The elderly priest’s blind eyes observed calmly, the light of the crystal before him illuminating the intensity of his sightless gaze. Before his calm scrutiny unfolded the narrow escape of the nexus from Nektulos Forest. Without comment or any indication of emotion, the priest observed events to their conclusion as the two females rushed off into the safety of the ravine, and out of the purview of his magical sight.

“Disappointed?” the voice from the darkness asked.

Kella N’Threk raised his eyes to look sightlessly toward the dark figure.

“Yes,” his quivering voice replied. “And no.”

Returning his placid gaze to the images of the crystal—the only images his eyes could see—the priest watched the uneventful landscape of the ravine mouth shown in its depths.

“The escape was crucial,” the old man added. “But I am also troubled at their near failure. Even more, I am troubled at their unseen savior.”

“It was fortunate,” the voice said furtively. “The arrow spared her life, and therefore the Pact.”

“No.” Kella N’Threk stepped down from the pedestal that berthed the crystal ball, shuffling his way about ponderously. “The arrow spared the life of that fool guardsman. Nothing more. Though I surmise its intent was to save the shadow knight.”

Casting a look of suspicion toward the shadows, the priest addressed the voice directly.

“Are you certain your hand has not delved into this matter?”

“I assure you, I have made no interventions,” the voice intoned softly.

Grunting his disbelief, the priest returned to his pacing.

“Your words ring untrue,” he said. “Be it in fact or in spirit, I cannot say.”

The disembodied voice cryptically offered no comment on the matter.

“Though time may be plentiful for the advocates of the Pact, I am afraid my own time dwindles, my friend. Even now I feel the creeping darkness challenging me, threatening to overtake my mind. Every day that passes, it becomes increasingly difficult to retain my faculties.”

Still the voice offered no comment.

“Which, no doubt, brings you no end of pleasure, I’ll wager,” the old priest said, raising an eyebrow to the shadows.

“I merely wonder how credible your words may be even now,” the voice muttered.

“I told you the nexus would come to me, did I not?” N’Threk’s voice grew disturbed.

“You did,” the voice conceded.

“And where was the first place they went in their travels?” Hmm?” The priest placed a frail hand to his own chest.

The voice remained silent, seeing no reason to participate in the old priest’s grandstanding.

Kella N’Threk chuckled to himself smugly.

“You foolishly believe my usefulness to the Pact is already at an end. Since I am obviously myself at present, I must question if your motives are pure.”

“You play a dangerous game, priest,” the voice spoke gravely.

“Do I, now?”

“You spoke to them of the Chalice. I heard you with my own ears.”

“Bah,” the priest waved a dismissing hand. “Their knowledge of the Chalice is not to worry. They were bound to discover its existence once they unravel Zeranon’s identity in any event.”

“You know as well as I do that if the forces of Tunare discover its location, it will tip the scales, making the task you assigned us that much more difficult. Your granting the wood elf this knowledge brings her goddess one step closer, threatening the lives of thousands.”

The priest silently turned a dangerous eye toward the voice.

“You handle the assembly of Innoruuk’s army,” he said darkly. “Leave me to handle the Pact.”

“Admit it, priest. You felt the creeping darkness overtake you in your conversation with the druid. It was plain you were afraid of losing control and revealing the whereabouts of the Chalice or some other vital piece of information. There was no other purpose for your outburst, priest. Confess!”

”Silence!” Kella N’Threk raised his hands commandingly. “I am still under the auspices of Tal’Shyen. I am still the custodian of the Pact on behalf of the Teir’Dal, and will not explain my actions to the likes of you!”

“Your irresponsible actions have resulted in the expulsion of a true and devout follower of Innoruuk. You question my motivations? I question yours in return. Was your mandate of exile to serve the Pact, or merely to keep her from my influences?”

“The moon and sun rule night and day, and so serve each other. As does intent and judgment,” the priest spoke, his manner becoming fragmented.

“Speak plainly, or the Tal’Shyen will be nullified!” the voice bellowed.

Crying out loud, the priest brought his trembling hands up to clutch at his cloudy eyes.

“Despair! Despair!” Kella N’Threk chanted pathetically. “Sundered light and shadow! The tears of the slayer upon the brow of the slain shall herald the unsealing of the Cup of Ages!”

“Do not spout rhetoric to me, priest. I know well the prophecy.”

“Should you fail in your task, the slain shall be the Teir’Dal race, but I assure you no tears will be shed by the slayer! Leave me to fulfill your task. Leave me to guide the Pact, lest the whispered convergence of power be turned against us!”

The voice turned again silent, leaving the priest to weather his pitiable bout of delirium. As always, the priest’s muddled ramblings eventually began to wane, his manner turning calm once again as he gasped for air.

Lifting his head, N’Threk stared blindly forward in shame for his uncontrolled eruption, allowing the voice to continue sternly.

“You are being watched very closely by your peers, priest of Innoruuk.” The words echoed about the room. “Soon you will find yourself bereft of your authority in this matter and another will replace you.”

Swallowing the bile in his throat, the priest nodded.

“I know, my friend,” he said sadly. “And when the time comes, I will gladly relinquish it to you.”

“To me?” the voice asked, confused.

“Oh yes,” the priest grinned evilly. “Because when that time arrives, the foundation of my task will have already been laid, and its destiny assured. The only thing left for you to do will be what you are already doing.”

The voice remained copiously silent.

“So, worry not about the nexus,” the priest said, his grin widening at the lack of noise. “Rest assured, they will serve the Pact for the good of the Teir’Dal, and they will do so in my way—not yours.”

Laera saw it again, flitting among the trees. Turning about quickly to confront whatever it was that was following them, the druid instantly lost sight of it.

“Will you stop that?” her companion said testily.

“Something’s following us, I know it,” the druid replied, still searching the trees.

“You’ve been saying that since we left Freeport.”

Laera shot a nasty look at the shadow knight.

“I suppose that means something’s been tailing us since Freeport, then, doesn’t it?”

“Sarcasm just doesn’t suit wood elves,” Dreketh said to herself with a sigh.

Scratching underneath the leather tunic she wore, Laera cast yet another perfunctory glance at her surroundings. Falling into step with the cynical dark elf, she held out the hope of catching sight of whatever it was that kept drawing her attention.

The two companions walked in the relative safety of Kithicor Woods. Yet again, the wood elf found herself in surroundings that reminded her of home. Though clearly daytime, the dense branches of the towering trees high above cut off the sun’s rays, effectively casting the forest floor into perpetual night. Only a few rogue sunbeams managed to successfully run the blockade of leaves to shine their light on the traveling young women as they made their way down the trail.

Laera noted, too, that the air of Kithicor held an unusual stuffiness. She felt as though she always needed more air as she walked among the trees, causing her to breathe deeply and sigh on occasion, which had the effect of completely annoying her dark elf companion.

This stuffiness lent itself to the feeling of an eerie presence about the wood that made it seem alive. The druid couldn’t shake the feeling that the forest surrounding them was somehow aware of their presence. Though intimidating, the feeling wasn’t sinister.

It simply was.

Having this elusive shadow following them didn’t help such matters, either. Since sneaking their way into the West Commonlands, Laera’s keen senses and druid training alerted her to the presence of something pursuing them. It was always some movement seen out the corner of her eye that vanished without a sound whenever the wood elf tried to focus on it. Not a single disturbed leaf betrayed the creature’s swift retreat. Such stealth was the hallmark of an expert, meaning it was likely taunting her senses, deliberately coming out only to reconfirm its presence to her.

Any reason why it would do such a thing was beyond Laera. So far, it hadn’t made any threatening moves. That was fine, as far as the druid was concerned, so long as it stayed that way.

Soon they would be entering the rocky terrain of Highpass, where Laera fancied the really interesting part of their journey was about to begin. The dark elf remained adamant earlier that morning, insisting that the druid keep her tainted magic to herself. That being the case, she had no idea how Dreketh intended to cross through the mountain pass. As with most civilized places in Norrath, the Teir’Dal—particularly those who worshipped the Prince of Hate—were a reviled race, rejected and persecuted by nearly all nations, save for the ogres and trolls of the south lands.

She presumed the residents of Highpass were no exception to that rule. Given time, perhaps Dreketh could engender the trust of the locals, but the time it would take to do so made the wood elf grimace. The sooner they were finished with the Pact, the better, as far as she was concerned.

For a while there, the dark elf seemed as though she was interested in making nice. Laera couldn’t fathom why. Her own people treated Dreketh cruelly in her banishment from their foul city—banishment the wood elf freely admitted culpability for. The druid’s optimistic side entertained the idea that perhaps the sudden loss of her people made the shadow knight realize that Laera and the Pact was all she had left to depend on.

The druid’s pessimistic side told her not to be so sure.

Whatever the case, come sunrise, the dark elf returned to her normally abrasive nature. Laera fancied herself a tolerant person, able to get along with just about anyone. But she asked herself how she was supposed to build any bridges when this worshipper of Innoruuk burned them down before the first nail had been driven. It was infuriating.

The shadow flitted by, crossing the road in a blink no less than forty yards in front of them.

“There!” Laera pointed urgently. “You had to have seen that.”

The dark elf stopped cold in her tracks, her face carefully expressionless.

“Okay, so I saw it,” she said in a monotone. “What do you want me to do about it?”

Taking on her usual galled expression, Laera raised her hands helplessly.

“Nothing,” she said, miffed. “Nothing at all. Your exalted acknowledgement is more than enough for me.”

Rolling her eyes irritably, Dreketh pressed onward, leaving the druid to sulk two paces behind her. What was she supposed to do, rush out and attack it? Hit it over the head and tell it to leave them alone? Whatever it was, it would likely show itself in its own time. Why kill yourself stressing over it until it actually becomes a danger you can actually cope with?

Dreketh supposed the wood elf meant well, but she was so high-strung. Always questioning. Always whining about the slightest inconvenience. Always trying to second-guess everything. It was enough to drive a person to a keg of troll spirits.

Teir’Dal relationships were founded in mutual respect, and Dreketh found it difficult to respect someone who so constantly grated on her nerves. Every time she extended the slightest compliment or opened up even a little, the druid’s suspicions immediately flashed across her face as though shocked a dark elf could possibly comprehend such things, much less exercise them. Adding injury to insult, the wood elf deliberately got all sappy to cover up for it. The entire pretentious scene made Dreketh physically ill.

Instead, the shadow knight resolved simply to go through with the Pact with reserved equanimity. She knew it irritated the wood elf to no end. Dreketh even took a small amount of grim satisfaction in knowing this. But what else could she do? Better that than have to deal with the druid’s holier-than-thou attitude every time she opened her mouth.

Still, never before had she felt so alone in the world. Haunting memories of what happened in Nektulos intruded on her dreams as she slept that previous night.

Hundreds of hateful blue faces had swarmed before her vision, the taunts of “elf lover” deafening her ears over and over. Each of the faces carried with it a separate, distinctly cruel fate. She had to pick which among them she most deserved for her blasphemy as an elf lover. Running frantically through the confusing masses of her brothers and sisters of the blood, she came across a simple wooden door. She recognized it as an exit that would deliver her from the agony of having to choose her fate among her own race. Frantically pulling open the door to make her escape, she was stopped short by Laera standing within, her arms extended in warm welcome.

Elf lover! Elf lover! Elf lover! She cared nothing for this person she was compelled to travel with and forced to protect! How could she love this slovenly, forest-dwelling creature who could never be anything but a burden? The very notion was absurd! The voices simply didn’t understand her or what was happening. They didn’t understand that she was not a willing participant in the Pact. If only they had listened to her, she could have made them see the truth!

She remembered participating in past exiles, her own lips having spat the very same phrase at some tormented individual about to be banished or executed. She remembered the exultation she felt at being party to the extermination of such traitorous souls who would dare sympathize with such a hated enemy.

But that had been different. Those people really were elf lovers.

Or were they? She also remembered their earnest pleas for mercy that went unheeded by the surrounding crowd—even herself. She was forced to ask herself, were they truly elf lovers? How would she know if they weren’t? Had she stopped to listen to their explanations? To this day, did her own voice ring constantly through someone’s head, tormenting him or her with the same words she so fiercely despised now?

The shadow knight didn’t like where this line of thinking was taking her. Shaking her head to clear it, she repeated to herself that it didn’t matter what her people thought. She was a loyal follower of Innoruuk, and she was on a mission serving His will. Nothing could stay her from that course—not even banishment from her home.

Glancing up, Dreketh noted their arrival at yet another fork in the road. Kithicor seemed stocked to the hilt with these things, offering no hint of which way to go.

She was glad to see, however, that this particular fork sported a granite pylon road marker that at least pointed the way to one place or another. Approaching the pylon, the cynical shadow knight grumbled under her breath about how, with her luck, it most likely announced the way back to Freeport.

Her fears were put to rest, however, as she saw the words “Highpass Hold” etched with bold letters in the stone. Below the title was engraved an arrow proudly pointing down the right-hand fork.

“At least we know we’re on the right path this time,” Dreketh said, calmly pleased as she reached out to trace the carved lettering with her hand.

“Good,” the wood elf replied. “I hate feeling my way around in the dark.”

The dark elf turned to give her companion a stern, quizzical look—not sure if she should be insulted or not.

Laera merely shrugged.

“It’s just an expression. It means I hate being lost.”

“Oh,” Dreketh replied, casting a glance over her shoulder down the fork that was to be their path. “Have you seen our shy friend in the last while?”

“Come to think of it, no,” Laera looked over her own shoulder. “Do you think it went away?”

“About as much as I think troll pants smell like roses,” the dark elf replied wryly. She continued inspecting her dark surroundings.

“Well, if it’s still here, what put it into hiding?”

“That’s what worries me. Is it just me, or have the mists grown thicker in this part of the wood?”

The wood elf ran her fingers through the damp tendrils of her auburn hair, looking up into the trees.

“I don’t know, it could be. This place is so muggy, it’s hard to say.”

The shadow knight made a deep growling sound in her throat, reminding Laera of a wolf sensing that it’s being stalked. Reaching over her shoulder, Dreketh drew her father’s sword with her right hand.

“How’s your arm?” she asked, still investigating the forest.

The wood elf flexed her shoulder experimentally.

“It’s all right. I healed it earlier this morning.”

“Good, be ready.” Dreketh raised her left palm, fingers together, thumb extended. At the whispering of arcane words, a glowing sphere appeared floating above her hand, flooding the area with a sharp, cold light.

Laera’s breath caught in her throat at witnessing the necromantic spell.

“I thought you said you were forbidden to use your magic so soon,” she whispered.

“I was,” Dreketh said, squinting her eyes as she continued her search. “My new guild forbade it. Now that I’m an outcast, though, you’ll forgive me if somehow I don’t give a damn anymore.”

Turning sharply around, the shadow knight gasped, her eyes wide as they peered into the mist. Laera tried to follow the path of her companion’s gaze, but saw only trees and mist. Not a forest creature stirred.

Undaunted, Dreketh turned slowly this way and that, the light in her palm pulsing with energy. Again she jerked around suddenly, looking intently into the forest.

And yet again.

“By the gods,” she whispered.

“What! What is it?” The dark elf’s growing alarm unnerved Laera.

“This place is suddenly crawling with undead,” Dreketh whispered slowly, her words awe-filled. “I’m detecting undead movement in every direction…”

Laera felt her heart seize.

“Wh-what kind of undead?”

“The kind that get up and wander around even though they’ve been buried for centuries!” Dreketh hissed irritably. “Undead undead!”

“I mean, are they dangerous?” the wood elf pleaded, hugging herself as though winter just set in.

“I don’t know, all right?” the shadow knight snapped. Closing her hand, she snuffed out the light of her spell.

“But you’re a necromancer. You can control them, right? They’re not a threat to you!”

Dreketh cast her companion a contemptible sneer.

“Who told you that?”

“I thought that’s what you do!”

“You’re a druid,” Dreketh spoke quickly as she thrust her sword into the ground at her feet. Squirming, she worked her backpack from off her shoulders. “You deal in nature’s living things, right?”

“Well, yes,” the wood elf said timidly, glancing about.

“So, is every living thing your friend?” The dark elf rummaged through her pack, pulling forth a small bag.

“No, of course not.”

“Then why must every dead thing be mine?” Dreketh replaced her backpack, urgently jerking at the straps to rest comfortably on her shoulders once again.

Laera closed her mouth sheepishly. She had mistakenly thought Dreketh was going to ask her about any abilities she possessed that could help defend them against undead.

Loosening the drawstrings of the small bag, the shadow knight began to mutter more arcane words. Though Laera didn’t understand their meaning, the discordant sounds emanating from Dreketh sounded uncouth and foul to the wood elf. Just as Laera was tempted to cover her ears, her companion tossed the contents of the small bag to the forest floor nearby.

Upon closer examination, the druid jumped back as she saw it was a pile of bone chips resting on the grass.

Working her hands over the bones, Dreketh’s words continued slithering their way through the air. One by one, the ivory chips jostled together, forming complete bones. In turn, the bones came together to form limbs and joints. By the time the dark spell concluded, before the shocked wood elf stood a fully complete skeleton leering at her with glowing eye sockets.

Gasping, the druid pulled away, her eyes glued to the abhorrent creation. Dreketh’s hand stopped her with a touch.

“Relax,” she said, expecting this reaction. “This one is under my control.”

The startled wood elf looked to Dreketh’s face and back again.

“Really,” the shadow knight reaffirmed. “I thought I’d enlist his help, in case things turn ugly out here.” Pulling a dagger from her belt, she tossed it toward her pet, who deftly caught the weapon in the bony clutches of its hand. At receiving its new weapon, the skeleton let out a small cackle.

Laera’s jaw dropped to her chest, her expression one of shock and dismay.

“I don’t believe this,” she breathed. “You killed this person to enslave him?”

The shadow knight shrugged.

“I have no idea who he was or what he died from. I don’t know his name in life or what race he was, though judging by the size I’d have to guess human. I’m not even sure if he was really male.” The dark elf folded her arms with a self-satisfied grin. “But I’ve now interrupted his eternal rest so he can help us. The least you could do is show a little gratitude.”

Swallowing hard, the tenderhearted druid stepped forward to hesitantly reach out to the skeletal creature. She told herself that this was once a living being, deserving of her comfort. She imagined that whoever it was, he probably longed for the caring touch of another person after such a long time. Her fingertips brushing the smooth bone of the skeleton’s forearms, Laera spoke kindly.

“Thank you.”

Dreketh turned sharply from admiring her creation to glare at the wood elf.

“Not him, you idiot! Me!”

Without warning, an undead screech pierced the air across from the two elves, catching them off their guard. Spinning around, the shadow knight cursed a bitter oath at her own negligence. Before her emerged the half-decayed remains of a mummified soldier, its floating limbs dangling with strips of rotting bandages.

Laera let out a scream at seeing the decaying corpse as it stepped from the trees into the crossroads, its arms outstretched toward her in longing for the warmth of living flesh.

“Get moving down the road!” Dreketh shouted as she grabbed hold of the wood elf’s armor. “Pet, hold it off for us!”

Leaping immediately into action at its master’s command, the shadow knight’s skeletal slave dashed toward the looming threat, dagger poised at the ready. The mummy brought the skeleton’s existence to an abrupt end with a single backhanded swing, its fist passing through ribs as though they were so many twigs. Breaking into strewn piles of useless debris, the skeleton flew apart before their eyes.

Laera watched the brief conflict with a panicked fascination, her eyes jarringly pinned to the shards of bone lying on the ground.

“Run, or that’ll be us!” Dreketh’s voice broke as she yelled.

Turning to race headlong down the road, the wood elf was stopped short by the malevolent growl of a wolf stalking toward her slowly. Its black muzzle arched in a vicious snarl, saliva dripping gruesomely from its bare teeth as it advanced.

Once again, a scream escaped Laera’s throat. Twisting about to see what the trouble was, Dreketh halted her retreat at the sight of the dread wolf blocking their path. As though it made any difference, she let go of the wood elf’s armor and gripped her father’s sword with both hands.

One by one, more undead emerged from the shrouding trees of Kithicor Wood, quickly surrounding the two. Holding forth her sword, Dreketh made as though to defend the two of them from the growing number of mummies and skeletons, dread wolves and zombies. Turning left and right, the shadow knight poked her sword threateningly, brandishing it to keep the horrid creatures at bay.

Laera shrank away in fear, her mind screaming at her to do something to help defend them. She lamented that if perhaps she were a paladin instead of a druid, she would have the courage to stand up to these evil creatures of the dead. Instead, the image of Dreketh’s pet being scattered like leaves in autumn kept clouding her sense of reason.

“These are the advocates of Zeranon’s Pact?” An evil voice halted the advance of the undead hosts surrounding them. “How utterly depressing. I had expected to lose at least half my legions to the shadow knight alone.”

Panting heavily as though having struggled for hours, Dreketh looked above the hordes she faced to see a floating figure descend into their midst. Shrouded entirely in black with night blue trim, the man gradually worked his way down to look directly at the dark elf from within the cowl of his hood, his arms folded before him.

“I expected more from a fellow practitioner of the dead involved in something so profound,” the cloaked face practically spat the words.

“Who are you?” Dreketh asked darkly.

Sharp, intelligent eyes peered back at the dark elf.

“I am the one who is about to bring an end to the Pact, for the good of all Norrath. I am your executioner.” He began to chuckle maliciously as he spoke. “Remarkable, isn’t it? Everyone is now indebted to Bertoxxulous as the savior of all the world. An irony, wouldn’t you say, Dreketh?”

The shadow knight’s hardened expression turned uneasy at hearing her own name, the sword lowering its guard a fraction of an inch.

“Yes, I know all about you, Teir’Dal,” the robed man’s charming voice continued. “Even more than I know of Miss Nellynwae, here. You see, the nature of a fellow practitioner of the dead makes it far easier to eavesdrop.”

“I asked who you are.” Dreketh was determined not to allow this person to see her fright. He was obviously way out of her league, but as Nezzka Tolax often taught, there was no point in dying with a whimper on your lips.

“Ach! Where are my manners?” The robed man’s head bowed to remove his hood, revealing the striking features of a human. Making a sweeping bow, he spoke. “Kieran Shadowseek’s the name. Prime Necromancer of Bertoxxulous, but I’m sure that much you could figure out on your own.”

At last finding the power of speech, Laera spoke up.

“What does the plaguebringer want with the Pact?”

“Why, my dear,” Kieran craned his neck to address the cowering wood elf. “Did Tunare believe that such an earth-shattering prophecy would go unheeded by Her fellow gods?”

Having practically no knowledge of what the necromancer was talking about, Laera remained unsure how to respond. Instead, the druid closed her mouth and glanced fearfully at the undead hosts surrounding her.

Kieran’s eyes shifted back to the dark elf.

“Innoruuk, too?” he asked, a smile slowly creeping across his lips as he reasoned through the two females’ reactions.

The gleaming of Dreketh’s blade matched her hateful glare, both remaining motionless.

“You truly didn’t expect to encounter any intervention, did you?” the necromancer asked incredulously. His eyes narrowed. “Exactly how much have you been told about the Pact?”

“I know enough,” the dark elf growled.

Kieran’s stunned expression wavered between the two advocates, searching for some unknown bit of information. Slowly, his face turned wide-eyed as he made a private realization.

“Of course!” he said, smacking a palm to his forehead. “Naturally they couldn’t tell you at this stage, otherwise the Pact would be tainted!” The necromancer began to chuckle again. “It’s almost too perfect! To think the only thing that could possibly bring success is the very thing that has brought about their downfall! Well done… very well done!”

The necromancer laughed evilly, his sinister voice swallowed up in the mists. All about, the undead creatures stood silently—a contrast to their hysterical master.

“Leave or kill us now!” Dreketh shouted over the perverse laughter. “I grow tired of your useless banter!”

“Oh, now now, precious.” Kieran’s leering face mocked the Teir’Dal. “I have no intention of sending your little soul into the clutches of the Prince of Hate, as I imagine He won’t be too pleased with your failure to complete your mission.” He turned to address the druid as well. “Like it or not, you are both puppets in the great and terrible struggle of the gods, dangling helplessly from your strings not unlike a child’s toy. Even I refuse to condemn two people so innocent and unknowing in the face of such judgment.”

Ignoring Dreketh’s weapon, his pitying gaze returned to the shadow knight, bringing his face only two feet from hers. “Instead, I decide to take control of the puppet strings myself. Both your souls will have the distinction of serving Bertoxxulous as two of his prized legions. Though I’m certain you are overjoyed at this prospect, you can save your unabashed thanks for later. I’m certain we can find a way for you to express your undying gratitude to me once you’re subject to my every whim.”

Her features twisting in rage, Dreketh brought up a hand to slap the revolting human across the face. Her gauntlet coming within inches of that sickening grin, Kieran’s lissome hand blocked her swing, his fingers wrapped tightly around her bronze wrist.

Grinning inwardly at the necromancer’s unwitting mistake, Dreketh released the Touch of the shadow knights through her arm and into his body. With a maelstrom of blinding red and orange light, the shock wave of her power impacted the air all around. The ground below her feet trembled, the leaves nearby rustling violently in the limbs overhead.

Not anticipating the sudden shockwave, Laera was thrown off her feet to fall ungracefully on her rump. Reaching down to steady herself, her hand brushed the fetid boot of one of the undead soldiers encircling them. Drawing her hand back as though she touched hot magma, the wood elf shrank away from the abhorrent figures, frantically brushing her palm on the ground.

As the twisting play of light cleared, Dreketh saw the necromancer’s face emerge, his eyes closed. Her wrist still fastened securely in his hand, she pulled back to free it. Effortlessly, Kieran retained his grip, slowly opening his cunning eyes to stare at the dark elf.

“Now that,” he grinned, “will come in most useful on so many levels.”

Dreketh angrily yanked her arm free of the necromancer’s grasp.

“You’ve spent your doomsday weapon, shadow knight,” Kieran said grimly. “Now it’s my turn.”

Reaching his hand forward, palm out, the necromancer began voicing his incantation. Lacking any other recourse, Dreketh braced herself to rush in with the desperate intent of distracting him from his spell. It was the slimmest of chances at best, but it might provide a narrow escape if the wood elf was on her toes.

Raising her father’s sword high above her head, Dreketh let out a loud howl. She was about to bring the sword down when the crimson blossom of an arrowhead emerged from the necromancer’s throat, gruesomely bringing his articulate words to a strangled halt. His voice box cleanly pierced, the necromancer silently clutched at his neck, falling on his knees to thrash about before the shadow knight.

Recognizing the signature attack of her mysterious rescuer in Nektulos, Dreketh reacted immediately. Reaching down, she grabbed hold of the stunned wood elf at her feet. She knew the fight to escape the ring of undead was going to be a quick and decisive one, but she couldn’t think of anything else to do.

In the time it took for the wood elf to gain her footing, a ranger appeared inside the undead circle with them. The dark and enigmatic figure crouched behind the prone necromancer, a clump of the man’s hair held firmly in his grasp. With a blur of movement, a dagger appeared in the ranger’s hand, its blade resting against the necromancer’s jugular.

“Call them off,” came the ranger’s muttered words from beneath the brim of his overshadowing hat.

Dreketh was just as taken aback by the ranger’s sudden appearance as the necromancer. Laera stared at the man dazedly, as though she were just coming out of a dream.

The mysterious ranger pressed his dagger against the necromancer’s neck, its tip barely piercing the vein.

“Do it,” his graining voice spoke again.

The necromancer raised his eyes to look directly at Dreketh. Seeing the shadow knight’s stunned expression, he grinned sourly. The dark elf watched, fascinated as a trickle of blood escaped the corner of his mouth. Swiping at it with his bloodstained tongue, the necromancer pursed his lips together in a caustic mockery of blowing her a kiss.

“I’ll be waiting,” he mouthed to her silently.

“No!” Dreketh yelled, jumping forward even though she knew it was already too late.

The necromancer’s eyes rolled back into his head, his body falling limp in the ranger’s grasp. The undead horde surrounding them fell to the ground simultaneously at the man’s sudden demise. Bereft of their master’s power, they no longer had a purpose for their hellish existence.

Swearing a crass oath, the ranger tossed Kieran’s body aside as he might have repelled a piece of rotten fruit from his dinner plate. Lying slack on the ground, the body began to deflate, the skin falling in ghastly folds to drape among the man’s bones. Escaping from every orifice on the emaciated face was a black and oily mist that floated along the ground like the morning haze of the Faydark. Crawling about in an almost sentient manner, the mist dissipated and vanished altogether, leaving the inert shell of the necromancer’s body to lie before them.

“I curse you in Innoruuk’s name, bastard slave of the plague!” Dreketh shouted at the air all about. “You will meet His judgment!”

Receiving no answer but the sound of the breeze among the trees, the shadow knight kicked at the ground in impotent fury.

The ranger stood gracefully, replacing the dagger in the folds of his cloak with a small “snick.”

“Wh-what was that?” Laera asked, visibly shaken.

Dreketh cast the wood elf a disgusted look, her hands on her hips, her mouth a thin line. It was apparent she was unwilling to explain things.

“The shadowing,” the ranger’s dusky voice offered.

Laera turned to face their rescuer, her face a mask of hesitant awe.

“W-What’s that?”

The ranger’s hat tilted down as he looked at the gaunt corpse lying before him.

“He committed suicide,” he said, inspecting the body from his vantage point. “But he isn’t truly dead. A necromancer of the highest order of Bertoxxulous can invoke His intercession and transform into the cognizant undead.”

“A lich,” Dreketh spat the word bitterly.

The ranger’s hat rose.

“A lich,” he agreed solemnly.

“And what do you know about it, ranger?” the shadow knight asked, her voice tinged with accusation. “Just who are you and why are you following us everywhere we go?”

“Dreketh!” Laera’s shocked tone interrupted. “What’s the matter with you? Don’t you think we should at least thank him first?”

“Pipe down, woodie. Nobody does anything without a reason that benefits them in some way.” Dreketh cast the wood elf a dismissive glance as she stalked up to face the monolithic ranger. Standing on her toes, the shadow knight came as close to the ranger’s hidden face as best she could. “What’s your reason, ranger? Who are you, and what do you want?”

“Why does a dark elf choose to collaborate with a wood elf?” The ranger’s hat turned as he calmly addressed the shadow knight. “You even defend her with your life against an indomitable foe. How does that benefit you?”

“That’s our business, and don’t try to change the subject,” Dreketh returned tersely.

“Dreketh, that’s enough!” the druid snapped. Grabbing a hold of the shadow knight’s shoulder, she urged her companion to withdraw. Stepping forward, she addressed the tall ranger. “My apologies, kind sir, and thank you for saving us. We really are most grateful to you.”

The ranger nodded, silently accepting the wood elf’s thanks.

“Yeah, yeah—you have our thanks,” Dreketh barked accusingly from behind Laera. “And don’t expect one iota more. We don’t have any money to spare, and if you think that saving our lives entitles you to anything more than gratitude, think again!”

“Will you stop it!” Laera whirled on her companion angrily. “What’s gotten into you!”

“I just don’t want Mister Nimble Fingers here to get any ideas about settling any scores.” Dreketh raised her head to shout over the wood elf’s shoulder at the ranger. “We didn’t ask him to jump in like that, so we don’t owe him anything! Not… one… thing!”

“You can relax, dark elf,” the ranger held up a gloved hand reassuringly. “I seek nothing from you or your companion.”

“Then why are you still standing here? What are you waiting for?” Dreketh’s rancor grated against the druid’s nerves.

“Shut up, and I mean it!” Laera exploded at the shadow knight. Shocked at the angry sound of her own voice, the wood elf lowered it as she dragged Dreketh several steps away to speak privately. “Just go and do whatever you inkies do to calm down. I’ll handle this, okay?”

The dark elf cast the ranger a threatening glare as she replied under her breath.

“I’m not letting this one out of my sight. You heard what Kieran said—there are bound to be other gods after us. How do we know he didn’t snatch us from the necromancer’s frying pan just to roast us over his own fire?”

“If he wanted to do that, do you think he’d waste time speaking with us?” The wood elf spread an arm wide, appealing to Dreketh’s fleeting sense of reason. “You saw what he just did. He’d take the two of us down like roaches under his boot. Now please, just let me talk to him?”

The scowling shadow knight took a moment to consider before nodding once grimly.

“Okay,” she said, turning to step away. “But I’m not letting him out of my sight.”

“Fine.” Laera waved a settling hand. “Just calm down.”

“I am calm!” the shadow knight shot back in a piercing whisper.

The two young women parted—Laera approaching the ranger once again under Dreketh’s watchful scrutiny as the dark elf idly paced her way along the edge of the crossroad clearing.

“I am so sorry, sir,” the druid spoke, her expression begging forgiveness. “Dreketh is just looking out for our best interests. Really. It’s nothing against you personally, I’m sure.”

The mysterious ranger offered no comment, his face perpetually lost under the shadow of his woodsman’s fedora.

“But…” the wood elf continued uncomfortably. “You do have to admit, she has a point. It isn’t often you find people who would just throw themselves in harm’s way for strangers. At least, not in these parts.”

Still receiving no response, the druid decided to extend her hand.

“By the way, I’m Laera. Laera Nellynwae,” she said cordially.

The ranger’s large hand reached out and gripped the wood elf’s. The worn leather of the man’s glove felt abrasive against her palm as he accepted her gesture. His grasp was strong, but delicate—obviously for her sake.

“It is an honor to meet you, druid of Tunare,” the ranger bowed, his manner unusually cultured for one who’s profession normally separated him from civilization.

“How… how did you know I was…?”

“You’ve mentioned your affiliation with Tunare more than once in your travels,” the ranger answered Laera’s unfinished question. “As well, I have observed your prowess at healing your partner.”

The confused folds of the wood elf’s forehead cleared in sudden understanding.

“You’re the one who fired the arrow! You saved Dreketh’s life in Nektulos, didn’t you?”

The brim of the ranger’s hat lowered. Whether he was nodding to confirm her statement or making some other noncommittal gesture, she couldn’t tell.

“So, you’re the one who’s been shadowing us this whole time,” Laera pressed further, hoping to get some sort of endorsement from the ranger. Not finding any, her face turned quizzical as she unwittingly echoed the words of her companion. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“Who I am is a question I often ask myself at times,” the ranger said ponderously. “The best answer I can give is that I am what I do, and what I do, I do for the sake of love.”

“Love? I don’t understand. Who-?” Laera’s words were interrupted by the ranger’s forestalling hand.

“Time is short, Laera Nellynwae,” the ranger’s somber voice spoke darkly. “Soon the sun will set on Kithicor Wood, and then no amount of good fortune will stay the hands of the undead.” Turning, the ranger began to walk down the road leading back to the Commonlands and Freeport.

“Wait!” the druid called out. “Aren’t you going to-?”

“No.” The ranger’s eyes peered out from under his hat as he spoke over his shoulder, still walking slowly away with a measured step. “I have things to attend to. Follow this road until it takes you into the mountains. You will be safe there… relatively.”

Laera looked around in despair. Seeing Dreketh standing off to one side, she pointed at the shadow knight as she called to the ranger again. “What about my partner? They’ll kill her on sight in Highpass if-”

Raising his hand toward the sulking dark elf in the distance, the ranger didn’t miss a pace in his stride as he whispered a few words under his breath. Within seconds, Dreketh’s image wavered and vanished before the wood elf’s eyes.

“Best hurry,” the ranger said, letting his hand drop to his side again. “Twilight arrives within the hour.”

The wood elf looked around helplessly for her companion. Hearing footsteps approach through the grass, she reached out with both hands to locate the dark elf.

“Hey!” Dreketh’s voice called out unexpectedly at the retreating ranger, startling Laera. “What do you think you’re doing!”

“By all the gods, will you just let it go?” Laera’s nerves were shot. “He just bought your way through the mountain pass, since you won’t accept my help.”

The dark elf fell silent for once. Laera could have only imagined what her expression might be.

“So, did you find out anything?” Dreketh finally asked.

Watching the ranger’s silhouette disappear into the mist, the wood elf spoke uncertainly.

“I… can’t really say.”

“You mean you can’t repeat it, or you just don’t know?”

“I didn’t find out anything, okay?” the wood elf grumbled. Pressing a finger to one temple, her tone softened wistfully. “He didn’t say much outside of the fact that the undead will be returning once the sun goes down.”

“And he’s right,” Dreketh’s voice turned businesslike. “We don’t have a lot of time before we’re surrounded again. And this infernal spell he put on me won’t last forever. So, if we’re going to take advantage of this free ride he’s given us, we’re going to have to move quickly.”

“Right,” Laera commented, distractedly looking off into the mists where the ranger disappeared. Kneeling to examine the footprints he left in the dirt road, she absently wondered what sort of “things” such a man had to attend to.

Chapter 9 - Posterity