Norrath continued on its steady course, hurtling relentlessly toward the future as the majority of its inhabitants remained blind to the dangers threatening them all. To the west, the lands of Antonius Bayle and the scholars of Odus saw the posturing of elven nations as yet another display of how ineffectual their fey notions were. The tall barbarians to the north likely didn’t even know of the struggle about to ensue, nor would they have cared if they did. The gnome, dwarf, and halfling nations publicly abstained from taking part in either side of the conflict, stating that since lofty elven affairs-of-state did not include the political aid of their respective nations during times of need, then neither should theirs be extended in return.

Quite simply, most of the world was too wrapped up in itself to see the ominous portents the forthcoming elven war held for it. Fewer still knew of the Pact and the dire consequences of the unsealing of Zeranon’s Chalice. In short, all nations of Norrath turned a blind eye.

All, that is, save for the mighty stronghold of Highpass. For centuries, the tall fortress stood as a bastion for all nations to assemble, meet, and work out their contentions peacefully. Those of any race not currently involved in actions contrary to the good of the Highpass citizenry were welcome to enter, albeit under watchful scrutiny approaching levels of paranoia in some cases. Teir’Dal in particular were frowned upon by the predominantly human and half-elf populace. Disciples of Innoruuk were particularly reviled, hence the shadow knight’s understandably cautious nature about passing through so many months before. Those with blue skin were often the objects of various “accidents” under such circumstances, and were constantly reminded never to let their guard down when forced to deal with light dwellers, regardless of race.

Even so, Highpass was the location where Xon Quexill had summoned his protégé and her companion, and so it was to Highpass they traveled.

Though Dreketh said repeatedly over the ensuing days that all would be set right once they were under the protective care of her father, Laera found it difficult to shake the nagging emptiness she felt in the pit of her stomach whenever she envisioned their arrival at the mountain pass. She knew that before too long they would no longer be on their own, alone together in the world. For some intangible reason she was unable to define, Laera was reluctant to let go of these times of journeying with Dreketh.

Once again, she felt her life was approaching a crossroads—the exact same feeling she'd felt when she was summoned to the Temple of Tunare in Felwithe. Once again, the puzzling sensation was difficult to describe—not exactly a feeling of dread or despair, but certainly angst over the unknown that was to come.

A journey that had started as a source of ceaseless torment for the wood elf was ending as the most incredible experience she had ever imagined. She could not deny that she was far and away a different person—a better person in her own mind. Dreketh, too, seemed to change for the better as well. Although she would never dream of broaching the subject with her partner openly, Laera believed the shadow knight would have agreed nonetheless.

If only it didn’t have to end…

But inevitably, the days passed by as Norrath continued on its own particular journey, heedless of the wants or needs of any one creature it kept. Destiny fast approached as the day of their arrival drew near, and no amount of wishing or hoping would change it.

Therefore, both dark elf and wood elf made the best of their few remaining days alone together, pondering what was to come once they reached Highpass. Dreketh insisted that her father would have a plan already laid and waiting upon their arrival. For the better part of her life, Xon Quexill had proven himself adept at handling such matters, and she saw no reason to believe that the Pact would be an exception to this rule.

Despite Dreketh’s repeated assurances that no harm would befall Laera at her father’s hands, the druid couldn’t hide her trepidation at what his plan might be. Trusted mentor or not, he was still Teir’Dal—a Teir’Dal who worshipped the Prince of Hate. On top of that, he was also a master necromancer and someone the druid did not know, whose intentions and motivations she could only guess at. While he might have had Dreketh’s best interests at heart, that didn’t necessarily coincide with the good of Laera’s own welfare. Try as she might, Laera remained ill at ease when it came to trusting this man with her life, her people, and her advocacy in the Pact.

Knowing that in order to reach Highpass Keep they would once again have to cross the Kithicor Woods didn’t help matters any. The druid’s debilitating fear of the undead hadn’t waned during the course of their absence, and she was reminded of it every time she thought about reentering the haunted place.

Oddly, Dreketh seemed nearly as tense as her companion as they neared the edge of the forest.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Laera asked cautiously, noting the shadow knight’s tension.

“It’s nothing. I’m fine.” Dreketh spoke as if trying to convince herself. “It’s still early afternoon. We have plenty of time before nightfall. Everything should be fine.”

“Imagine that,” the wood elf commented behind a hidden smile. “An inkie who’s afraid of the sun going down…”

“You know what I mean,” Dreketh responded with a mild shove to the druid’s shoulder. “If we’re caught by the undead in there, we’re theirs… neat and quick.” The shadow knight snapped her fingers. “We might as well wrap our souls in neat little packages, and give ourselves over to the undead, for all the good fighting would do us.”

Laera lost her glib manner at the shadow knight’s words.

“Don’t remind me. I’m trying not to dwell on that.” Glancing at the sun overhead, the druid took on a deliberately positive attitude. “But you’re right. It’s early afternoon. Dusk isn’t coming for several hours. We’ll be through the forest and eating a real, genuine meal in a comfortable Highpass inn before we know it. I saw one on our way through before—the Tiger’s Roar or something. It looked quaint. I’ll buy, even.”

Dreketh rolled her eyes at the druid’s “offer.” The two companions had long ago forgone the notion of individual finances, finding it less bothersome to merge their expenses into one shared pool. Still, she found the wood elf’s optimism quite motivating, if not exactly comforting.

Into the shady woods the dark elf peered, trying to gain impetus. In her mind’s eye, Dreketh summoned the image of her father standing at the other edge of the forest, waiting for her. Once she passed the last obstacle, everything would be all right. At last, she would be safe from the perils of this world—bigoted light dwellers, bloodthirsty gods, and her own people alike. Xon Quexill would protect her.

Still, the back of the shadow knight’s mind would not let go of her fears of what might, even now, be lying in wait for them inside those trees. To return to this place was foolish, she thought. But with so many things, it was a necessary measure.

Highpass, the dark elf repeated in her own mind. Everything will be fine once they reached Highpass.

Dreketh flexed her fingers as she pulled the bronze gauntlets over her hands, her thoughts turning more confident. After all, she might have been worrying over nothing. A few short hours’ travel through the wood, and perhaps she and Laera really would be drinking toasts to their successful journey.

Releasing her breath in a loud sigh, Dreketh drew her father’s sword from its place on her back.

“Let’s get this over with,” she muttered, looking into the trees as if facing down a long-time rival. “And anyway, standing here gawking won’t get us those drinks.”

Nodding her agreement quietly, Laera followed her companion once more into the tall and hazy shelter of Kithicor Wood.

The cold of the forest bit clear to the bone, even though the sun’s rays shown streaking through the lofty treetops high above. Laera noticed the chill as soon as she first set foot past the trees standing watch at the wood’s entrance. It felt as though the first breath of winter chose that very moment to strike without regard to the fact that the season was just starting to give way to its icy clutches.

The thought passed briefly through the wood elf’s mind that perhaps this temperature was commonplace for Kithicor this time of year. The thought was dismissed just as quickly. No, this chill was unnatural. The chill was surreal and otherworldly. It was undeniable that something had definitely changed in Kithicor since their last visit, and Laera saw her companion’s dark face grow even darker as evidently she too arrived at the same conclusion.

The druid kept alert to anything that might have been different or unusual about the forest. The sound of animals tittering and chirping all around was a small comfort, but certainly not out of the ordinary. The towering trees appeared healthy for a forest this size. The pathway was slightly less worn than she remembered, which struck her as odd considering the traffic that must come in and out of Highpass and Rivervale nearby. Then again, since the legendary haunting of the forest, most travelers tended to think twice before entering Kithicor after dark these days.

Clutching her arms about herself, Laera imagined what that battle must have been like—the thunderous conflict between the armies of Firiona Vie, high elf princess, and Lanys T’Vyl, daughter of Innoruuk. The battle literally unlocked the Plane of Hate, releasing legions of untold terrors to curse the wood with their foul haunt. Visions of her previous incident with the undead of Kithicor sprang to mind as well, much to the druid’s dread. She looked upon the encounter with remorse, remembering how she cowered in the face of the threat, leaving Dreketh to handle things as best she could on her own. Hardly a ringing endorsement for the druid’s soldiering skills, had she been one of the many called upon to fight alongside Firiona Vie so many years ago.

Laera shook her head bitterly at the memory, berating herself for falling prey to fear as she had. At the same time, she cringed at the idea of again facing the undead—the undead and that horrible necromancer. What was he called? The wood elf pondered his name. Kieran. That was it—Kieran Shadowseek.

Then it struck her why Dreketh was so tense about reentering the forest. Glancing next to her, Laera caught sight of a bead of sweat running down the shadow knight’s temple despite the chilled air. That must have been it. From what the wood elf could gather, the arch-necromancer was never truly killed. Or perhaps it was best to say Kieran was killed, but wasn’t completely dead. Dreketh’s words came to the wood elf in a flash of memory. A lich. It was reputed to be one of the most dangerous and dreadful incarnations of the undead ever known.

Laera didn’t pretend to understand exactly what that meant, but listening to the shadow knight’s tone of voice as she spoke over the necromancer’s deflated body, she knew the portents were dire.

“Do you, um…” The wood elf cleared her throat, her voice a low whisper. “Do you sense any undead nearby?”

“Ignorance is bliss,” Dreketh muttered, her eyes darting from tree to tree.

“You don’t believe that.”

“Don’t I?” The shadow knight looked to her companion and found the druid’s eyes filled with skepticism. Sighing, Dreketh cupped her hand, muttering several words of magic. As before, a small orb of light coalesced above her palm. “I’m glad you’re here to tell me what I believe in,” she commented dryly as she held the light out toward the trees.

“It’s why you keep me around, isn’t it?” the wood elf jibed, trying to keep things light-hearted in the face of her fears.

“I keep you around for the conversation,” Dreketh said distractedly.

Laera paused to look at her partner, wondering if she had actually been complimented, or the brunt of one of the shadow knight’s caustic jokes.

Feeling the wood elf’s gaze, Dreketh paused in her search.

“And for the free food!” she said, shaking her head in mock annoyance for having to voice the obvious.

Shaking her own head with a sigh and crooked grin, Laera consigned herself to never grasping Teir’Dal humor.

“Do you sense anything?” she asked, changing the subject.

“There are a few small skeletons roaming about,” the dark elf said, resuming her search. “Nothing either of us couldn’t handle on our own, but we both know that can change in a blink. Have you seen any sign of the ranger lately?”

“Not a thing, but that doesn’t mean he’s not out there,” the druid craned her neck in the futile attempt at finding their elusive guardian. “A ranger as skilled as he could be standing right in front of us, and we’d probably never see him.”

“Well, he wouldn’t need master tracking skills to follow us,” Dreketh said as she resumed her stride down the path. The ball of light still hovered above her extended hand. “Your teeth are chattering louder than a maiden’s on her wedding night.”

“Sorry,” Laera apologized, hugging herself tightly. “It’s this blasted cold, I can’t help it. I don’t know how you keep from shivering in that metal armor.”

Dreketh turned to give the wood elf a quizzical look.

“Cold?” she asked curiously. “What cold? I figured you were just scared.”

Casting Dreketh a forbearing look, Laera brought up one of her hands to brush it against the dark elf’s cheek.

Gasping in surprise, Dreketh pulled back slightly from the druid’s chill touch.

“You’re freezing!” she declared, her brow furrowing.

“Believe me now?” Laera asked peevishly, placing her fingers beneath her armpits to warm them.

Concerned at what she was seeing, Dreketh rested her sword against a nearby tree, and pulled off one gauntlet to feel the wood elf’s forehead and face. She could detect no sign of a fever—magical or otherwise, but the druid’s nose and ears were definitely cold to the touch. Unnaturally so, considering the temperate weather.

“This isn’t good,” she said, pulling on her gauntlet again.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Laera asked, alarmed by the dark elf’s sudden concern.

“I can’t say for sure,” Dreketh said, retrieving her sword. “But I think you’re being observed.”

“Observed?”

“Yes, observed by the undead,” the shadow knight spoke quickly, continuing down the path with a hurried step. “It’s just a term we use. It means you’ve managed to catch the attention of a powerful practitioner who means you harm—probably a necromancer.”

“Are you saying Kieran is after me?” Laera asked. Trying her best to still her rising panic, she kept pace with her partner. “But you’re the one he took a ‘liking’ to. Why would he be after me?”

“I don’t know.” Dreketh urged the anxious druid along even faster. “But whatever ritual he seeks to cast on you has already begun. When did you first feel the chill?”

“As soon as we entered the forest,” Laera answered nervously.

“Innoruuk’s bane,” Dreketh cursed. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“I thought you felt it, too!” the wood elf tried to defend herself. “You looked like you were marching against certain death when we crossed into the trees back there.”

Dreketh’s swift stride came to a sudden stop as the light floating above her hand flared brilliantly to life, lighting her face.

“It seems we’re about to.”

“What is that supposed to…” Laera’s question died on her lips as she looked to the road ahead.

Illuminated by the radiance of the shadow knight’s spell could be seen a scattering of black, vaporous tendrils as they crept along the ground. Their slick, winding movements appeared aimless until they gradually began to coagulate, forming into one mass of darkness writhing in agitation along the dusty path. Growing larger with each passing moment, the mist took on a sentient and malevolent quality as it molded it self into a humanoid shape. From within the oily vapor emerged a familiar and cunning face, smiling wickedly from the depths of a haggard cowl that shifted about wildly in an unfelt wind.

Kieran Shadowseek, arch-necromancer of Bertoxxulous, had risen from the grave.

Hollow laughter emerged seemingly from among the trees all around.

“Welcome home, my dear. I must say I am deeply honored to see you decided to pay me a visit.” The disembodied voice resounded in a deep bass, its tone reflecting the wicked cheer seen in the eyes of the former necromancer. Though his lips remained frozen in their vicious sneer, it was obvious the voice belonged to him.

Dreketh made no response, standing motionless on the path to stare coldly at the lich hovering before her. Both hands gripped the hilt of her sword, her spell long since forgotten at the appearance of this old adversary.

Laera’s trembling increased visibly by the debilitating fear that engulfed her. The appearance of Kieran Shadowseek as one of the risen dead overwhelmed her senses as she watched his horrid apparition floating above the ground. The man’s flesh had shriveled into a pale imitation of life, gray flakes of skin peeling from his hands and once striking face. The gaunt and wasted form was enshrouded in a tattered cloak that whipped hypnotically in the intangible wind. The wood elf never dreamed such a thing could possibly have existed on Norrath—alive, dead or undead. The sight was feverishly horrid, and one she knew would stay with her forever.

“Allow me the courtesy of showing you my gratitude for granting me this second opportunity, my dear,” the lich’s disembodied voice went on to say. “My debilitated state at our last encounter was scarcely decent, and wholly improper. As the Plaguebringer would have it, I am now in a far more suitable condition to offer you His ultimate reward.”

The shadow knight remained motionless, her azure eyes glinting.

“You’ll have to go through me first,” she said. Though Dreketh’s words bordered on the absurd in the face of such an intractable foe, her voice carried with it a tone of determination that lent the druid a sense of confidence.

The lich’s evil grin widened ever so slightly.

“It is you whom I address, my dear. As a fellow practitioner of the dead, it will be my honor to introduce you to our ranks. Naturally, your services to the Prince of Hate will be at an end as you become an immortal servant of Bertoxxulous. Fear not. I am your liberator. I am your deliverer.” Kieran’s deep voice lowered to a near-whisper toward the end, turning rapturous in its delivery. “I…am your savior.”

Laera closed her eyes, shivering uncontrollably. Fear’s icy touch chilled her even more than the seeming temperature, causing her to lose touch with her senses. The lich’s words and those of her companion turned into a jumble of lost meaning as she tried desperately to retain a tentative grasp of her faculties.

“Don’t insult my intelligence, Kieran,” Dreketh threatened grimly. “Even now you observe the wood elf with your Lord’s twisted sense of ‘deliverance.’ A blind initiate of half a season could see through your pale deceit.”

“Your naiveté is most endearing. I will enjoy showing you the unique outlook the undead affords its constituents.” The lich’s nebulous form turned to gaze to the trees in the distance. “But first there is a vital matter of retribution to be settled.”

Spreading his thin arms wide, Kieran’s wasted form was once again entwined in the oily mists. The tendrils played about the dead necromancer’s body in a spellbinding dance as their ebbs and flow grew higher and higher. Like smoke to a chimney, the creeping mists gyrated their meandering ascension to the sheltering limbs of the trees until they too swayed with the unfelt wind of the dead.

Dreketh watched closely as events unfolded, attempting to divine the purpose behind the lich’s actions. Though thoroughly versed in living necromancy, she was only loosely familiar with the capabilities of the sentient dead, as Kieran had become. A number of spells came to mind that he could be casting, but the possibilities were many, and the dark elf resisted the temptation to act until she knew what she was truly up against.

Lightning flashed along the tendrils now, trailing upward into the trees. Thunder answered the brief flashes, and Dreketh could begin to feel the stirrings of a true wind begin to waft all around her. Whatever the spell was, it reached beyond the ethereal, and touched the physical. But what the end result could possibly be remained a mystery.

Then the lich spoke.

“Cah'rem sar, ven’thrak seryth necrum kal’shem-”

The dark elf’s eyes widened—the words were Teir’Dal! Whether or not Kieran was speaking in her native tongue for her benefit, she couldn’t tell, but their meaning was unmistakable. Suddenly Dreketh shared in the wood elf’s chill as realization of what the lich was doing swept over her. The technique he was using came clearly to mind, as did his intent. Divination came first, seeking the sundered gateway of the forest. Then alteration came into play, forcing the gateway’s untimely breach. And finally…

“Laera!” the shadow knight whirled about to find the wood elf clutching her head, her eyes squinted shut and trembling like never before. Dreketh grabbed hold of one of the druid’s wrists, trying to jar her out of her panic. “We need to get out of here!” she called over the quickly rising gale and thunder. “We must find my father! He’s the only one who can put a stop to this! Laera, can you hear me!”

The wood elf was terrified beyond reason.

“I won’t become one of them,” she whispered to herself. “I won’t, I won’t, I won’t…”

“It’s too late to run,” a voice called out from the distance—a mortal voice.

Looking past the dismayed wood elf, Dreketh saw the ranger approaching, rapier in hand. Though his cloak and the brim of his woodsman’s hat fluttered in the mounting gusts of wind, his step remained calm.

“The undead of Kithicor already heed the lich’s call,” Ranin Treestalker said, addressing the shadow knight in a loud, commanding voice as he approached. “In moments, this area will be inundated by the ancient minions killed in the forest. Your only option is to fight, dark elf.”

Blinking in the wind, Dreketh tossed her head to rid her face of her own hair.

“They are servants of hate!” she called back over the bedlam.

“Yes,” the ranger replied, turning his gaze on the lich. “But he holds sway over the undead on this world. Once the undead answer his summons from the Plane of Hate, they will answer only his voice and no other.”

“My father can banish them,” the dark elf insisted. “We must find him in Highpass, and bring him here!”

“The summons is for your sake, shadow knight,” the ranger spat back. “You won’t make fifty yards before the minions of your own master engulf you! See!” He raised a gloved hand, pointing at a cavorting skeleton emerging from the trees, heading directly toward them. “I can hold them off, but I need your help keeping back the weaker ones!”

Understanding the ranger’s ad hoc plan, Dreketh nodded and turned back to the petrified druid. Laera’s posture hadn’t changed, and the dark elf was forced to grab the wood elf’s arms vehemently to break her of the insensate panic.

“Laera! Laera, listen to me!” Dreketh shouted, bringing her face in close. The druid’s terror-filled eyes reluctantly met hers, the emerald green irises dilated in fear. “You must run to Highpass and bring my father here! He is the only one who can stop them! Do you understand? Find him and bring him here! Do you hear me? Bring him here!”

Laera cringed at another flash of lightning, her eyes closing shut again.

“Do you understand!” Dreketh yelled, determined not to let the wood elf slip into fear’s grip again.

The wood elf nodded, her hair flying about her head wildly.

“Hurry, we won’t last long!” The shadow knight led Laera a short distance down the path toward Highpass. “Run as fast as you can, and don’t look back!”

The bone-crushing sound of a skeleton flying apart split the air, and both young women turned in time to see the ranger’s blade finish its vicious arc. Pieces of bone whirled about in the heedless wind to land in shards at his feet. Glancing up, the ranger cast Dreketh an impatient look. The undead were fast closing on their position, and time was of the essence.

“Go!” she shouted, giving her companion a ruthless shove. “Go now!”

Laera stumbled briefly, catching sight of the lich towering above her next to the path ahead. The awesome sight made her heart leap into her threat. She was convinced the intimidating creature was about to devour her on the spot. As her vision cleared, however, she found his head tilted back, arms outstretched, as he was lost in the casting of the horrible spell. The inky vapor rose all about him now, twisting like a seething dust devil rising to the heavens with its shrieking call to the dead.

“Run!” Dreketh’s voice rose above the wind, accompanied by another flash of lightning.

Laera bolted into action. She ran down the path, her legs pumping with all the energy she could muster, knowing that with every footfall she was that much farther from the lich and his malevolent power. With every breath, she was closer to safety.

Or was she? Thoughts raced through her head frantically in her flight. What if the lich decided to send the undead after her? After all, she was the one who was helpless and alone now. What would happen when she encountered the undead en route? What was to stop them from killing her on their way to destroy Dreketh?

Her questions were lost in the sound of her companion’s voice calling to her—her concerns drowned in the urgency of Dreketh’s plea to find her father. He was the key. He was the only one who could send those undead away and kill the lich. Literally, she was their only chance for survival—Dreketh and the ranger, Ranin Treestalker.

Collecting her full efforts, Laera pushed herself harder, careening uncontrollably down the path toward the west—toward Highpass.

Toward hope.

Dreketh seized the handle of her sword in both hands with a viselike grip. She watched as the wood elf disappeared around a bend in the road, her lips whispering a silent prayer to Innoruuk that the druid would find her father before it was too late.

In the meantime, there was work to be done. Stepping back to press against the ranger’s shoulder blades with her own, she mirrored his stance as they both faced down the emerging undead.

Glancing at the lich to one side, a thought occurred to her.

“Do you think you can beat him?” she asked over her shoulder.

The ranger’s gaze went to the lich as well.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’ve never fought one of these things before, and I’m sure as hell not going to interrupt him now to find out. In his vanity, he hungers to have you under his control. It was his dying thought, and I get the feeling that’s why we’re still alive right now.”

Dreketh detected a hint of fear in the ranger’s usually cool and collective tone. She could feel his labored breaths against her back—more labored than was warranted by his exertions thus far. She realized the man was scared.

“What do you need me to do?” she asked in a deliberately calm voice, hoping to soothe the man’s nerves.

“Watch my back, and take down the weaker ones,” came the ranger’s raspy voice. “I’ll deal with the stronger ones as they emerge, but you must keep me from being overwhelmed. Conserve your strength at first and use your Touch only if absolutely necessary.”

“Understood,” replied the shadow knight, her sword rising at the sight of a zombie emerging from the trees.

Reaching down, Dreketh scooped up a handful of bones from the skeleton the ranger had already dispatched. Closing her gauntleted fist over the white fragments, she whispered several words of power and tossed them to the ground. One by one, the bones came together, forming a skeletal figure standing before her, its eye sockets glowing with an unholy light.

Groping behind her, Dreketh tried to locate one of the ranger’s knives resting at his belt, her eyes never leaving the advancing zombie.

“Don’t get the wrong idea,” she announced, feeling along his belt and any surrounding body regions her probing fingers encountered. “You may be easy on the eyes for a human, but don’t think I’m getting fresh or anything.” At last, her hand found a serrated dagger and slid it carefully from its securing strap.

“What a shame,” the ranger muttered back just as he took another swing with his sword at some unseen threat on his side.

Dreketh grinned, her eyes reflecting a wicked mirth as she watched the zombie’s slow and ungainly approach toward her. Tossing the dagger around in midair to take it by the blade, the dark elf slapped the weapon’s hilt into her skeletal pet’s clutches. Bony fingers immediately wrapped around the handle as the creature let out a maniacal giggle, its glowing eyes eerily focused on its master, seeking instructions.

More undead emerged from the trees behind the zombie in multitudes more numerous than she cared to count, and she knew even more undead were on their way. Skeletons, mummies, zombies and ghouls began surrounding the two of them on all sides, their relentless journey toward their prey unwavering. Among their number were the unusually large dread wolves, their pelts black as night. Their long noses sniffed the air and the ground, seeking the blood for which their undead wardens thirsted.

First things first, Dreketh thought to herself. The zombie was nearly within striking distance. Raising one hand to point at the walking corpse, Dreketh spoke a single command to her skeletal minion.

“Pet… attack.”

Fire blazed in the druid’s lungs. Not daring to spare a single moment to rest, Laera pressed herself beyond her body’s limits to reach the far end of the wood, fear being her prime source of impetus. Not so much fear for her own safety anymore—the few undead she did encounter on the path seemed focused on answering the lich’s call to the exclusion of all else—but rather for Dreketh. Several minutes ago she had left the ringing sounds of clashing metal behind, knowing that every passing second meant yet another horrid creature for her companion and the ranger to fend off.

Time was as precious as platinum, and she could feel it slipping through her fingers quickly. Already more minutes had passed than she could afford, wasted as her weakling legs struggled against the escalating gravity of the forest floor the longer she ran. Every breath brought in less air. Every footfall turned to lead. It seemed the more time went by, the slower the trees passed, no matter how much effort she gave it. The trail before her twisted cruelly among the trees and hills of the forest, disappearing into the pervasive haze.

The muscles of her throat constricted painfully as she swallowed the viscous saliva forming in her mouth. Her side ached abominably, and she pressed her hand against the twisting muscles that threatened to double her over. It wouldn’t be much longer before she collapsed altogether from exhaustion.

“No!” she cried aloud. Such thoughts were self-defeating. She rid her mind of them and focused all of her efforts on the next step she took—then the next, and the next.

Blood pounded in her head. Laera could feel the veins in her temples pulsate with the labored beating of her heart. The ground seemed to tilt and whirl around her until the erratic motion made her queasy, forcing her to reach out and lean against one of the many tree trunks close by. Gasping for air, the druid fended off waves of nausea, willing her body to get a grip on itself so she could continue.

Between heartbeats echoing through her ears, the druid heard the faint sound of voices in the distance. At first she thought her mind was playing tricks on her, but the more she caught her breath, the more distinct the sounds became. There was no doubt—it really was the sound of voices she heard.

Raising her head wearily, she looked in all directions to take in her surroundings. As expected, she found clusters of trees, brush and sun-streaked mist encircling her. Up ahead, however, the greenery gave way to a mass of loose stone as the path rose over a small incline. Taking a deep breath, Laera silently whispered a word of thanks as she dragged her feet over the ground once again. She was finally entering a canyon that led straight into Highpass Hold.

As her clouded vision continued to clear, she saw movement up ahead. Undoubtedly, these people were the source of the voices she heard. Vague shapes milled about just outside the mouth of the small canyon—a hunting party perhaps, or maybe a group of travelers debating whether to enter the woods so late in the afternoon. The druid’s spirits rose. Perhaps they could run to Dreketh’s aid while she tried to locate the shadow knight’s father. Laera redoubled her efforts and eagerly ran ahead.

The persistent throbbing of her heart skipped a beat as she approached, her expression turning to one of foreboding. Among the armored rabble she saw the blue skin of a Teir’Dal. Inspecting the others more carefully, she realized she had stumbled upon an entire party of dark elves either entering or leaving the Highpass mountain region.

The gravel shifted beneath her feet as she ground to a sudden halt. They mustn’t see her! They were far enough away from the boundaries of the stronghold that she was fair game, prey to their whims should they capture her.

Glancing quickly to the foliage, Laera considered diving for cover, but it was too late. At hearing the wood elf skid to a standstill, one of the group members pointed her direction, alerting the party to her presence. Voices rose and weapons were drawn as the rabble hurried forward to intercept the lone druid.

The fevered notion of drawing her staff was squelched the moment she considered it. There must have been at least ten or twelve dark elves rushing her from atop the hill. At peak performance, she could never hope to best that many, much less attempt it after a forced sprint over a winding road. Fleeing was out of the question as well—she doubted she had the energy to outrun a turtle lying on its back. Any spell she could have cast to aid in an escape would take an inordinate amount of time to complete before the dark elves overtook her.

It was impossible, she realized. The party of Teir’Dal was moments away from capturing or killing her, and she had absolutely no recourse left at her disposal, save for one.

Falling to her knees in defeat, Laera felt the solid ground rise up to meet her in a cloud of dust floating about her legs. Any efforts to slow her strenuous breathing proved unsuccessful as she forced herself to bow her head and close her eyes. Crossing her arms, she quickly brought her hands to rest against her chest in the fashion of the Vellin Sar, taught to her by Dreketh.

The approaching footfalls grew louder, as did the wood elf’s fear at realizing she couldn’t remember the complex Teir’Dal words of the ritual. She had only spoken them once before, and that was months ago in a very different time. Working her mind feverishly, she tried to recall the words, but to no avail. She did, however, clearly remember their translation in the common tongue. Wincing, expecting the first blow to fall any second, she opened her mouth to speak.

“Mine honor shown, thy honor served.” The frightened druid was forced to whisper, unable to find her winded voice. “Mine honor shown, thy honor served. Mine honor shown, thy honor served.” Her tension rose with every repetition, expecting each phrase to be the last words on her lips. Gasping for air, the wood elf’s whispers gradually faded until even she could no longer hear them. Her lips continued to mouth the words silently as she knelt trembling on the ground, waiting for the end to arrive.

Her final thoughts were of bitter regret, how she had failed to find Dreketh’s father in time.

Before long, Laera realized she could no longer hear the approaching footfalls of her attackers. Scarcely daring to move a muscle, she opened one eye to see what might have happened. The fleeting idea that Tunare might have struck them all down crossed her mind, but was put to rest as she saw a crowd of legs surrounding her like a curtain.

All was silent. The taciturn wood elf opened her other eye and looked up to find Teir’Dal faces all around, their expressions grim and uncertain. Weapons once held at the ready, eager for blood, dangled in limp, blue hands. Many of the dark elves glanced at their colleagues, wondering what to do next. Obviously this was the first time they’d ever seen a wood elf perform the Vellin Sar, or even showed any knowledge of the Teir’Dal ritual of trust.

Nobody was at all certain if they were witness to devout solemnity or blatant heresy. Here was a light dweller—an enemy of the blood, no less—kneeling before them performing the sacred ritual used exclusively between dark elves. Many felt they should be outraged at such a desecration. On the other hand, the Vellin Sar was the Vellin Sar—sacrosanct in its sincerity of trust. The situation was baffling, to say the least.

Through the hesitant confusion felt within the small gathering, all eyes eventually turned toward one prominent Teir’Dal approaching with a measured step from farther up the path—presumably the leader of the group. Laera’s clear, green eyes gazed up at the towering dark elf, clad resplendent in shining armor, his head hidden in a helm crafted from steel to closely resemble a horned skull.

“What is the meaning of this?” The man’s voice was deep for a dark elf, his words as measured as his steps as he came to a stop mere inches from the kneeling wood elf.

“She speaks the words of the Vellin Sar, my Lord Seryth,” one of the others said, his tone respectful.

Behind his silvery mask, the leaders eyes slid over to focus on the dark elf who spoke.

“In words of the Teir’Dal?” he asked imperiously.

“No, my lord. She speaks in the common tongue, but the words are unmistakable.” The man’s gaze returned down to stare incredulously at the trembling wood elf before him. “She invokes the Vellin Sar!”

Lord Seryth responded in kind, inspecting Laera closely with a dangerous look.

The chill returned to Laera in a rush. The sweat that dappled her skin mingled with raised goose bumps, causing her to tremble even more at the icy cold. The wood elf’s pleading eyes never wavered, however, as they looked up at those of the Teir’Dal lord.

Seryth raised a hand to stroke his chin thoughtfully, his fingertips playing about the light fuzz that passed for an elven beard. Stepping forward, he quietly scrutinized Laera in profile, his men backing away respectfully to allow their leader the room he required.

“Impressive, wood elf,” he said speculatively. “Where did you chance across the Vellin Sar, hmm? Eavesdropping on the battlefield, perhaps?”

Laera was about to answer, but the dark elf interrupted. Squatting down next to her, he spoke softly into her ear.

“Or were you scholared by some traitorous bastard elf-lover?” Seryth asked. A smile crossed his thin lips at seeing a flash cross Laera’s features. “Ah, I see I’m not far from the truth. I wonder…who would do such a thing?”

Laera swallowed nervously, a bead of sweat rolling down a tendril of hair as it clung to her cheek. Seeing her reluctance, Seryth grabbed a handful of the wood elf’s hair in his hand, pulling her head back with a painful jerk.

Laera gasped, a slight yelp escaping her control.

“Even more disturbing,” Lord Seryth continued, tightening his grip with every word, “what sort of arrogant, presumptuous weakling would dare desecrate the Vellin Sar by invoking its words with nothing but fey blood?”

The wood elf’s chest heaved in shallow gasps from the pain, her mouth wide in a silent cry. Reaching behind her head, she pulled at the elf lord’s unyielding hand.

“But she forgot one important detail, didn’t she?” Seryth called out to his mates. Laera cringed as the dark elf’s abrupt voice hurt her ears. Grim laughter from the group answered Seryth’s question, and he wrenched the wood elf’s hair even harder as he spoke again. “You still wear your armor, woodie! It is a sign of mistrust unless you’re with your comrades on the battlefield.”

The dark elf brutally forced Laera to look at the area surrounding the group.

“Does this look like a battlefield to you?” he asked, his voice rising once more.

Tears formed in her eyes, a sob escaping her lips as she tried desperately to evade the grinning faces of her captors looking down at her.

Seryth deftly twisted her head to look at him.

“Do I look like your comrade? I think not!”

Laera closed her eyes, surrendering herself to uncontrolled sobs as the dark elf’s cruel face blurred in her vision.

“Please don’t kill me,” she pleaded. “I can’t die now. Please!”

Seryth brought her face within inches of his nose.

“You…are…not…Teir’Dal.” He spoke succinctly. “You haven’t the right to invoke the Vellin Sar. Not for us. Not for anyone on Norrath!”

His muscles bulging, the dark elf lord pulled hard on the druid’s hair, lifting it high in the air. Shrieking, Laera was forced to stand or risk losing it in a most agonizing way. Bringing his other hand forward, Seryth slammed the heel of his palm against the center of the wood elf’s chest, causing her to stumble backwards. Two dark elves—one male, one female—caught her in their clutches, forcing her to remain standing.

“If you were Teir’Dal, you would understand that there are worse things than death,” Seryth said, lecturing his captive as he drew his long-bladed weapon from its scabbard. “You would know how to properly invoke the Vellin Sar, and your very nature would have demanded it!”

Affable cheers from the group accompanied Lord Seryth’s words, the matter having been settled for them. Now that the bounds of proper etiquette were firmly set in place by their leader, the assembled Teir’Dal eagerly looked forward to discovering the fate he had in store for the hapless wood elf.

Laera suppressed a wince as she felt the dark elf’s blade slip beneath the left flank strap of her tunic. The polished metal slid smoothly against her skin, and the wood elf forced herself to remain still, lest the blade’s edge cut her.

“It is my privilege to show you how to supplicate yourself properly before the Teir’Dal, and beg for mercy,” Seryth said with an eager grin. With a flick of his wrist, the blade sliced neatly through the strap, causing both severed ends to dangle uselessly against her hip. “We will gladly show you the proper way to invoke the Vellin Sar, won’t we?” The blade returned, this time sliding underneath the shoulder strap on the same side. “So next time you can get it right, as you kneel before the Prince of Hate and beg His mercy…”

The blade twisted against Laera’s collarbone, maneuvering itself over the curves of her shoulder to emerge marred with blood on the other side of the strap.

The female holding her left arm leaned forward to speak softly in the wood elf’s ear.

“Relax, girl. Struggling will only make the blade penetrate deeper… among other things.”

Laera screeched aloud, her voice shrill among the trees. The dark elves laughed in merriment at the wood elf’s torment until they realized their leader’s voice had joined hers. Contrary to first impressions, both were cries of pain, and Lord Seryth released his grip on his weapon, causing it to slide harmlessly out from under the leather strap and fall to the rocky path with a metallic clang.

Seryth cursed through clenched teeth, holding his right hand tightly. His eyes widened as he saw his sword begin to glow red even as it rested on the ground. Small clusters of grass burst into flame next to the superheated weapon.

“What in the name of hate…” Seryth’s voice trailed off.

Turning in a half-crouch as he nursed his scorched hand, the elf lord looked back to find another dark elf standing on the rocky path above. Clad in flowing brown robes of varying shades and patterns, the figure stared down at the small assemblage with two distinct pairs of eyes—two of his own, and two embroidered on the robe he wore.

“The wood elf is under my protection,” the newcomer stated, his voice authoritative. “The next individual to lay a weapon on her will find their skin melting, and not their blade.”

Seryth glanced down to find his sword glowing white, its shape twisting slightly to the contours of the path. Snarling his outrage, the dark elf kicked at the ruined weapon, sending it flying through the air in a flurry of sparks to land among the rocks at the figure’s feet.

“And who are you to tell us our business!” he spat. “We will kill whatever light dweller we wish, when we wish!” Seryth made a gesture and several party members began approaching the hill to apprehend this seditious spellcaster.

The robed Teir’Dal merely closed his eyes, his face placid and untroubled by the odds against him. Without word or ceremony, the dark elf cast his spell, causing Lord Seryth to clutch at his chest. Muffled sounds emitted from his constricting form as he tried to speak.

“Release the wood elf, fools, or your ‘lord’ dies now,” the robed figure said calmly.

Unwilling to challenge the newcomer’s threat, the two dark elves holding Laera captive released her and backed away hurriedly. The unfettered druid fell to her knees once again, her hands going immediately to the strap on her shoulder, holding it away from her burned and blistering skin where the blade had touched her. Similarly, Seryth followed suit as he too fell to his knees, gasping for air.

The crowd of dark elves was thoroughly cowed by the newcomer’s display of power. None dared make a move as the man stepped quietly into their ranks, and approached the injured wood elf.

“Laera Nellynwae,” he said in a stern voice.

Laera glanced up, surprised at hearing her name spoken by this strange dark elf.

“I am Xon Quexill, custodian of the Pact.”

Lord Seryth’s eyes turned up in recognition, his face twisted in a malicious sneer aimed at the necromancer’s back.

The druid’s jaw dropped, her eyes wide.

“Dreketh’s father…” she whispered fervently.

“After a fashion,” Quexill said, holding his hand out to assist the wood elf.

Laera placed one hand in his, the other still holding her tunic away from the hideous burn on her shoulder as she stood.

“I regret not arriving to meet you sooner,” he went on to say, his tone cold and officious. “I feel responsible for the consequences you have suffered on my account. Hold quite still.”

Before Laera could move away, the dark elf placed his hand over the wound, causing it to sting terribly. The wood elf drew in a sharp breath while the air all around split with a single loud crack. Instantly the pain was gone, and Quexill removed his hand to reveal her normal healthy skin.

Staring down at her shoulder in disbelief, Laera ran her fingers over the newly restored skin.

“Healing?” she asked breathlessly.

“Not precisely.” Quexill drew the neck of his robe aside to show his own shoulder red and blistering where the wood elf’s injury had been.

Laera couldn’t believe her eyes.

“I can’t let you do that,” she whispered, reaching forth her hand. “Let me heal the wound completely and the burn will be gone…”

“No!’ Quexill grasped the druid’s wrist, holding it at bay.

Laera flinched at the man’s sudden outburst. Seeing the tension in his eyes, she was reminded of Dreketh’s violent reaction to being touched by the druid’s healing power for the first time in Nektulos.

“No,” the dark elf repeated quietly. “That won’t be necessary.”

The wood elf pulled her hand away, nodding her understanding.

“Now then,” Xon Quexill said, replacing the brown fabric of his robe over his shoulder. “Take me to Dreketh. Time is short.

The door to the burned-out cabin broke from its hinges with a tumultuous crash. The shadow knight burst through it to land on her back in the center of the blackened room. The otherworldly cries of her attacker outside thundered over the rickety structure, causing pieces of wood and soot to rain from the ceiling.

Regaining her senses, Dreketh rolled to one side, deftly avoiding the bolt of fire unleashed at her through the open doorway. Favoring her left arm, the dark elf raised her right to extend her hand, palm forward into the shaft of sunlight coming through the entrance. Whispering several dark words, she became enveloped in a yellow glow. Strength returned to her muscles, and energy swept through her body as she drained what was left of the unnatural life force from the undead creature outside.

Pausing a moment to catch her breath, Dreketh swiped blood from her forehead with the back of her hand. Though her gauntlets could hardly substitute for a simple rag, at least it kept the blood from flowing over her eyes. Long ago she used up her daily dose of the Touch, and even longer ago she had lost her skeletal minion to a scattering of bony splinters. Relentlessly, the undead kept coming in droves to answer the call of the lich.

Shortly after the battle started turning awry, the ranger began to steer the fight in a westerly direction toward Highpass in the hopes that help would reach them all that much sooner. Between skirmishes, Dreketh tried to keep an eye on the path leading into the distance, hoping in vain she would see her father approach at any minute.

Now she lay in the scorched remains of someone’s home deep in the heart of Kithicor, having lost the path and any sense of direction she might have had early on. More than once, the ranger called them both into a forced retreat that led them in whatever course was available at the moment. It afforded them a sliver of time to renew their strength before having to defend themselves against some other twisted creature of the dead bent on their destruction.

Or at least the ranger’s destruction. As the fighting escalated, it became increasingly obvious that the undead were intent on incapacitating or capturing the shadow knight for their transient master. Dreketh soon came to an uneasy empathy with the wood elf’s fear of the undead, now that she herself was the target of their insidious designs.

A shadow obscured the entrance, casting the entire room into darkness. Raising her hand, the dark elf squinted in the light to try and make out what it was, hoping that it might have been the ranger come to take up a defensive position indoors.

At recognizing the silhouette of a skeletal soldier stepping its way inside, Dreketh collapsed. The fight was over. She had lost too much blood to put up any semblance of a fight, and her magic was exhausted. Not that she would have been able to offer any resistance anyway—this creature was way out of her league to begin with. The undead of Kithicor were exceptional fighters, and greatly feared by most of Norrath’s inhabitants. Only experienced adventurers of many seasons could stand up to them, and even then many would be hard-pressed to withstand an onslaught of such magnitude.

Floorboards creaked in grievance at the soldier’s heavy steps as it entered, the door on the ground breaking into fragments beneath the booted feet. Dreketh did her best to back away while at the same time scrambling to her feet. Cursing under her breath, the shadow knight swore she would not be defeated while lying on the floor like some helpless newborn. With effort, she gained her footing and staggered back against the rear wall of the cabin, holding herself erect with her good arm on the charred wood.

Hunched over, Dreketh turned to face the approaching soldier, her back to the wall.

“Come on, you dead bastard! Come get me!” she taunted between breaths. Licking blood from her lower lip, the shadow knight sneered her defiance. “There’s nowhere else to go, so let’s finish this! You and me, right now. Come on!”

A short groan its only warning, the charred wooden panel Dreketh leaned against gave way, making her stumble. Shafts of sunlight pierced the shadows through the hole to glint off the dark elf’s scraped and abused bracer.

Sparing the slightest of glances toward the soldier to gauge its distance, Dreketh ignored the pain of her injuries and slammed her shoulder into the wall. More soot fell from the ceiling, accompanied by another groan from the cabin’s framework. Another blow, and the charred wall began to yield, but only by a few scant inches.

At this rate she would never break it down in time. Undaunted, the shadow knight braced herself to deliver another blow when the cabin’s structure creaked of its own accord. Mystified, Dreketh looked up to the vaulted ceiling, wondering what was happening an instant before it split apart in a blur of debris and fur. A furious growl blended with the crashing sounds of wood and plaster hitting the floor, continuing to break the silence after the tumult ceased.

Raising her head from under shielding arms, Dreketh peered through the clouds of dust to find a large gray wolf standing between her and the soldier, its hackles raised in defense of the dark elf.

Teeth bared and framed by a twisted muzzle, the wolf growled ferociously from deep within its throat—a dire warning to her would-be attacker.

Heedless of the wolf’s impassioned counsel, the solder pressed its advance, causing the wolf to bark out loud. Any sane creature would have turned and run for its life, confronted by such ferocity, but the skeletal soldier paid it no mind. Its attention remained focused solely on the shadow knight.

The wolf would not be ignored. Drawing back on its haunches, it leapt through the air to collide against the soldier’s rusted chest plate, its slavering jowls snapping madly. Together, cryptic undead and wild beast wrestled with each other in a frenzied struggle of twists and lunges in the center of the room.

Dreketh backed herself against the wall for fear of being swept up in the heedless battle.

“Dreketh, are you in there!” a female called from behind.

Recognizing Laera’s voice, Dreketh turned in amazement to address the wall.

“Yes! I’m here!” she called back.

Through the hole she'd made in the wall, she could see a jumble of tans and browns moving haphazardly in the sun. Glowing specks of dust in the air vanished as the sunlight was suddenly obscured from the other side.

“Dreketh!” The wood elf’s concerned face appeared roughly a foot away from the hole.

“I’m pinned against the wall! Help me break it down!” The shadow knight’s mounting panic was audible.

“There’s a huge beam holding it together out here! Hold on!” Laera yelled back, her face disappearing.

Swallowing hard, Dreketh cast an uneasy glance at the wolf and soldier as she waited impatiently. Neither side of the struggle was giving any ground whatsoever. If anything, the battle grew more heated the longer it went on.

“Okay, push!” the wood elf called, her voice strained.

Dreketh slammed her shoulder into the wall again, this time gaining several inches as it gave way even further. Whatever the druid was doing seemed to be working.

“Again!” Laera grunted.

The wall shuddered another time, the wood splintering in a jagged crack where the shadow knight struck from inside. The sudden opening took Dreketh by surprise, causing her to overextend and lose her balance. The dark elf stumbled forward to trip over a good-sized log resting about knee height on the other side that refused to budge. Her armored hands stretched through the newly opened gap to feel about awkwardly in the late afternoon air.

Firm hands on the other side grabbed hold of them reassuringly.

“Hold tight, I have you!” the wood elf yelled, steadying her companion.

Her balance regained, Dreketh stepped over the unyielding log, and blinking, emerged into the filtered sunlight. Weakened from its injuries, her other foot didn’t clear the log entirely, sending her pitching forward into the druid.

Anticipating the fall, Laera caught the dark elf in her arms.

“Relax, you’re out. I have you,” she said, dragging her companion away from the wall to rest against a small tree stump.

At that moment, the wood elf’s voice was the most beautiful thing Dreketh had ever heard.

“I was certain I was finished in there,” she croaked, her voice spent. “It had me. It had me cold until the wolf…”

An agonized yelp rang out from inside the cabin, as if bidden by the shadow knight’s words. Both companions looked up to see the house’s framework shudder from some unseen force inside. The roof caved in several feet, sending splinters of wood in every direction. With a sickening groan, the walls teetered in one direction to fall to the ground with a thunderous crash. Clouds of dust and soot billowed out from under the rubble, sweeping over the young women like a noxious fog rolling in from some cursed storm at sea.

Bereft of nearly all their senses, the companions could do nothing but cough and choke in the debilitating cloud. Their vision obscured, their hearing drowned by the sound of falling lumber, and their noses overwhelmed with the overpowering smell of burnt cinder, the two took solace in each other’s touch as they waited for the black haze to clear.

Gagging, Laera could barely make out the shape of an animal as it emerged from the fallen debris, limping with a feeble step. The creature seemed to be a large gray wolf, its fur disheveled and covered with streaks of blood in places. Its pinkish tongue hung from its muzzle on one side as it made its weary way toward them.

“Great Mother of All, is that…?” Laera cast Dreketh a questioning look, which was answered with a weak nod.

Wasting no time, the wood elf shuffled forward to meet the wolf’s battered form, the creature collapsing to the ground before her in exhaustion. With quick and efficient hands, Laera pulled the animal’s head into her lap, inspecting its wounds closely.

“It’s okay,” she said in a soft, comforting voice as she ran her fingers through the gray fur. “It’s all right. You’re safe now—we all are. Hold still while I…”

“Save your magic, druid of Tunare,” the wolf spoke, its speech slurring awkwardly from the elongated muzzle. “Your feeble power wouldn’t make enough difference to matter at this point, and would be better served in the care of others. Save it for the living.”

Closing its eyes, the wolf’s body transformed before her eyes until it was the ranger whose head lay cradled in the wood elf’s lap. Blood continued to flow from the man’s wounds, forming a small puddle on the grassy forest floor.

“Ranin…” Laera whispered, seeing the ranger’s face clearly for the first time, without the ever-present hat to shadow it from the light.

The man’s attractive features were marred by a ghastly scar running the length of his face from forehead to neck, and presumably even lower beneath the collar of his tunic. Otherwise, Ranin Treestalker possessed some of the most ruggedly handsome looks Laera had ever seen on a human or any other race.

The ranger’s eyes rolled as he blinked, his throat constricting in a meager swallow.

“You found the dark elf’s father?” he asked in his usual rasping voice.

The wood elf’s eyes filled with tears as she stroked the man’s thick brown hair. Forcing a smile to her lips, she nodded.

“Yes. Yes, I did.”

“The lich…?” The ranger coughed, blood welling to his mouth.

A single tear fell from the druid’s eyelashes.

“Gone. Or it soon will be.” Laera looked off into the distance where she left Xon Quexill to deal with the foul creature. “But the undead are all scattered now. We’re safe.”

The ranger let out a sigh of relief, eyelids half-closing as his gaze grew abstracted.

The druid wet her lips, accompanied by a small sniffle.

“Why did you do this, Ranin? Why did you strive to protect us this whole time?” she asked in a tremulous voice that fell to a whisper. “I have to know. Please tell me.”

A small grin crossed the man’s bloodstained lips.

“I told you before—because of love,” he said weakly.

“I don’t understand,” Laera said confusedly.

The ranger’s grin widened.

“You will.” His eyes turned to look over at the shadow knight resting several feet away. “All too soon, you will.”

The wood elf followed his gaze, the meaning of his words hitting her squarely in the chest.

“Now go,” he said, his voice suddenly sharp. “The sooner you reach Highpass, the safer you’ll be.”

“I can’t just leave you here to die alone,” Laera protested.

“Who said anything about being alone?” The ranger’s wry grin returned, gracing his features for several moments before turning serious once again. “Please, you must leave or I will be lost. Go…quickly.”

The druid’s brow contorted in indecision, unsure of whether or not to believe the man’s words. Blood flowed heavily from his wounds while even more blood spilled from his lips, indicating severe internal injury as well. So far as she could tell, it was a miracle he was even still breathing. Moving him was out of the question, and he expected her to believe that he would be okay out here alone with the sun setting in little over two or three hours?

She was about to refuse the ranger’s request when she caught sight of his eyes staring intently into hers. It was the look of a fervent man who would accept no dissention. She had seen the look in the eyes of many of Tunare’s followers in the past—a look she herself once held, and had since become estranged. It shocked her to see it in the eyes of Ranin Treestalker, but she knew that he would not be denied.

Leaning down, Laera kissed the ranger’s forehead softly.

“Thank you for everything you’ve done for us,” she whispered, her soot-stained lips brushing against his skin as she spoke.

The ranger merely nodded, accepting her thanks silently.

The advocate of Tunare walked off into the distance, supporting the advocate of Innoruuk with one arm around her shoulders. The ranger watched placidly as the two disappeared into the trees and mist, heading in the direction of the dark elf’s father—to safety. Or at the very least, as much safety as could be expected for two people who were actively being hunted by nearly every god holding sway over Norrath.

Ranin Treestalker let his head fall back to rest gently on the ground. He was dying. There was no point in denying it as he felt his life slip from his grasp with each heartbeat. Blood flowed from his injuries freely to mingle with the grass and leaves on the forest floor.

“The cycle continues,” he muttered as he watched in fascination his own blood seeping into the ground.

“As with all things, cherished one, you return to the soil from which you were made,” the voice of Erollisi Marr spoke in his mind. “Mortal life ceases, and its consequence sparks off mortal life anew while the immortal soul continues its eternal ascendancy.”

“Tell me my death serves more than that, Mistress,” Ranin said, looking off in the distance where the two young women had vanished.

“It shall, beloved,” the goddess answered. “Your devotion has ensured the prophecy’s fulfillment.”

The ranger’s head turned back to rest against the ground once more, his eyes gazing up into the darkening haze of the forest. The evening was still young. He idly wondered if the light of the sky was truly growing dim, or if it was his own vision failing him.”

“The Chalice…?” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

“The Cup of Ages remains forever from the grasping hands of the covetous, my faithful servant,” the goddess assured him. “So it is now, and ever so shall it be. Through the bloodstained hand of innocence, the legacy of Zeranon will be denied the people of Norrath, by privilege of its keeper.”

The trees above fell into vague shadows, only barely seen by the ranger’s fading vision.

“I wish…” he muttered, his voice failing as well. “I… wish it… weren’t so.”

Light, sharp and vivid, pierced through the closing darkness, flooding his eyes with its radiance. The shadows of the trees vanished, lost in the purest white that pervaded the ranger’s vision. The light was divine and comforting. The light banished the pain of his wounds and that of his body as it lay broken and bleeding on the ground. The light masked the gruesome scar marring his face.

“I know.”

The ranger’s eyes closed, a shallow sigh escaping his nostrils. The only sounds to be heard were the innocent chirpings of nature’s forest.

Chapter 24 - Unholy Allegiance