of life. After a few moments, each moved forward, expanding their search to the surrounding homes. Nothing seemed amiss. It was as if they had risen early one morning and left, taking nothing with them. They just vanished.

Fearing that they were spreading themselves too thin, the heroes gathered, once again, in the center of the town and started searching as a team. As the comrades approached one outlandish cottage, they were startled to hear the sound of a bottle tipping over and rolling across a wooden floor.

Drawing weapons, they approached the door. Pinch quietly picked the lock and, after silently counting to three, threw the door wide open. Silhouettes scuttled further into the shadows to the rear of the home as the four rushed into the darkened interior.

As Scree and Bronwynn brought their weapons to bear, the strangers shrieked in freight and held their empty hands wide, showing that they were not a threat. Den uttered some soft words and made a gesture, causing a magical sphere of light to appear above his outstretched hand.

He slowly stepped forward, bringing the cringing humans into the warm glow. It was Smedly Burrfour, his wife Hildi, and their son. As the light illuminated the villagers, they shrank back as far as they could. Smedly had placed himself in front, blocking the other two with his shivering body.

"Smedly?" the young spell-caster indicated softly.

Eyes wide with fear, the villager timidly turned his eyes from the glowing ball to the wizard. A moment later, recognition registered on his face. "Den?"

The mage reached out a comforting hand and placed it on his old friend's shoulder. "It's me," he assured him. Looking at the whole family he said, "You're all safe now."

The companions helped the scared family out of the dark corner and to a table before the unlit fireplace. Scree started to set a fire, but Smedly begged him to stop, his eyes straying to the door as if expecting someone to knock.

All five seats at the table were filled. Young Gizmo Burrfour sat in a huddled mass in his mother's lap. Scree sat on the hearth, laying his hammer across his lap.

"What happened here?" Bronwynn asked Hildi.

The woman glanced up from the child in her lap and sheepishly said, "They all died."

The companions gave a collective gasp in astonishment. "What?"

Smedly picked up the story. "The whole village took sick. It happened so suddenly. We were the only ones who didn't fall ill. There was nothing we could do."

"It's all right," Den soothed his grief-stricken friend. "If they died of some blight, where are the bodies?"

"They left," the shaken villager responded.

Standing suddenly, Scree barked, "This doesn't make sense. If they died of some sickness, they wouldn't walk away."

Smedly looked at the hammer in the diminutive warrior's hands and gulped visibly.

"And how, exactly, did you avoid the same fate that your fellow villagers succumbed to?" the dwarf accused.

"By the gods!" Den cursed, racing across the living space and out the door. Rain started to fall in large, fat drops, at first scattered, but steadily gaining strength.

The rest of the people in the cottage ran after the spell-caster. The Burrfours following their new protectors, fearing to be alone once again. Hildi carrying the child in her arms.

The young mage continued on, rushing for the bridge over the Silver Fish River. Halfway across, he stopped on the northern side. The river had been violated. Dead fish bobbed, belly-up, snagged on branches and rocks near the shore. The banks and stream bed were stained a strange, dark green color, and even the plants near the shoreline were turning brown, barely clinging to life.

"What about their wells?" Pinch asked, rain streaming from his face.

Shaking his head, Smedly explained, "Wells get their water from underground streams. The wells in town are fed from the river. That could be how they all got sick."

"That's how you didn't get sick," Den shot back. "Your family collects rainwater and pipes it into your house. Your invention saved your lives." As it dawned on him, his eyes shot open wide. "Meg!"

Without another word, he raced off again. Blinking the driving rain from his eyes, he splashed through the newly-formed puddles to the home of his green-eyed love. The door yawned open, so Den ran straight inside the darkened home. "Meg!" he cried out. He called her name once again, but nobody replied. The place was empty. After a third attempt, a strong, muscular arm wrapped around his shoulder and pulled him into a wet embrace.

The spell-caster cried onto Bronwynn's curly hair. His body shook as waves of grief wracked him. The others entered the cottage, but remained a few paces back, giving the mage space to come to terms with what had probably happened.

Slowly, Den untangled himself from his friend's consoling hug. He spied Smedly and approached him. The villager's wife stood at his side, dripping wet and still holding their child. She was probably unwilling to have stayed in their home, alone, after everyone else had died and so hastily left.

"What happened after people started to die?" he asked in an even tone.

"Soon after, they rose again," the villager responded in a grim tone. "There was no one left to bury them. Hildi and I were tending the sick, and then they started getting back up. They attacked us. It was horrible. We barely made it to our home."

"Once inside," Smedly continued, "we locked the door and hid. We didn't dare to light even as much as a candle, fearing that it would draw more of them. They pawed at our door for a while, then, all at once, they left."

"Where did they go?" Den asked, his voice still controlled, but with a slight tremor of anger.

With her eyes locked on the floor, Hildi answered, "North!"

Chapter 36

Return to the Tower

The companions and the Burrfours spent the night at the inn. They all ate their fill and slept on tables in the common room. If they were the only survivors, they might as well not let all of the food go to waste. They also believed that the undead villagers had left for the lich's tower, so they probably wouldn't be returning. Bronwynn added that the light from the inn might lure any other refugees and give them a place of safety.

As morning dawned, the four packed fresh supplies in silence. They knew the way to Marasmus's tower and set off at first light. Grimly determined, they walked with a single purpose.

Den barely noticed the paths they walked. Trees and other landmarks passed by, but he was focused on revenge. The lich had taken everything he'd known and loved. The young mage no longer doubted his magic and didn't fear death. His sole purpose was to stop this evil from harming anyone else.

They set double guards that first night, as well as the second. The only words exchanged were those of necessity. As they awoke the second morning, the young wizard remembered how light-heartedly they had joked the last time they'd been in this area. Rolling on the ground with mirth over that exceptionally tough jerky, it seemed so long ago.

This time, there was no humor. Den could see the rage in Bronwynn's eyes. He sensed the feelings of Pinch and Scree. Their dedication to purpose, and the way they acted and carried themselves, led the young wizard to believe that they both wanted to end this evil. It was as if they were trying to right the wrongs Hank had committed due to the evil items that took over his mind.

They rose and ate a cold breakfast, each taking stock of what they would be carrying into battle and stowing the rest in their packs, which would be left behind.

Den pulled his magic bag from the pack and pushed it under his belt. He added the Rod of Random Spells beside it and made sure the Dust of Dispel was secured on the other side. He glanced at this new ring and cleared the dagger at his hip.

That's it! he thought. These are the weapons I have to bring to bear on the lich, Marasmus. My weapons, my wits, and my magic. I hope it's enough.

These thoughts weren't musings of fear. They were of resignation.

As the last pack was hidden in the brush nearby and the last bite of food swallowed, they silently filed out of their campsite and, following Pinch, made their way through the woods.

Oddly, unlike before, they made no plans to meet back here. Although they strongly felt they would defeat their enemy, they also realized that they may not survive, in return.

For about an hour, they traveled north, the rogue guiding them, using game trails to ease their travel. All at once, he stopped. His hand, balled into a fist, warned the others to halt and be quiet. After a tense moment, he signaled them to come forward carefully and to stay low.

As the three came forward, they could see the tower through the undergrowth they were hiding in. The companions were perched on a hillock at the edge of a clearing that sloped downward to the tower. A graveyard was at one side near the base of the keep. Undead milled about seemingly without purpose. The four companions scanned the area trying to come up with a plan.

Before, they had just walked right in the front door. Now, there were scores of undead blocking their path and possibly more that they couldn't see.

"We need a distraction," Pinch assessed.

"Agreed," Scree rumbled.

A few moments went by before Bronwynn spoke. "Look at the ridgeline on the west."

"What am I looking at?" Den asked.

"That opening is the end of some sort of ravine," she explained.

"I see it," the thief stated. "A few of us could draw them away in that direction."

"A few of us is pretty much all of us," Scree corrected them. "There has to be another way."

As the sun climbed to its zenith, it became apparent that their options were very limited. Bronwynn, once again, pitched her plan. "We can't sit here all day. I say two of us draw them off as a distraction while the other two make their way inside."

"We'll do it," Pinch announced, a hand on Bronwynn's shoulder. "Den will need a fighter inside. Besides, I run faster than you do, Scree."

"What you're suggesting will be suicide," Scree begged. Den and the swordswoman exchanged a worried look.

"We'll be fine," the rogue soothed his friend.

Scree shook his head. "You don't even know how far up that ridge runs. What if the way closes and you have to fight?"

"Then we fight!" Bronwynn stated boldly. "This is the only way."

The fighter exhaled in defeat. "How many people can fit under that cloak?"

"I don't know," Den answered, pulling the magical garment from his belt.

The companions moved back, deeper into the woods. Den unfolded the cloak and, after pulling the hood over his head, promptly disappeared. When Scree joined him, they both were concealed from sight, but try as they might, they could not fit another soul under its enchanted folds.

"That decides it," Pinch conceded. "Bronwynn and I are the distraction."

Scree slipped out from underneath the cloak, reappearing as he emerged. "There has to be another way."

"Admit it, dwarf," the swordswoman said. "There is no other way."

"We'll be fine," the thief added.

Den revealed himself next to the rogue. "They're right. There is no other way. Even though the cloak can conceal us from the dead roaming the tower's grounds, the erratic patterns they make as they wander about would box us in, quite possibly revealing our presence to them."

"More like a wizard every day," Bronwynn remarked. "We'll keep close to the tree line until we get to the ridge. As we draw them away, you two get inside."

"Be careful," Den cautioned.

"Don't worry, Den," Pinch assured. "She'll be with me!"

"That's what he's afraid of," Scree replied with the first grin any of them had worn since before the village of the healers. "Be careful, my friend."

"You, too," the thief replied solemnly. "Besides, we have to survive this. Our young master wizard hasn't paid us yet."

Den's jaw dropped, but before he could reply, they were gone. Like they had planned, the two kept close to the tree line and moved swiftly toward their goal. About halfway to the ravine, they were spotted by one of the roaming zombies. It broke off from the milling masses and, moaning loudly, went in pursuit. Others, hearing the commotion, followed the first, and soon the whole horde was shuffling off after the two living beings.

As the last of the undead cleared the entrance, Scree and Den covered themselves in the cloak and made their way toward the door. The door yawned open, its rune-covered surface swinging out into the mid-day light. The skull-shaped lock seemed to mock them as they passed by.

The hallway before them reeked of spoiled meat. Its stench was palpable. Near wrenching, they pushed onward into the darkened hallway.

The sputtering torches remained, their magical light causing little actual illumination but contributing to the overall eerie feel of the place. Pools of darkness shrouded a scattering of undead that were milling about, having been unaffected by the diversion. Their shuffling forms, were merely silhouettes outside the intermittent pools of light.

They used the magic of the cloak to avoid the few in the hall. Hugging one wall or the other, they weren't even noticed by the walking dead. Sometimes having to wait for an opening to appear, they made their way into the large, circular room. The statues remained. Their magic lives gone, the one that Hank had decapitated was frozen in its death pose.

Den carefully avoided the spot where he had spilled the Anti-Magic Dust, not wanting to possibly ruin the cloak's own magic, but the space where the spill had occurred was covered with quite a few of the undead. They lay in a heap over the place where the dust had trickled out of the pouch. It seemed the magic-sapping power of the dust must have robbed them of their magically-restored lives in the same way it had the statues.

As they crossed the room, a shadowy form emerged from the foot of the stairs. The pair halted, leaving the zombie space to pass. As the undead stepped into the light, Den gasped, drawing its attention. It was Meg.

Scree's firm hand clamped over the young spell-caster's mouth, while his other grabbed him about the chest. Den struggled for a moment before going shock still.

The lifeless cadaver, all that remained of the love of his life, stood before him, a shell of the beauty that formerly was. Gray orbs replaced what used to be shimmering pools of green. The lifeless spheres probed the seeming emptiness that was around it, searching for something, yet not knowing what. Maybe it heard its former lover's gasp, or perhaps its non-beating heart merely felt that its mate was near. Either way, it unnervingly scoured the area about them as they stood silent, Scree trying desperately to keep his friend from crying out.

Tears ran down Den's face and his body shook with rage. He had secretly harbored hope that, somehow, his love had escaped this fate.

Meg's soulless corpse slowly lost interest and finally shuffled through the room. As it did so, Scree relaxed his grip on the mage, who stood, staring, watching his future crumble before his eyes. Before completely releasing his grief-stricken friend, the fighter whispered in his ear, "This madness ends now!"

Chapter 37

They're Pretty, but Can They Fight?

"Master?" Skum solicited.

Marasmus, still standing beside the massive, rune-covered stone, mumbled something about a certain, troublesome cave dweller.

"Umm... Master?"

The lich lifted his claw-like hand and lovingly caressed the side of the massive piece of onyx. The green-glowing runes reflected in his gray, lifeless eyes.

"MASTER!" the huge goblin urged. Torn between incurring the wrath of his liege and not informing the former necromancer of what he was seeing.

"What?!" Marasmus barked, causing his thrall to shrink back against the window frame he was standing beside. "What is it, you insufferable ignoramus?"

"Your army... Where are they off to?" Skum asked, pointing a trembling finger out the window.

"What?!" the lich growled, moving rapidly toward the opening. Outside, they could see two humans being chased by what looked like the bulk of Marasmus's army. They were leading his horde into the ravine to the west.

"I'll go and stop them, master," the goblin offered.

The baron's bony hand held him in place. "Nonsense," he drawled, chuckling wickedly at the end of the word. "Let them go. That ravine doesn't go too far and is surrounded by an impenetrable undergrowth. They'll never come out of there alive."

*****

"Don't run too fast," Bronwynn warned. "We want to keep them all interested."

Pinch chanced a glance over his shoulder. "I don't think that'll be a problem!"

The cut in the tree line loomed just ahead of them as they lead the vast horde away from the tower's entrance. The ruse had worked. The undead had seen living humans and had positively lept at the chance for some fresh meat.

The pair loped through the shin-high grass at a leisurely pace, careful to stay close enough to keep their quarry interested. Occasionally, Pinch would race ahead, only to stop and toss his magic dagger into the crowd, thinning their ranks.

The two slowed, and nearly stopped, as they turned into the ravine.

"Oh, crap!" Bronwynn spat.

At nearly the same time, the thief moaned, "You gotta be kidding me!"

Directly before them was the ravine. It ran back through the hillside, only to end in a waterfall. The only escape was to the north, but that was rapidly closing.

*****

Daring not to speak, Scree and Den awkwardly made their way up the stairs. Taking one step at a time, they deliberately took their time, rather than chance a misstep.

The magical cloak was large enough for both the thin mage and the diminutive warrior, but barely so. They couldn't risk either of them exposing themselves through carelessness.

At the top step, both nearly pitched over backward as a specter glided directly in front of them. Heels teetering on the edge of the top step, they steadied themselves as the ghost-like creature searched the area for something it only sensed. Life.

The vaporish creature hesitated, its mist-like face scanning all about. It felt the presence of the living, but couldn't determine where it was coming from.

Two more such creatures appeared, each probing the area around the two, then moving on. It was at this moment that Den realized Skeggie's vision was true. Without the power of the Cloak of Invisibility, his mission would surely have failed. This realization added even more hope to his plan of successfully slaying the lich.

To their left, the spell-caster saw the remains of the zombies he had ensnared on their last attempt. The webs were long gone, but their legacy lay rotting in piles on the floor. Without a word, they went right. The hall curved, passing the hidden door where they'd found treasure, and continued up a long set of stairs.

This was the place where they had fought the zombies led by that hated goblin, the same foul creature that took the life of his father. Gritting his teeth, Den continued on, matching his companion's strides in order to stay hidden under the cloak.

They passed another specter and a few other odd, undead humanoids before reaching the top of the tower. A battered, old door stood closed before them. It looked like it had been repaired several times with unskilled hands.

Slowly, cautiously, Scree tried the handle. It was locked.

"Fine time to be without a thief," Scree whispered. "He's probably off somewhere relaxing with that beautiful friend of yours."

*****

"RUN!" Bronwynn cried, urging her companion to greater speed, but as they approached the opening in the ravine, the two realized their opportunity had passed. The undead, who were at the back of the tower, had closed the distance and cut off their only other means of escape.

"Back into the ravine!" Pinch yelled.

"Are you mad?!" the swordswoman shot back.

"It's our only chance," he reasoned. "If we don't try it, we'll be overwhelmed before we can make a stand."

Veering, they raced into the western ravine. A small streamlet wound along the bottom of the steep-sided cut. The walls closed in on both sides as they neared the back.

"I don't think we're going to make it," Pinch said, eyeing the nearly-vertical walls on either side.

"Good," Bronwynn spat, sliding to a halt. "I'm sick of running from these wimps!"

Reaching over her broad shoulder, she drew Narbane from the sheath on her back and swung the blade to loosen up her muscles. Her long reach, coupled with the length of the enchanted blade, nearly spanned the width of the ravine.

*****

Den reached for the door, but before his hand could touch the handle, a stout boot crashed onto the patched wood just inches below. The dwarf's strength, augmented by the magic belt, caused the door to explode into the room. Den was thrown off guard as two figures turned away from the distant window and faced his way. Beside them was a massive hunk of onyx. It was sitting on a base of skulls, and its runes were bathing the room in a green glow.

The giant goblin, its eyes narrowing in anger, still cut an intimidating figure, but it was the smaller, skeletal being that caused him to balk. This was the lich.

Nothing he had read had prepared him for this moment. There he stood, across the room from the undead necromancer, and his mind was as blank as a fresh piece of parchment. Waves of fear nearly caused him to swoon, forcing him to concentrate on merely staying upright.

"I'll take the big, ugly one!" Scree bellowed. While racing forward on his short, stout legs, he loosened the hammer from his belt. Skum drew his own blade. Its red glow would have reminded Den of the night his father had died if he wasn't dumbstruck by the lich before him.

He was not ready for this. In fact, Den felt he probably never would be. The enemy he now faced was so overwhelming that no book would ever capture the true feeling of being caught in a lich's gaze.

Marasmus raised a claw-like hand and began to gesture. Old bones crackled and popped as his fingers drew arcane symbols in the air. The fell lich uttered the strange semantics of a spell.

In a panic, Den did the first thing he could think of. He drew his dagger and threw it. As the blade somersaulted through the air, Marasmus concluded his foul spell. Flattening his palm toward the youth, he gently pushed forward.

An invisible force struck Den, shoving him and his dagger backward. The dagger continued through the door's opening and clattered somewhere outside the room. The mage struck a stone wall, the impact driving the air from his lungs, he was pinned there, about two feet off of the floor.

"What have we here?" Marasmus cooed, toying with the youth trapped against the wall. "A young mageling, come to volunteer himself for my army? You do know that one of the qualifications is that you have to be dead? But, I believe we can do something about that."

As the undead necromancer spoke, Den chanced a look to see how his friend was faring. Scree's larger foe should have had the advantage of reach, but dwarves, long ago, had learned how to battle larger enemies. The dwarven race had practically specialized in fighting giants and their like. Scree parried powerful blows with the long handle of his hammer, only to ram its blunt end into tender areas on his attacker's legs and thighs.

The problem was that Skum wasn't alive. The dwarf's attacks, which were meant to cripple a living being, did nothing to his opponent's dead flesh.

"And, after you're good and dead," Marasmus continued, "I'll make you immortal."

Skum heard the last of his master's words and stopped to glared at the baron. As he did so, he was rewarded with the butt of the hammer's handle, jabbed sharply into his gut. He turned on his opponent and continued the battle, but the fight was now out of him. The lich had taken his life from him. His dreams were all dashed. Skum was now just an instrument for his master to wield.

The former necromancer began to gesture once again, his words, a tangle of strange syllables as he wove another spell. With only seconds left, Den did the first thing he could think of. It wasn't a wise choice, nor was it powerful, but it was the fastest thing he could do.

A single word from Den, and Marasmus let out a terribly long belch. The young wizard had used a cantrip to disrupt the spell, but it had the added benefit of causing the lich's magic to backfire. A loud pop rang out, and a cloud of smoke mushroomed up from the undead necromancer's hands. His concentration broken, Den was released from the force that had him pinned against the wall. Staggering, he caught himself, nearly falling to the floor alongside his magic cloak.

Growling angrily, Marasmus started another spell. The young mage threw another cantrip, this time causing the baron to hiccup. Gaining confidence, Den began launching bolts of energy at the undead spell-caster. The first one struck the necromancer in the shoulder before he could complete his own enchantment and sent him spinning to the ground behind a table holding a single, empty goblet.

Scree was tiring. His blows had lost their intensity and he was overextending his attacks. Sweating profusely, his breath came in ragged gasps. Skum was winning, but he didn't look like he cared.

The small fighter swung wildly for the goblin's midsection. His hands, slick with sweat, lost their grip on his war hammer as Skum's enchanted sword swatted the weapon away. The hammer spun off into the distance as Scree prepared for the deathblow.

"Don't kill him, you dullard," Marasmus warned while rising from behind the desk. "I have something much better in store for that dim-witted dwarf."

The goblin huffed his disgust and tossed his own sword to a distant corner as the lich cast a quick enchantment on himself.

Den sent another volley of energy bolts at his nemesis. His renewed attack fizzled just before it struck its target. The lich laughed as the young mage's next attempt failed, as well.

Scree rushed his towering opponent and punched at the creature's upraised arm. The lifeless limb shook under the powerful assault.

"You're a strong one," Skum growled.

"I bear a mighty belt of power, and I'm going to smash you apart."

Catching the dwarf's right hand in one of his own, he lifted the diminutive warrior and examined the girdle. "My old belt of strength," the goblin said. With his free hand, he pointed to the belt he now wore. It was leather and bore a metal emblem of a giant on its clasp.

"I upgraded!" Skum roared, tossing his small captive a good distance across the floor.

Marasmus was taking his time, toying with his prey, not wanting to end his fun too quickly. "Let's see how you like a bolt of power from the negative plane!" he bellowed. As the necromancer's long, bony finger pointed at the wizard, a purple bolt flew from its tip.

Den did the only thing he could think of. He dove to the side. Chunks of sharp stone erupted from the wall after the bolt had flown past the elusive, young spell-caster. He rolled to his feet beside Scree. Pulling the dwarf to his feet with one hand, he extended the other toward the lich. That's when he noticed his ring.

Just before the necromancer's next bolt was loosed, Den activated the ring. The purple bolt shot forward only to strike a sphere of crackling blue power that now extended around the two adventurers.

*****

Bronwynn swung her sword in wide arcs, cutting down row upon row of the undead before her. There was no need for style. The mindless undead marched forward, heedless of the danger before them.

She could feel cool drops of water splashing against her back. She had backed all the way to the small waterfall and was now out of room.

Narbane, her enchanted sword, was nearly weightless, but slicing it through countless creatures was taxing her limbs. Before her was a pile of writhing body parts. Even separated from their torso, they struggled against their living foe.

"Pinch!" she called over her shoulder. Not hearing an answer, she spat, "Where did that blasted thief get off to?"

She was answered by a length of rope striking her shoulder and uncoiling down the front of her.

After taking one last swipe at the mob before her, she flicked a loop of the rope around her forearm before swinging her feet up against the ravine's back wall. Dropping her sword, she pulled herself upward, her massive biceps straining with her desperation.

Pinch, braced behind a rock at the top of the ravine, strained as he reeled her in. "How much do you weigh?" he groaned as he struggled to get her up the cliffside. Cold, dead hands grazed the heels of her boots as she rose above the unnatural creatures.

"How'd you get up here?" she asked as she crested the top of the ravine and knelt on the cool turf.

"I'm a thief, after all," he said proudly. "Not just a common burglar. By the way, I'm sorry about your sword."

In her haste, the warrior had dropped her enchanted blade. Even now, the undead below were stepping on the sword as they struggled to reach the prey that had eluded them.

Bronwynn rose to her feet and called, "Narbane!" The magical sword suddenly appeared in her hand, its tip inches from the rogue's nose. "You're not the only one whose blade magically teleports. And, thief, a word of advice. Never ask how much a woman weighs."

"I'll keep that in mind," Pinch said, gulping visibly as his crossed eyes fixated on the point of steel.

Dark thunderheads had rolled in, blanketing the sky and obscuring the light. From the topmost window, a green glow shone in the unnatural twilight. The color was a taint on the clouds above.

"I wonder how the boys are doing," she mused. "I hope they are all right."

"If I know Scree, which I do, he's probably lazing about with a pint of ale in his hand," the rogue joked. "Those clouds mean business. We need to get out of here before the rain starts, unless you want to be washed back down there with your friends."

*****

Marasmus threw wave after wave of offensive spells at the two, each attempt crashing against the unbreakable shield. Inside the protective blue dome, Den and Scree took a moment to recover.

"How long will this contraption last?" the surly dwarf asked between breaths.

Den glanced down at the ring and answered, "I don't know. This is the first time I've used it."

"Great!" Scree mumbled. "We're safe, but trapped."

"Indeed!" cackled Marasmus. "Trapped like a little turtle in its shell. And that's where you'll die, hiding in your shell."

Skum moved to his master's side as the necromancer began pouring various powders on the floor and muttering in some arcane tongue. Occasionally, he extended a long, bony finger to draw some symbol or another into the dust.

"What's he doing?" Scree urged, stroking his beard nervously.

"He's casting some type of spell," Den said softly.

"I can see that!" the dwarf spat. "It seems like a really long one. That can't be good, can it?"

Den glanced down at the wand in his belt as the sound of Marasmus's voice grew louder. "No. It isn't good. The length of the spell is usually equated with the spell's power and effect."

"We've got to do something before his enchantment is complete!" Scree moaned, looking about their crackling, blue prison.

With a small cry, the young mage grabbed the Rod of Random Spells and pulled it free of his belt. His hand shaking, he pushed the wand through the shield and pointed it at the lich. While he started to think of the activation word, Den pictured all sorts of things happening. He could hear Finnious's voice saying over and over, "Rod of More Trouble Than You Had Before."

As the lich's tone reached its crescendo, the youth pushed his other hand through the magic barrier and grabbed the opposing end of the rod. In desperation, he snapped the enchanted device, unleashing its magic in a blinding explosion. Moments before the rod burst, Skum leaped in front of Marasmus, shielding him from the majority of the damage.

Den jerked back while crying out in pain, his hands ruined, skin and muscle torn almost completely away because of the power of the blast. The room was full of smoke, nearly obscuring everything from sight. Through the haze, a huge shadow of a form approached the magical, defensive barrier. A large, gaping hole was torn from his torso, and he was missing an arm. Slowly shuffling to a stop, Skum locked eyes with Den and softly, almost in relief, said, "Thank you. You have no idea how horrible it was, living this tortured life. I owe you." As the last syllable rolled off of his tongue, he pitched backward, finally dead.

Scree grabbed the vial containing the healing potion from the pouch on his belt and had the young mage drink most of it. The rest, he rubbed over the what was left of Den's hands. The young spell-caster dropped heavily to the floor, nearly blacking out from the pain. The potion's strong magic quickly mended most of the wounds, but there just wasn't enough to fully restore the wizard's injuries.

"You've ruined my servant!" Marasmus shrieked as he stepped near the massive, glowing piece of onyx. "The two of you will have to do as his replacements."

"Scree," Den whispered. "Remove the black pouch from my belt."

The dwarf did as he was bidden. After removing it, he looked back at his friend and asked, "What now?"

The pain Den was feeling was clearly visible on his face. His hands, although partially restored, were completely useless.

Once again whispering, he instructed his friend to loosen its opening, then throw the bag at the large, onyx stone. "Your aim must be true. If you don't hit your mark, everything we've sacrificed will be for nothing."

*****

The looming thunderheads released their contents in a driving rain. Water, funneled into the ravine, gathered in strength. What was a small stream, at first, quickly became a raging torrent. Bronwynn and Pinch held onto nearby branches and vines to avoid being swept down into the cut.

Chancing a glance over her shoulder, the swordswoman saw their undead foes were not fairing as well. They were simply swept away in the strong current. Such a simple force of nature decimating the fearsome horde.

As fast as the storm had come, it diminished, the teeming rainfall becoming a light mist. As the two loosened their grips, they started their search for a way back to the tower. Pinch spotted a nearby game trail, and the pair squeezed through the narrow pathway into the woods. Concerned for their friends, they hurried to help in any way they could.

Chapter 38

There's Always Another Way

Scree hefted the sack a few times to get a feel for its weight before opening the top. The contents of the bag seemed to sparkle in the dim light. How could this pretty dust do anything worthwhile? he thought. But, his trust in Den drove him on.

Standing, he took careful aim at the green, glowing onyx before throwing the pouch with all of his might. As soon as the bag left his hand, a small trickle of the magic dust strayed from the opening and trailed behind. When some of this powder touched the defensive globe, it vanished, dispelled by the magic of the dust.

The black sack arced through the air and flew toward its target. Just as the dwarf felt victory was within reach, a claw-like, undead hand shot out and snagged the pouch in mid-flight.

"What's this?" Marasmus cackled. "You nearly missed me. Is this some kind of gift to appease me, your new master?"

As the lich gloated, the small, sparkling particles began to pour out of the pouch and over his arm. The former necromancer looked at what was happening and tried to shake the offending material from his limb. The result of the panicked movement was that even more of the Anti-Magic Dust spilled out, coating yet more of his cold, gray body.

The lich's unnatural life was solely sustained by magic, his body imbued with the dark sorcery of the negative plane. As the Anti-Magic Dust took effect, his enchanted life's essence was dispelled.

With a cry of outrage, Marasmus, the lich, dissolved to the floor. All that remained was a pile of bones and dust.

"NO!" Den cried as he realized what had happened. Rushing forward, he began scraping the dust into piles. Some of the Anti-Magic Dust still sparkled, meaning that it still held its power, while most of it was dull, mundane sand.

"Help me!" he cried to Scree, who, after learning what was required of him, began sorting the good from the bad. The fact that the lich's flesh had also dissolved complicated things further.

Every possible speck of the magic powder was collected and placed back inside the pouch. The pair stood and were dusting off their knees when Bronwynn and Pinch entered the room.

The four exchanged what had happened while they were separated. The plan had worked, and they all celebrated the fact that their foe had been destroyed. Bronwynn was hugged repeatedly in the process and everyone was filled with joy, except Den.

He glared at the onyx. Its base, which resembled a pile of skulls, seemed to mock him as they were bathed in the green glow coming from the symbols. Scree took the black pouch from his companion, his eyes reflecting the seriousness of the situation.

Drawing the mouth of the sack open, he stepped up to the stone and, standing on tiptoes, poured what remained of the Anti-Magic Dust over the onyx. The stone began to sputter and spit sparks. The rock began to shake as the two powers fought, then a large fissure fractured the onyx. Symbols near the fissure glowed red, while the rest remained green.

A slow stream of smoke emitted from the wound in the rock as Scree tried to shake out any remaining dust. "That's all we had," the dwarf said, turning and looking at Den apologetically.

"It'll have to do," Bronwynn admitted.

"If anything, maybe the damage we did will render its enchantment useless," the mage speculated.

"I say we throw it in the ravine and be done with it!" the dwarf announced, moving as if to heft the massive onyx.

"STOP!" Den and Bronwynn chorused.

Scree froze in place. Only his eyes moved back and forth, seeking some unseen danger.

"Touching something that evil would, very likely, twist your mind," warned Bronwynn.

"She's right," the spell-caster agreed. "We'll have to leave it here for now."

The companions searched the remains of their enemies for anything of value. Poking and sifting through the pile of debris that was Marasmus proved futile. Not even as much as an amulet could be found. But, Scum had a few interesting items.

Discarding his belt of strength, Scree strapped on the one Skum had worn. "Look who's upgrading now!" he chimed with a grin.

Bronwynn grabbed his former girdle and strapped it about her waist. Each of these magical belts quickly adjusted to the size of its wearer.

Pinch took the enchanted sword and the ring, but passed on the gauntlets. When asked why he didn't want them, he said offhandedly, "It would cramp my style," to which Scree mocked, "I'd hate to have to pick pockets with them on, too. Bronwynn should have them. All she got was my old belt."

The swordswoman, therefore, received the last token of power from the former aide of the lich.

"What about Den?" Bronwynn asked. "He didn't get any treasure."

"I found an entire library of books."

"Yeah. Den's going to throw books at evil creatures from now on," Pinch joked, clearly not valuing the power of knowledge.

They searched the room, which was Marasmus's study, for any other treasure. Much to Pinch's dismay, Den found some more books for his growing library, but there was little else of value.

Before leaving the study, Den stopped, looking back at the magical stone, its green-glowing symbols marred by the gash of red. Like a sickness, the red glow seemed to throb and still smoked.

"I hate to just leave it here," Den mumbled.

"Me, too," Bronwynn agreed at his side. "Maybe, Finnious will know what we can do with it. That is, when he returns."

Pinch tore down a nearby tapestry, which was so old it had nearly rotted off of the wall. With a flourish, he draped it over the evil hunk of onyx. "Ta da! That ought to hide it long enough for you to think of something to destroy that foul rock."

Fidgeting with the tooth amulet at her neck, Bronwynn added, "At least we don't have to look at that horrible thing anymore."

As they left, it was immediately apparent that, with the death of the lich, the undead inhabiting his home had been released. The majority of his more simple creations had been destroyed in the ravine during the flash flood. The necromancer's tower was now devoid of the living, and the undead, alike.

The companions searched the rest of the tower. The only other things they found were some books in the chamber where Marasmus had done his experiments. The three argued that those foul grimoires should be destroyed, but Den disagreed, saying That all knowledge should be preserved. He had hope that it would add to the world in some positive way.

Not wanting to sleep in the tower, they traveled throughout the night. As gray traces of dawn tinged the eastern sky, the four travelers, two from Springdale, emerged from the forest shadow. They rested for a short time before continuing out of the dark and forbidding lands of the necromancer. As they continued on, each could feel the intensity of his dread-power lessen, strengthening the bodies and lightening the hearts.

Exhausted, they arrived at the Weary Wanderer Inn. The Burrfours were there, along with some other survivors, but there were so few. The majority of the village was now gone.

They stayed at the inn that night and, after eating, left early the next morning. Bronwynn told the survivors to feel free to stay and asked the Burrfours to mind things until she got back.

Den's spirits rose as they walked down the road, leaving Springdale behind. Everything in the village had reminded him of someone he'd lost. The most crushing was Meg. She had died because he was still discovering his abilities.

As Finnious's cottage came into sight, they were shocked to hear a series of loud bangs. Then, something crashed, obviously breaking. The companions all readied themselves for battle. At the door, Pinch tested the lock and prepared to open it. Silently, he counted down and then threw the door wide. In a rush, they raced inside, all eyes focusing on the robed backside of a human, half hidden inside an overturned box. Hands tightened their grip on the weapons they were holding as the figure emerged from the container.

"Blast!" the figure barked angrily. "Where has that tome gotten off to?"

Den lowered his outstretched hand as Finnious turned to face them.

"Master?"

"There you are, my boy," he said, looking skeptically at the armed warriors surrounding him. "Have we been robbed?"

"No."

"Well, somebody seems to have ransacked our home," he said, still looking around around his tidy house. "I can't find anything."

"We cleaned up a bit," Bronwynn chimed in.

"Why would anyone want to do something like that?" Finnious questioned.

"We killed the lich!" Den announced, changing the subject.

"Nice... Nice," the old master mumbled, resuming his search. Suddenly, he stopped. "Lich?"

Stepping forward, the young mage explained, "It seems the necromancer you charged me with stopping had turned himself into a lich."

Finnious took another look at the assembled companions. "I didn't think... He was just a necro... Blast, you did well, my boy!"

"It was all of us, master," Den corrected the old sorcerer. "They are amazing warriors."

"Indeed," he mumbled, his hand absently stroking his beard. "What in blazes has happened to your hair?"

"It was turned white by a specter's touch."

"A specter?" he contemplated, sounding even more impressed. His eyes broke from his apprentice, as if remembering something. "Where is that tome?"

Pointing to the far wall, the young mage replied, "On the shelves."

"Who would've guessed?" Finnious said. After a few moments of searching, he announced, "Here you are!"

Book in hand, he rejoined the companions, who were starting to remove their packs. The mage stopped and looked at them, impatiently, and began tapping his foot on the floor.

"Are you ready?" Finnious asked in a harrumph.

They all stopped. "Ready for what?"

"For war," the old sorcerer replied. Turning abruptly, he picked up his staff and waved it in front of him, causing a magical gateway to appear. There was a small popping sound as the gateway sliced into existence.

The four exhausted adventurers looked at each other incredulously, mouths agape, realizing that their journey had, apparently, just begun. With resigned sighs, they shrugged away their pain and discomfort and accepted the fact that their well-earned reprieve would not be granted this day.

Pulling on their packs once again, the weary companions followed the aged wizard into the portal. As Pinch and Scree stepped through, the thief asked, "Are we ever going to get paid?"

The End

This concludes the first book in the War of the Stone series. The following is a taste of the second book, Horde, which is available now.

Chapter 1

Sneak Attack

In the deep darkness of the cavern, the sound of a water droplet breaking the surface of a puddle echoed in the distance. The noise it made reoccurred softly, fading over time. The commotion it created, although short-lived, resonated over a great distance, causing changes both great and small to many things within its sphere of influence.

Suddenly, a popping noise, followed by a vertical slice of blue light, appeared out of nowhere. The glowing slit expanded, opening into a somewhat large doorway. As the two-dimensional portal come into contact with the ground, it sliced through the debris in its way.

The surface of the portal, much like a pond, rippled. The bluish glow emanating from it lit a small area in the natural cavern. Stalactites pointed downward, their origins lost in the darkness, masking the ceiling far above. The stalagmites on the floor of the cave caused jagged shadows to jut outward from the light of the magical gateway.

Moments after appearing, the liquid surface of the door parted as a humanoid broke the surface and stepped through the portal. Gasping for air, she continued forward, then stepped to the side, making way for the rest of her company. With each step, she heard a crunching noise from under her boots.

The female ranger immediately took a defensive position, knocking an arrow and crouching. Her elven eyes penetrating deep into the darkness, searching for any danger, which might threaten those who were coming next.

The blue, undulating gateway parted again and again, emitting four more of her group. She was joined by a large human warrior, a pair of dwarven twins, and a willowy mage in soft gray robes. As each appeared, they struck a similar pose, as if expecting a battle.

"What are twigs doing in this foul cave?" asked Gailin, one of the dwarves.

"Don't look down," warned Pip, the other diminutive warrior. His armor was corroded and grimy, a stark contrast to his brother's shining mail.

"Why not?" the first demanded.

"They aren't twigs," the other answered.

Slowly dropping his gaze to the cavern floor, the small warrior saw that he was standing in the midst of a bone-covered surface. "This isn't good," he stated, before the wizard, Gizzur, shushed them into silence.

"Blasted fools," the mage cursed under his breath. "We aren't on a picnic."

The spell-caster then created a glowing orb of light, as several tense moments passed. His enchantment, much brighter than the light from the magical gateway, allowed the companions to see deeper into the dark expanse. The portal winked out with another pop, just as a roar issued forth from a crevasse nearby.

The company spun to meet their foe, as three huge rock trolls raced forward with large, spiked cudgels raised. Her bowstring thrumming, Idera released four arrows in the span of a heartbeat. The arrows, although jutting from their gray, rock-like hide, caused only a slight inconvenience to the lumbering beasts.

Baltar, the big barbarian, rushed forward, deflecting the nearest troll's weapon with his own. As the two traded blows, the twin dwarves engaged the other two. Although they were less than a third the height of their foe, they were more than prepared for a fight of this type.

Ever since their god, Terran, created the dwarven race, they had been forced to fight much larger enemies. Countless centuries of struggling had taught these small warriors strategies for taking down creatures many times their size.

"Now we know why there are so many bones lying about!" Pip assessed, while slipping between his troll's legs and bashing the beast behind its left kneecap with his hammer. The troll screamed in pain before dropping to its knees.

"Agreed!" Gailin stated, swatting his opponent's clumsy swing to one side with the flat of his battle axe. "You know who'd love this?"

"Mom?"

"No," Gailin disagreed. "Well, yeah, sure she would, but I was talking about Scree. He always loved bashing rock trolls."

Pip smashed his long-handled war hammer into the back of his foe's head, shattering its skull. "I hate that stupid name he calls himself. It wasn't his fault."

As his twin's nemesis dropped lifeless to the cavern floor, Gailin slammed the long handle of his ax into the jaw of his own enemy. The powerful blow knocked the creature senseless for a moment. Those precious few seconds were all that the veteran fighter needed. With a grunt, he drove his ax, nearly to its butt, into the huge creatur's back. The troll fell, dead, to the dirt and stone floor. After climbing onto its back, he pulled his weapon free from the spine it was lodged in, causing the troll to twitch violently.

The third troll was still trading blows with the others in the company. Its hide bristling with arrows, the beast roared as it swung its cudgel into the barbarian's side. Baltar dropped to all fours, gasping in pain, as the approaching troll licked its lips in anticipation of an easy kill.

Bolts of lightning arced from Gizzur's hands, blasting the monster back. Smoke rising from its singed flesh, the beast moved toward its still prone opponent. Halfway to its goal, the evil creature was blocked by the two diminutive sentinels.

"Do ya think there's enough of him to share?" Pip asked enthusiastically.

"Oh, I think there is," Gailin answered. "He's a big one, for sure."

Before the massive troll could react, the two dwarven warriors flew into motion. Axe and hammer spinning, they moved more quickly than most would expect. With practiced precision, they battered their helpless foe with a flurry of attacks. The troll tried to parry and back away, but the twins' onslaught would not be denied. In the end, they brought their quarry down, a pool of blood forming around its fallen form.

The pair turned to their company, who were already assisting the injured Baltar. Barely winded, Gailin jibbed, "It was only a troll, for crying out loud."

"Maybe he's too tall?" Pip chimed in. "Being tall just makes you awkward."

The twins broke into a fit of laughter as the mage approached them. "Hush, you dolts! We are deep in the enemy's keep, in the very midst of Onde Bolig and its evil forces, and you two act like you're on holiday."

Gailin raised a finger to his lips and shushed his brother. Pip frowned at the gesture, but his displeasure was short lived as he looked down to take his next step.

"You're standing in troll poop," Pip whispered with a grin.

"What!" his twin stated in a muffled cry.

Looking at his feet, Gailin noticed that his right boot was firmly planted in a good-sized pile of troll dung. Gently, he extracted his foot from the center of the spore and, kicking it forward, flung a goodly portion of the offending material from his heel, sending a large dollop to splat on Idera's leather breeches.

Her stunningly beautiful face pinched with anger as she glared at the dwarf. Gailin sheepishly shrugged an apology, a wide grin betraying his helpless feeling.

Pip whispered in his ear, "I never met an elf with a sense of humor."

Carefully scraping the feces-covered toe of his boot against some larger bones, Gailin muttered, "Why don't the minions of evil ever clean up after themselves? It's like they never heard of a mop!"

"I don't think trolls value housekeeping skills as much as you do," his twin joked.

"If I didn't clean up after you, you'd be living just like this?" Gailin shot back with a grin.

Chapter 2

It Begins

As the last of the company stepped through Finnious's magical gateway, the scene playing out before them astonished Den. Beings of all races were rushing about in a flurry of activity.

The company emerged from a special alcove, which was set aside for wizards and their traveling spells. It wouldn't do for a spell-caster to just randomly pop into the middle of a room. If an innocent being were to occupy the same spot as the gateway, it would slice the poor soul in half.

That's also why, long ago, magic-users quickly figured out that they had to have actually visited the place they were teleporting to if they wanted the spell to work correctly. One slight miscalculation and they could appear inside of a wall, or worse.

If the spell-caster hadn't been to a distant land, the wizard would have no idea of how to get there. Maps, for this purpose, were useless. Sure, they could show an enchanter the directions of how to get somewhere, but a map didn't illuminate to its user the subtle nuances of the roads the traveler would walk, nor were they unerring accurate.

Stepping out of the shadowy alcove, Den paused and took in his surroundings. The room was very large; its high, vaulted ceiling supported by rough-hewn beams. By the thick stone blocks forming the stone walls, he ascertained that they were in some sort of castle. Thin windows emitted sunlight into the chilly room. From the look of the scattered food plates and beverages, it appeared to still be morning.

Large tables, covered with maps and various other documents, dominated much of the floor space. The rest was alternately occupied by the myriad of beings racing to and fro. Whatever was happening, it seemed to require much haste. Something important was afoot.

Beings of many of the fairer races intermixed as they discussed, argued, and seemed to debate whatever was happening. The room virtually buzzed with the sights and sounds of what was obviously a grand scale event.

From a nearby table, a striking figure approached the company. The middle-aged gentleman had long hair, with a bit of gray at his temples. He had what looked like a strong, fit figure, encased in a suit of golden armor. The man wore a crown on his head, denoting his rank.

"Finnious," the human stated. "Where have you been? We started without you."

"Drat!" the old mage spat. "Why were you in such a hurry?"

It was then that Den noticed that Pinch and Bronwynn were bowing to the man before them. With a sudden realization, it dawned on him that this must be Kane, King of the Realm.

Joining his friends, he awkwardly bent at the waist. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied Scree. The dwarf remained standing, looking elsewhere, as if unmoved or unaware of the royalty before him.

"We wanted to try our assault at sunrise, when many of our enemies are at their weakest," Kane remarked. His gaze straying from Finnious, he quickly added, "This is not the place for formalities. Rise, my friends. Besides, I never liked all of that bowing and scraping rubbish, anyway."

That's when he finally noticed the half-turned dwarf. "Balinor. I was-"

The small, stout warrior raised a hand and cut the king off with a word. "Scree."

"Master dwarf," the king began. "I don't understand why you insist-"

The dwarf repeated his gesture and halted the monarch, mid-sentence, yet again. "Just Scree. That's all."

"What?" Pinch breathed softly. The thief's face registering his shock.

Scree glanced sheepishly at his long-time companion to see if what had transpired had dawned on the rogue. The bearded fighter's brow furrowed, as if embarrassed. His head lowered as he shifted to face the others.

"I understand why we are attempting the assault in the morning. In fact, it was my idea," Finnious sputtered. "But my question is, why now?"

"While you were gone, we had something unexpected happen," the king explained, finally looking away from Scree.

Under Finnious's scrutinizing gaze, Kane gulped, then continued. "Last night, after you left, one of the enemy's wizards defected and appeared on our doorstep. It seems he has had a change of heart."

"That's him, over there," he said, gesturing at the dark-robed figure at a far table. He stood away from the windows, in the darkest part of the room.

As the companions' collective eyes settled on the figure, Finnious and Bronwynn both spat at the same instant, "Warferin?!"

The swordswoman's hand dropped to the hilt of her sword and the old wizard's fingers tightened on his staff as the two scowled in the defector's direction. Bronwynn stepped forward, as if to approach the dark mage, but Kane stopped her in mid-stride.

"He came to us in peace and has helped us already. We, the council, believe he had a change of heart."

Bronwynn grimaced. "Warferin is Murgo's foul mage. His heart is as black as midnight and I very much doubt that it will ever change."

"Agreed," Finnious stated adamantly.

"How do you know him?" Den asked his master.

"The same way a dog knows a tick," the venerable mage answered. "From his bite and the sickness it invariably causes. We've been on opposing sides a few times and I have no love for that scoundrel!"

Kane stepped forward, blocking their view. "I understand your feelings, but he has already given us valuable information pertaining to our foe and their movements. I believe he has knowledge of the inside of Onde Bolig. I would caution you all to give him the benefit of the doubt before you attempt any harm. He may be valuable to us again." Looking directly into Finnious's eyes, he implored, "Do me this one favor."

"I'll leave him be," promised Bronwynn, "but if he causes any doubt, I'll wring his scrawny neck."

"Thank you," the king said, relieved.

"For you, Kane," the old wizard agreed. "Is there any word from the raiding party?"

The monarch shook his head side-to-side. "No. The wizard, Mako, is awaiting the signal to open a gateway for their return. If they succeed, we may be able to stop this war before it begins. But, you must be tired. Let me send you to some appropriate chambers so you can be refreshed."

Kane nodded to a page and whispered in his ear. The young noble nodded before leading them away.

"I'll remain here," Finnious stated, waving the young man off. "I may be needed."

"As you will," the page replied. "If the rest of you will follow me."

The remainder of the company filed out of the bustling room and followed the young noble. The keep was impressive; even the hallways were decorated with majestic tapestries depicting scenes of valor from ages gone by. It was grand, yet functional. Arrow slits lined what Den could only imagine were buttress walls. As they passed a balcony, the young mage was drawn to the view outside. The rest followed him as he strode out onto the balcony.

They were very high above the ground. Surrounding the stronghold was an outer wall. Armed soldiers busily trod the various stairways and ramparts. Watchmen could be seen at regular intervals, a bowshot away. Beyond the walls, there was what looked like a broad plain, which ended abruptly at steep mountains capped with snow.

The chill air caused him to cross his arms over his chest, even though it was sunny They must have traveled very far.

"Where are we?" Den asked no one in particular. The youth had never been far from the village of Springdale.

The page wrinkled his brow. "Why, you are in Upper Midlothia, of course. This is Dunn Moor Keep. We like to call it The Rock," he said with pride. "No enemy has ever broached our outer wall, let alone the keep itself. This place has served to hold the evil that lies beyond at bay for centuries."

"And they would be?" Den coaxed.

"Foul folk," the young man answered with a somewhat shocked look. "Our people have kept the southern lands safe for centuries. Those mountains mark the southern edge of the Land of Skagnar."

"Safe, you say," Den said sarcastically.

"Let it go," Bronwynn warned. "Let's just go to our chambers. I'm tired."

"Chamber," the page corrected.

As the youth moved back into the hall, she leaned over to Den and whispered, "Chamber? That'll be cozy, and a bit awkward."

They took several halls and a few stairways before stopping at an ornate door. Pulling a key ring from his belt, the noble rifled through them before selecting the proper key. Pinch took great interest as the tumblers silently turned and, with a push inward, an extensive apartment was revealed before them.

"Maybe not as cozy as I thought," Bronywnn mumbled.

Bronwynn, Den, and Pinch, wide-eyed, moved woodenly into the room. The only one who didn't seem shocked was Scree.

The outer living space was huge. Overstuffed couches and chairs surrounded a plush, woven rug. Paintings by skillful artists hung everywhere. The room was overwhelmingly posh.

Reacting to the shocked expression on three of the four guests, the page stammered, "Is this accommodation not to your standards?"

"They're fine," Scree replied as his friends continued admiring the opulent room. "Tell your liege that he is most gracious and that I am in his debt."

"Very good," he responded. "I will have servants along shortly to draw a bath."

"That won't be necessary," the dwarf said.

"It will definitely be necessary," Bronwynn countered. "I would like a bath and you three positively stink."

The three men looked shocked. Pinch raised an arm, and with a grimace, shot back, "I've been worse."

"Will that be all?"

"Yes," Scree said quickly. "Thank you for your service."

The page set the key on a shelf near the door alongside several others and left, closing the door softly behind him.

"I still don't think I need a bath," the dwarf muttered.

"Yes. You do! You still have blood on you from the lich's tower," the warrior woman corrected. "We all do."

"You do smell bad," Pinch joked.

Scree, in a serious voice, stated, "I like to think my natural musky scent is appealing."

"Appealing to a gnoll, maybe," the thief countered. "But, stop trying to distract us. You mean to tell me that I've been traveling all this time with Prince Balinor?"

The dwarf's face reddened. "Scree."

"We all heard Kane call you Balinor. So, unless you're some kind of imposter?"

"I have my reasons," Scree growled.

Den stammered, "Should we bow again or something?"

"NO!"

"Why the deception?" Bronwynn asked concerned. "Is something wrong?"

Scree started stripping off his gear. As he did so, he haphazardly dropped it on what looked like a very valuable chair.

"We can help if you're in some sort of trouble," Pinch added, mirroring the sword maidens worry.

After depositing the last of his equipment, the dwarf flopped onto a couch and began removing his boots.

"After all this time, you never told me. Not one word," the rogue continued.

"DROP IT!" the bearded warrior barked.

Awkwardly, the three looked at each other, as if for some signal as for what to do next.

"You can tell us when you're ready, my old friend," he soothed. "Although, it would've been nice when we were sleeping in a hedgerow because we couldn't afford a nice inn. And there was that time-"

"ENOUGH!" Scree commanded.

"Ok. Ok. Not another word about it. Spoken like true royalty."

At his friend's growl, he backed away as the others gingerly set their own belongings near the door. For the next hour, the three wandered about the apartments. There were four bedchambers and a bath.

All were adorned as well as the outer chamber was. "I could get used to this," Bronwynn muttered to herself as she dropped onto a large, soft bed. A contented sigh slipped from her lips as she sank deeply into the mattress.

They took turns bathing and then lounged about, recalling their adventures and speculating about what they were here for.

*****

Finnious stalked about the chamber, which presently served as the command center for the Midlothian Army of Light. As a former head of his order, generals, wizards, and other dignitaries stopped him to confer various plans with him. This waiting was madness. The raiding party should be back soon.

Looking across the floor, he spied the spell-caster, Mako, an old woman who had become slightly addled with her advanced age. It was she, who had trod the halls of Onde Bolig nearly a century ago. She had been instrumental in turning the tide during the last great battle. In her youth, she was the most powerful in their order, but that was long ago.

With age, warrior's arms grow weak. They become slower and have to use their experience and wits to compensate for their lack of strength. In the case of wizards, youth is the enemy. Much of a young mages life is spent trying to acquire the power that he or she will wield when they become more mature.

Den was rare. When Finnious first found him, he knew this child was destined to use powers unseen for ages. The old mage cursed himself for keeping the boy sheltered in the tiny hamlet of Springdale. He had taught him great magic, while sacrificing life experiences. That was the root of Den's problems. Having little experience caused him to lack confidence.

Mako would be the first to know if the raiding party had succeeded. She had given each raider a token, a magical device which when broken, would alert the woman that they wished to return. She could then open the gateway and allow them passage back to the safety of the keep.

Another wizard, Wren, stood idly chatting with the aged woman, possibly in an attempt the be certain the doddering Mako was vigilant to her charges. If the raider's signal went unnoticed, the party would be left to die in that miserable place of evil. In fact, the very name, Onde Bolig, translated into Evil Dwelling.

Unable to contain his anxiety, Finnious approached the two spell-casters.

"Any word from the raiding party yet?" he asked.

"What?" Mako replied with a quizzical expression. A moment later, she remembered. "Oh yes, the party. No. None have yet to use their token."

"I see," Finnious mumbled, clearly disturbed by the condition of his fellow wizard. Their plans rested on her feeble mind. Finnious had been against this plan, but Mako was the only wizard who had ever visited the halls of Onde Bolig and, obviously the only one they trusted.

Warferin would know the passages of Onde Bolig, but Kane must have doubted the dark wizard's loyalties. Kane was right to do so. The only thing they could do, at this point, was wait.

Chapter 3

Something Unexpected

The air was humid and chilly. Drops of condensation softly plopped into shallow puddles on the ground as the five companions moved cautiously ahead.

Idera took the lead position, followed at a distance by the twins, Gizur, then Baltar. The huge barbarian was guarding their rear. While two of the raiders moved silently across the debris-strewn floor, the dwarves and the wizard crunched their way through the passage.

"I thought we were gating in near the audience chamber, where we would find Maliki," Pip whispered to his brother.

"You never pay attention," the twin softly chided. "This IS near the audience chamber. I think this is where Maliki sends those who displease him."

"That's handy," the other remarked. Under the withering glare of the mage, the twins fell silent once again.

The group passed a few empty cells. Their mangled doors give evidence that when the trolls got hungry, they had raided any helpless prisoner held captive. Inside one cell were the broken remnants of a skeleton scattered amidst a dark red stain, the remains of a fresh victim preyed upon by the always-hungry creatures.

A loud, metallic clank, followed by a squeal, sounded in the distance. After a moment, the noise repeated in reverse order.

Her footsteps a mere whisper, Idera hurried back to the wizard's side, bringing the company's progress to a halt. "Someone comes."

"How many?"

Pausing, she allowed her keen, elven hearing to glean the answer. "Three. One of them is weeping and being dragged along."

With a signal from Gizur, Baltar stepped back into the shadows of a nearby cell, while the others slipped back down the passage and out of sight. The mage dispelled his magical globe of light, and the raiders waited in the pitch dark of the hallway.

The flickering light of a torch danced against the moisture-covered walls as the three unwitting beings rounded a bend and came closer. Strange, guttural voices broke the silence as they drew near. They seemed more animal than humanoid.

"Which cell should we use?" one asked in a feral growl.

"Does it matter?" another slurred. "The master's done with this filthy elf. Besides, half of these cells don't have no doors. We might as well save time and just give her to the trolls."

As the enemy passed the cell where the barbarian was hidden, Gizur began a soft chant. Gesturing toward the oncoming foes, their voices were silenced by his spell. The stunned guards turned toward each other in shock while the barbarian cleaved the head from the nearest enemy. Before he could swing again, two arrows struck the other in the throat. Within a heartbeat, the two kobolds were lying dead on the stone floor.

As their prisoner realized what was happening in the confusion, she screamed. When no sound came, eyes wide, she dropped to the floor in a fetal position and covered her head with her manacled wrists.

As the blood-covered barbarian stepped forward, he was illuminated by the fallen torch. At the sight of Baltar, the cowering she-elf started to scream again, but the Sphere of Silence remained in place.

Within seconds, Idera was at her side. She dropped her bow and clasped the woman's cheeks in both of her hands, gently forcing her to look at her face. As the prisoner saw the almond eyes and pointy ears of a kinswoman, she threw herself into her rescuer's arms and began to silently weep.

At a gesture from the elven ranger, Gizur dispelled the Sphere of Silence. The prisoner's sniffles were the only sound to be heard.

"Stay quiet. You're safe now," Idera soothed. "We will take you far away from here."

The elven woman was dressed in dirty rags, which at one time were most likely a blue dress. She'd obviously been through much and seen horrors unimaginable to most common folk. Since the kobolds were speaking the common tongue, she also knew she was going to die horribly at the hands of the trolls.

"What is your name?" Idera asked.

Reluctantly, the woman murmured, "Adella."

"That's a pretty name. I'm Idera, and these are my friends."

"We must leave here," Adella said in haste. "They are so evil. Hurry, we must be off."

"Shhh..." the ranger breathed. "We have something we must to do first."

"I can't go back there," Adella protested in a panicked tone.

Idera softly hushed her once again. "You won't have to. How far ahead is the audience chamber?"

"There are guards."

"How far?" Idera asked again.

"At the end of the row of cells, there is a barred gate," the woman began. "A little past the gate is a short flight of stairs. A large orc stands on either side, guarding the opening to the audience chamber."

"Are those the only guards?"

"Yes," she whispered.

"How many are within the chamber?" Gizur inquired.

Adella took a moment to think. "There is an evil knight, six or more Dokkalfar, a wizard, and their leader."

"Maliki," Pip growled.

"That's what they called him," the woman agreed. "But the wizard?"

"What about him?" Idera asked.

"I think he's also a prisoner. They have a set of chains on him. He seems so sad."

"Go into that cell and hide," Gizur commanded, indicating the one Baltar had previously occupied, "and wait for us to return."

"I can't!" she stated, fear magnifying her voice dangerously loud.

Gizur mumbled some arcane words and gestured once more. "You will quietly hide in the cell and await our return."

The elven woman's eyes glazed over and she woodenly followed his instructions.

"How'd you do that?" Gailin asked, somewhat astonished.

"I compelled her to follow my wishes," the mage said, offhandedly.

"Could you teach me to do that?" the dwarf continued. "That way, I could compel Pip to be tidier."

Irritated by the inane prattle, the wizard set the raiders to search for the key to the gate they would need to go through. After a few moments, they abandoned hope, deciding that the key was lost, probably dropped somewhere and hidden by the debris strewn about the floor.

"What will we do now?" Baltar asked.

"Maybe we can hope that the gate was left open." Idera wondered.

Pip chimed in, "Or maybe I can open it."

"Our uncle was a metal smith," Gailin explained. "He fashioned locks and other useful devices."

"Our father didn't like the two of us training as warriors, so he made us apprentice him," Pip continued. "When someone lost their keys, we had to know how to open the locks with small tools."

"Do you have the tools you require?" the mage asked.

The pair each produced a small packet from their belts.

"Excellent!", he wizard exclaimed. "Let's get this over with. This place smells terrible."

Gizur picked up the fallen torch and handed it to Baltar. "We want them to think we are just the guards returning from our duty."

Resuming their marching order, the five made for the gate. As they passed more cells, the debris on the floor lessened. The constant crunching under their boots was replaced by the soft squeaking of their gear.

The gate resembled the cell doors, but was more stoutly built. The iron bars were corroded; rust even stained the ground beneath the barrier.

As the twins approached the gate door, the mage gestured for them to wait. Gizur spoke an odd word over the hinges and the lock before allowing the dwarves to continue.

After unpacking his tiny instruments, Gailin set to work on the lock. Within moments, he stepped back and replaced the tools in his belt. He nodded to Gizur, who pushed the door open soundlessly on the hinges he had enchanted a few moments earlier.

With a word, the wizard extinguished the torch and the barbarian set it gently on the stone floor. The company continued, forward but as they neared the stairs, they halted.

On either side of the doorframe, they could see the large, brawny shoulders of the orc guards. Clad in what they could only guess was heavy armor, these creatures were probably the best fighters of their race. They would be some of Maliki's personal guard.

As Baltar gathered himself to rush them, the mage stayed him with a hand on his arm. Gizur once again cast a spell, and the orcs immediately began fighting.

The one on the left side of the door slashed his wicked sword at the other, whose armor absorbed the blow. He then jumped on his fellow sentinel, and the two rolled off to the side, grappling one another.

From the noise in the room, this must be typical and quite acceptable behavior. Sounds of the other occupants in the room cheering the opponents on were mingled with smashing noises as the two guards broke things in their murderous rage.

"Now," Gizur commanded, and the raiders rushed up the stairs and into the room.

The audience chamber was large and adorned with a floor of rare black marble. Veins of white stood out in stark contrast, looking like lightning all over the floor. Torches dimly illuminated the interior and the chaotic scene within.

The enemy was stunned by the attack, so Baltar took advantage of the opportunity and lept into action. He hacked his sword downward, nearly cleaving a dark elf in two. Another of the wretched Dokkalfar took an arrow in his left shoulder before he could pull his blade. The twins flew into action, axe and hammer spinning, but the speedy blades of the dark elves matched their attacks and turned each of their blows aside.

At first, stunned by the sudden assault, the warriors in the audience chamber were driven back. As they were the best of their kind, the Dokkalfar recovered from their shock quickly and matched their attackers.

Gizur scanned the scene, looking for their wizard. When he located the spell-caster, he cried in despair, "ZAKETH?!"

The figure he was looking at was an old friend and the head of his order. Zakath, the venerable mage, sat in a stupor, his head bowed in defeat. As he slowly looked up, his eyes reflected the anguish he felt. Long, white hair trailed across his face and over his shoulders, framing a snowy beard that matched its length. He slowly stood, his crimson robes trailing to the floor. It was then that Gizur noticed the manacles, which glowed blood red.

"My friend. What are you doing here?" Gizur implored.

Suddenly, two dark knights were at the bound spell-casters side. The one on the right, Gizur didn't know, but the other was Maliki. Both wore jet black armor and had swords in hand.

Still taken aback, Gizur could only watch as Maliki boldly stepped forward and said offhandedly, "Kill him. Kill them all."

Gizur prepared a defensive spell while he watched in horror as a red glow emitted from his friend's eyes. Zaketh raised his hands, and a vortex of force hammered at Gizur's shield.

While the raider's mage fended off this blow, Idera loosed an arrow at Zaketh. With a gesture of his hand, the bolt flew harmlessly to one side. As the ranger readied another arrow, the enemy's mage wiggled his fingers in her direction, magically snapping her bowstring.

More dark elves poured into the room as the raiders fought to keep their ground. Idera tossed her now-useless bow aside and drew her sword.

The two dark knights' only movement was to step slightly behind their bound mage as he traded blows with the other. Gizur was a powerful magic-user, but he was nowhere near as strong as his opponent. Moving to one side, he tried to direct his attacks at Maliki, but his former friend, Zaketh, blocked every attempt.

Baltar was in a full berserker rage. His two-handed sword took down foes in great numbers, but for every one he killed, three more joined the fray.

The twins, as the struggle raged on, had become separated. Fighting desperately to find his brother, Pip redoubled his efforts, battling with a ferocity he'd never known. With his hammer, bashing through the dark elves' lighter weapons, he nearly tunneled through the opposing forces in his search. For a moment, he caught a quick glimpse of Gailin. He was fighting three Dokkalfar at he same time. It was then that he watched his sibling take a sword thrust directly into his back.

The killer looked very young and wore highly crafted armor befitting a noble. As the dark elf pulled his blade free from where he had cowardly backstabbed Pip's twin, their eyes met. The image of this jet-skinned youth's face was seared into the dwarf's memory. It was one he would never forget.

Bellowing in rage, Pip began pushing through the throng. Foul enemies met him and stalled his progress. Suddenly, a slim hand firmly pulled him back.

"Gailin!" the bearded warrior cried out.

"He's gone!" Idera yelled in his ear. "You can't aid him now. We have to fall back and help Gizur. There are too many Dokkalfar!"

Baltar's two-handed sword cleared large swaths of space, but the mighty warrior's swings couldn't protect his rear. Many dark hands pulled him down as swords plunged repeatedly into his body. Bleeding from the many wounds, he rushed at the dark knight, Maliki. The lord of the evil forces stepped back, cowering in fear as the huge barbarian shot forward, bowling over all those in his path.

In mid-battle with the other wizard, Zaketh cast a spell paralyzing the massive brute. Baltar's forward momentum dropped him to the floor at Maliki's feet. The dark elves fell upon the frozen warrior, but their ruler commanded them back. With a grand flourish, he severed the head of the valiant barbarian and held it up for his warriors to see.

Pip and Idera regained Gizur's side in the doorway and fought to keep the evil warriors away from their friend. But the raider's wizard was too exhausted and battered to do anything more than fend off Zaketh's spells.

"Leave me!" he gasped between heavy breaths. "Save yourselves!"

But, his two companions wouldn't forsake his side. Against impossible odds, they turned their opponent's attacks, killing a few but not nearly enough.

The open door at their backs kept their enemies from surrounding them as the two struggled to keep their mage alive. Suddenly, Gizur was magically lifted off the ground, only to be bashed to the stone floor like a rag doll. Zaketh had grabbed him with telekinesis and threw him all about with no heed for any dark elves in the way.

Warriors were swept off their feet by the helpless spell-caster. Even Idera was bowled over, yet Pip's size made him a small target. He dodged his helpless friend until the mage crashed to the ground before him, lifeless.

As the dazed ranger tried to regain her feet, Pip watched as a sword was driven through her waist. He gasped in shock as he quickly assessed his situation. They were all gone. His twin, Gailin, as well as the others, was dead. Seeing the overwhelming numbers before him, he knew the mission had failed. With no hope, he turned and ran through the door and down the stairs.

The dark elves that were thrown from their feet during the telekinetic attack untangled themselves and bound off in pursuit, but the dwarf had a small lead.

Taking the steps in twos and threes, he shot down the short hallway with his enemies hot on his heels.

In a move brought to mind in desperation, Pip crossed through the door of the gate and threw it shut in his wake. He didn't know why he did it. He just acted on impulse. Racing past the cells, he stopped at the one in which Adella was hiding. Grabbing his hammer in both hands, he readied himself to make his final stand protecting her.

As he whirled about, he saw that the hallway was empty. His foes' voices raged in the distance, behind the iron bars of the gate he had absentmindedly closed. The door had inadvertently locked on its own accord.

Thinking fast, Pip fished out his magical token and broke it, signaling Mako to open the gateway.

"Where are the others?" Adella asked, her voice betraying her fear.

When he didn't answer, she asked, "Are we going to die?"

He took her tiny hand in his own and answered, "I sincerely hope not!"

Tense moments passed, then he heard the locked door bang open. An angry cheer erupted as the Dokkalfar resumed their pursuit.

Just as Pip had nearly given in to despair, a shimmering blue portal sliced into existence before him. It happened even as the evil warriors came into view. Without hesitating, Pip ran through it, pulling the helpless elven maiden with him.

This is the end of the free sample.

Ok, if you like this taste of Horde please consider purchasing a copy today.

About the Author

Doug Ward currently lives in Western Pennsylvania. He is a graduate of Slippery Rock University, where he obtained a BFA in Fine Art. Doug spends much of his time doing oil paintings which incorporate mythology and science.

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