Laera Nellynwae sat atop her horse, staring off into space as she rode amidst the odd collection of elves assembled to protect her. Thoughts passed through her mind like quicksilver, each offhandedly being inspected and tossed aside by her uncaring psyche. It didn’t matter if the thought was about times past, or her present situation—the young druid dismissed each in turn as it cropped up. Even her future seemed vague to the point that it no longer mattered. She found it ironic how when she first began her journey from Kelethin so many months ago, everything in the world seemed so important to her, and her place in it. Now, after all that had happened leading up to this final journey in the Pact, nothing seemed important anymore. Life simply was as it was, and one small wood elf could do little to change it. It was all she could do to just keep up with the tide, much less change its direction.

At least, that was how it had been so far. Things were about to change, the druid thought to herself grimly.

As they journeyed westward, the soldiers took up position along the flanks, vanguard, and rear of their clustered band. It was an impressive sight, and one Laera was looking forward to savoring once they reached the once dreaded Plains of Karana. Memories of their last reception in those lands brought a crooked smile to the druid’s face as she imagined that angry mob attempting to apprehend her and Dreketh now.

Having Headmistress Netheel as her own designated bodyguard was an odd twist of events for the young druid. With her former tutor constantly at arm’s reach, it brought back stark memories of the way things were in Kelethin just before she departed. She welcomed the idea of seeing the headmistress again, but now that she was in the thick of things, she felt more like some heretic being led to the gallows than anything. Barely a word passed between Netheel and Laera that wasn’t out of sheer necessity. Even then, things seemed overly cordial and polite—not unlike the way Dreketh described her reunion with her father. Not once did Netheel ask her former student how she was faring, or seemed the slightest bit interested in hearing any tales from her travels. At the very least, she thought she would be handing over her journal for review. She was eager to do so, in fact, as she considered some of her writings to be quite sage, coming from one of the very few wood elves ever to gain such an insight into Teir’Dal culture. But the subject never came up. Apparently all that mattered was the here and now, and the fulfillment of the Pact to Tunare’s satisfaction. Pleasantries came a distant second.

Eventually, Laera came to recognize the look on the headmistress’s face, and why it bothered her so much. It was the exact same expression Rigel had worn upon finding her with Dreketh in Greater Faydark—an odd mixture of betrayal and standoffishness. She noticed Yeolarn Bronzeleaf wore it as well, what few times he bothered to pay her attention of any meager sort. It was the look of removal, as if she were now an outsider for having spent so much time alone under the influences of a Teir’Dal. Consequently, she felt tainted to their eyes—unworthy and corrupted, somehow. She was more a tool than a person. She was like some heinous weapon, despised for what she was rather than what she did or how she was used.

Laera began to believe that was all she ever was to them from the beginning. The pit in her stomach deepened every time that thought passed by. She tried to dismiss it as she did all the others, but it inevitably returned to trouble her again and again. For whatever reason, she couldn’t let it go.

Anyway, why should she? These people were supposedly Tunare’s eyes, ears, and voice on Norrath. They were supposed to dispense Her light and wisdom upon all living things. Was she now no longer worthy of that light? Was she now a heretic of her own people in the same way Dreketh was to the Teir’Dal? At least dark elves didn’t sugarcoat their rejections, the druid thought to herself resentfully. What did that say about Tunare’s pious?

Often, Laera considered confronting her superiors with these recriminations, imagining how such an exchange would be played out. More than once, she even opened her mouth to lay into her former headmistress, demanding she be treated like a person, and not some instrument of their designs. But in the end, she always relented and kept quiet. Though it might have felt liberating to get all this off her chest, it would do no good in the end. Yeolarn Bronzeleaf would trump himself up and ignore the piping words of this little upstart, while Headmistress Netheel would undoubtedly begin a lecture about how mistaken Laera was.

Ultimately, all it would do was serve to bolster their original opinions about her. She’d been tainted by the spawn of Innoruuk, and so must be treated as such. It was a shame, she thought, since the time she spent with Dreketh and the things she’d learned in doing so were the very strengths she valued most for having undergone this journey. Those were the very experiences she wished to share, but knew she would be spurned for doing so.

Glancing across the way, she caught sight of Dreketh talking in low tones with Xon Quexill as the two dark elves rode side-by-side. She tried to imagine what stories the shadow knight took pleasure in relating to her father, and envied the dark elf those indulgences. A part of her wished she could go over there and join them.

She supposed there was nothing preventing her from doing just that, but decided against it. How would it look, considering the circumstances? One flank of their assemblage contrasted starkly with the other, as each of the two races separated like oil and water. On one side bobbed the tall, pale heads of the high elves, while the shorter, blue-skinned dark elves marched along the other side, rivaling them. Many a passerby stopped dead in his tracks at being confronted by such a sight. In a time when rumors ran amok about open hostilities between the elven nations, seeing a massed gathering of those same blood enemies together was enough to make even the most seasoned traveler scratch his head.

But gather they did, heading invariably west across the northern plains of Karana. Contrary to the young druid’s private hopes, none of the inhabitants dared stand in the way of this motley cluster of elves as they marched across their lands. Most of the fauna of the Karanas avoided them as well, save for the odd griffon who blindly took exception to their invasion.

They made camp in the early evening one day, just as the sun dipped below the western horizon. As was usual, the members of each race tended to gather around their own cluster of campfires, tending to their own needs privately. This came as no surprise to Laera, but she shook her head nonetheless. What was it about two individuals that they were able to bridge such cultural gaps, whereas two gatherings of their own races could not?

Laera sat alone before a campfire, her legs crossed, dwelling on these thoughts when Headmistress Netheel arrived to deliver her evening meal.

“Eat up well, child,” she said in her usual tone. “You will be needing your strength on the morrow.”

Laera felt like snapping back with a harsh retort that was poised on her lips, but thought better of it. She realized this must be how Dreketh felt with her when they first started traveling together. Even so, it took every ounce of restraint to keep from lashing out at the condescending manner of her superior.

“Thanks,” she replied instead, leaving it at that.

Taking the tray laden heavy with pot roast mingled with an assortment of boiled vegetables, she stared into the fire as she picked distractedly at her food. Headmistress Netheel sat down next to her and, for once, attempted to engage in polite conversation.

“It was the most lovely sunset this evening, don’t you think?”

“Mmm…” Laera replied.

“I think the sunsets in Felwithe are positively breathtaking,” Netheel went on to say. “It’s such a special time when one can come closer to Tunare.”

Casting the headmistress a somewhat confused look, Laera shook her head again. What did this have to do with the price of tea in Qeynos?

“It’s most important to take time and remember our roots, and think about the things that are truly important to us. To appreciate all the wondrous things of nature that give us balance. It’s a pity we don’t get to see the sunset in the Faydark. I find it the perfect time to ponder on all of Tunare’s creations, don’t you?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Laera muttered acerbically, taking on an unusually large bite of potato. “For some reason, I’ve had a lot weighing on my mind for the past few months.”

“Oh, but that is why it is so important,” Netheel persisted. “We mustn’t lose touch with nature and the purpose of living. Otherwise, what are we advocating in Her divine work?”

“You got me there,” Laera shrugged.

“Surely you don’t mean to say that in all this time, you haven’t taken the time chance to relax and enjoy the world you’ve been traveling?”

Allowing her forearm to rest against her knee as she sat, the young druid made a show of reflecting on the headmistress’s question before answering.

“You know, I think I probably would have, had the world not been out to kill me and my companion at every turn.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Netheel scoffed. “I’m sure there were stolen moments of joy to be had every once in a while.”

Images of the downpour in the hills just north of Qeynos came to Laera’s mind, as well as the memory of teaching Dreketh to catch rainwater with her mouth as it fell from the sky. A small nostalgic grin crossed her face as she held on to that thought—the first she’d felt was worth holding on to since leaving Highpass.

“Yes, there was one treasured moment…” she said dreamily.

“There now, you see?” Netheel sliced at her serving of roast.

Laera’s face suddenly lost all trace of pleasure.

“Then the shadow knight you hooked me up with murdered a man by stabbing him through the stomach. That, too, was a moment I’ll never forget.”

The head mistress nearly choked on her food. Chewing slowly, she stared wide-eyed at the young druid sitting next to her.

“Then there was the rampant slaughter of gnolls we took part in for the cause of Tunare,” Laera continued conversationally. “Their scalps made the most quaint little slurping sounds as Dreketh yanked them from their skulls.”

Headmistress Netheel hurriedly wiped the corner of her mouth as she swallowed.

“You butchered gnolls?” she asked. “Why that’s barbarism of the worst sort…”

“Well, we had to, you see,” Laera explained. “The humans wouldn’t let Dreketh into Qeynos unless we proved her loyalty by delivering at least five large bags full of gnoll scalps from-”

“Five bags!” The headmistress was aghast.

Blinking slowly, her face carefully neutral, Laera leaned in closer to speak softly.

“We brought in six, just to be sure.”

Netheel sat staring at Laera’s face in stunned disbelief.

“That was about when I learned how to take part in the Vellin Sar.” Laera shrugged, sitting upright to continue eating.

“What is the Vellin Sar?” Netheel asked, her voice losing all trace of amity.

“Oh, it’s one of the most sacred of Teir’Dal rituals,” Laera replied. “Dreketh taught it to me on our way to Odus to meet up with a necromancer colleague of hers near Paineel.”

“That…that’s obscene, child!” the headmistress declared.

Laera looked up, her eyes filled with mock innocence.

“Oh, not really…” she said, shrugging slightly. “When you think about it, there’s quite a bit less virgin blood involved than one might expect…”

“That’s enough! I’ll not hear any more of your blasphemy!” Headmistress Netheel tossed aside her plate, preparing to leave when she was stopped by Laera’s hand on her arm. Slowly, curiously, she sat down, finding the young druid’s serious eyes boring into her.

“The Vellin Sar,” Laera began calmly, “is a simple ritual of complete trust and confidence from one person to another. There is no sacrifice, and no blood is spilled—at least, not if done sincerely. It has nothing to do with Innoruuk or the principles of hate.”

Netheel’s mouth closed into a disapproving frown.

“Why did you lie to me? Why did you make me believe it was some foul Teir’Dal ritual?”

“Oh, it’s a Teir’Dal ritual,” Laera confirmed, nodding. “Just not one to Innoruuk. You assumed the rest. I didn’t make you believe anything. You chose to believe the worst… about Dreketh, and about me.”

Nostrils flaring, the headmistress scowled at her former student. Her expression was returned in kind as Laera lowered her voice to speak in a gravely serious tone.

“Next time, mistress,” she said, using her ex-teacher’s title, “if you insist on passing judgment, make sure you know who and what you’re really talking about before condemning them. I don’t appreciate the conclusions you’ve drawn about me, and I’m insulted at your lack of faith in my principles—all because of my friendship with Dreketh. If such a thing is so abhorrent to you, then you should never have sent me away to form that bond.”

“Child, it was necessary to-”

“Necessary, necessary… I am sick to death of this hypocrisy!” Laera shouted, interrupting. “Everything is necessary! To serve the greater good of Tunare, it’s been necessary to make compromises. But what you really mean is ‘sacrifice,’ don’t you? My sacrifice! Not yours… mine! Admit it! Look into my eyes and admit it!”

Netheel’s gaze didn’t move from the fire.

“I have been placed upon Tunare’s altar as a living sacrifice,” Laera stated unequivocally. “Everything I was is gone because I have befriended a dark elf. In saving our people, I can no longer be one of them. In saving our race, you send me off like a lamb to the slaughter, and now my life could very well end at the hands of my friend. Now you tell me, headmistress, is that right? Is it just? Explain how the sacrifice you planned for me is in any way different than if the Teir’Dal placed me upon their altar, and sliced me open for their god.”

Again, the headmistress didn’t answer.

“Well, let me tell you something,” Laera continued. “I will remove the blood from your hands right now, because I make this sacrifice willingly for the good of all light dwellers. Not for you. Not for the elf races. Not even because you or anyone maneuvered or manipulated me into doing it, but because it’s the right thing to do. Any true follower of the Mother would, in the truest form of allegiance to Her cause of preserving life on Norrath. Think about that the next time you’re looking for an innocent to place on Tunare’s ‘bloodless’ altar!”

Tossing her plate atop Headmistress Netheel’s, Laera stood.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be freshening up down by the river. I wouldn’t want to meet Tunare with hands soiled by the fresh kill we just ate.”

With that, the young druid stalked off into the darkness. Headmistress Netheel remained to stare blankly into the burning campfire before her, the glowing embers reflected in her eyes as she sat unmoving.

“We chose correctly, my Lord Bronzeleaf,” she whispered softly to herself. “Tunare have mercy, we chose well beyond our wildest hopes.”

The days passed with hardly a word from the headmistress. Looking back, Laera held out some regrets over losing her temper as she had. After all, she couldn’t expect anyone else to understand, who hadn’t spent so much time alone with Dreketh. Oddly enough, however, she noticed that the look of ostracism in Headmistress Netheel’s face was absent the following morning, and never returned.

Although she saw Dreketh off and on during daytime hours, she was never given the chance to speak with her—not even privately. Nights were even worse as the two factions of elves made their separate camps in the closing darkness. More than once, Laera considered slipping away for a quick word with her friend, but it remained impossible under the watchful eye of her keepers. She knew Netheel would discourage it at best if asked, while Yeolarn Bronzeleaf would outright forbid it.

Instead, Laera made due with her lonely nights, remembering fondly the comfort she felt when Dreketh kept her warm that evening in Highkeep. The chills seemed a distant memory to the druid, as Xon Quexill’s spell of deterrence kept them well at bay. Still, the man’s voice rang clear in her head, reminding her that she was still being observed by someone—some master necromancer who knew the so-called Prime Cants. Laera didn’t pretend to understand it all, but she could see how seriously Dreketh’s father took it. It disturbed him to no end that he was unable to unravel the mystery behind this spell—that much was obvious.

Laera was diligent in keeping her blanket nearby as she slept and traveled. Every so often, she could sense the penetrating gaze of the master necromancer riding his horse across the way. Casting him a look, she would shake her head, privately indicating the chills had not returned as yet. He would then nod and return to other business.

Other business, such as leading their small army to their final destination. Leaving the Karana Plains behind, the elves soon marched on Qeynos Hills territory. Calling the group to a standstill, Xon Quexill released a detachment of dark elves, sending them off to the north for reasons unknown. When approached by Yeolarn Bronzeleaf, the master necromancer engaged in conversation that turned somewhat ugly to the wood elf’s eyes. A heated argument ensued that looked as if it was about to come to blows, when the high priest suddenly turned tail and sauntered back to join his regime.

“My lord?” Netheel asked, concerned.

“They’re sending an advance ‘scouting party’ to pay Blackburrow a visit,” he muttered under his breath. Seeing the headmistress’s uncomprehending look, he explained, “They are about to butcher a path for us through gnoll territory in order to gain access to the northlands.”

“We are invading gnoll soil?” Headmistress Netheel could hardly believe her ears. “And we are condoning this, my lord?”

“What would you have me do, woman?” Bronzeleaf snapped. “Attack them? Move our forces to defend Blackburrow? We did not journey to the west to save the lives of gnolls.”

“But as Tunare’s druid, I must stand on principle-” Netheel argued, caught short by the sight of Laera staring at her. The young druid’s face was awash with solemnity, as was the high priest’s.

“We can do nothing,” he said with finality. “The Teir’Dal have not revealed the vault’s hiding place. Nor will they until the very last moment of their arrival. Under such stubbornness, we are in their hands. Be prepared, and vigilant of your charge, headmistress. Focus on our goal. It must be served, lest more than gnolls be sent to their graves.”

With that, the high priest steered his white mare away from the two wood elf women to approach his forces, giving them instructions as well. Sighing, the headmistress pulled her cowl over her head, mourning the lives about to be lost in Clan Blackburrow.

Within an hour’s time, the dark elf detachment returned. Though marked by the rigors of battle, they seemed no worse for wear—not one of their number lost. Saluting the master necromancer respectfully, the field sergeant reported that the upper region of gnoll territory was now secure, and safe for the advocates to cross. Without hesitation, Xon Quexill issued the order to move out.

The sights of battle were gruesome as the procession made their way through Blackburrow. Gnoll bodies, hacked and bleeding, lay strewn along the ground and against walls amidst the mark of blood that played over everything. Broken weapons rested near their fallen wielders. Evidence of the poor creatures’ struggles to defend their homeland was apparent, even as they were crushed under the merciless heel of the Teir’Dal.

Headmistress Netheel appeared nearly as pale as her high elf cousins as she took in the brutal carnage surrounding her. Noting her anguish, Laera leaned in to speak confidentially.

“Would it make you feel any better if these were Crushbone orcs that fell to our forces?” she muttered. Not waiting for an answer, she sat upright once again, and ignored the headmistress’s distressed look.

Mercifully, their passage through Blackburrow was short-lived. Passing through a long tunnel, the elven forces left the gnoll homeland behind, a bloody trail in their wake, to pass into the lands of the north.

Not particularly fond of the confining tunnel, Laera nearly panicked at feeling a frigid chill up her spine. Worried that the chills were returning, she was about to hail the master necromancer riding up ahead when she noticed everyone else pulling out their heavy winter gear.

“Here’s a woolen cloak, child,” she heard Netheel say. Turning, Laera accepted the cloak from the headmistress. “And you may wish to use that blanket of yours as well. The peaks of Everfrost are no place for an elf from Faydwer’s climate, I assure you.”

Nodding her assent, Laera threw the cloak around her shoulders, and brought the hood up to keep her natural body heat from escaping. Pulling out her blanket stashed in one of her saddlebags, she draped it across her lap, keeping it at the ready in case the cold proved harsher than the cloak could comfortably handle.

As the caravan of horses rounded one of the many bends in the tunnel, a pure, white light suddenly pierced through the darkness. Laera squinted, shielding her eyes. Before her lay a landscape of rocky crags covered entirely in unblemished snow. Several of the wood elf scouts from her entourage waded through the powdery drifts outside the cave, at times up to their chests as they blazed their trails.

“We’re going to travel through that?” Laera asked, her eyes transfixed on the blinding spectacle. It seemed the most inhospitable land Norrath had to offer.

“Indeed we must,” Netheel responded, glancing toward Yeolarn Bronzeleaf. The high priest returned her stare with equanimity. “And quickly. Time grows short.”

Laera was about to ask what the headmistress meant, when the order came from the vanguard to press forward. A mix of tan and blue elves stood twelve abreast and three deep in order to stamp down a workable trail for the many horses and footmen to travel. Snowdrifts filled the labyrinthine gorges and canyons, at times reaching heights taller than even those on horseback. Many were the times the entourage was forced to make camp while soldiers dug their way through such drifts, opening the pass so they could proceed.

Fortune was on their side, however, as the sun chose this day to shine brightly above the peaks of Everfrost. The sunlight did more than warm Laera’s skin—it also lifted her spirits as they pressed onward to the north. She imagined she could almost see the snow melting before her eyes as the sun’s rays reflected off its glistening surface. Smiling to herself, she could only imagine what such blinding light was doing to Dreketh and the other dark elves with their enhanced vision.

Riding ahead, Xon Quexill raised his hand suddenly, bringing the other riders to a halt. The ring of protective soldiers stopped as well, looking around confusedly as they tried to see what caused the necromancer to cease. Xon Quexill looked around—his motions slow and deliberate.

After a brief interlude of caution, the necromancer looked back, shooting Yeolarn Bronzeleaf a dire look of warning. Though the young and largely unseasoned Laera Nellynwae couldn’t fathom what the necromancer’s glance could possibly mean, Tunare’s cleric responded quickly and decisively.

“Fall back! Company fall back!” he shouted, taking Laera and lifting her from her mount to throw her across his own saddle like a sack of barley. “Go! Go! Go!”

Elves from both factions wasted no time in backing away from their position. Armored men quickly turned to run back the way they came. Horses circled and galloped, their riders careful not to trample their own soldiers underfoot. All the while, an ominous rumble grew to match the cacophony of so many feet making their desperate retreat.

Glancing back as she held tightly to the high elf’s saddle, Laera saw it—snow falling in droves down one steep mountainside to the left. The avalanche appeared as fine sand to the druid’s eyes, almost looking like milk being spilled down the incline. The sheer magnitude of so much snow heading straight toward her overwhelmed the druid’s senses, as she watched her own panicked horse trying to escape the snowy death that awaited it.

White swirling mists engulfed the creature in the distance, obscuring it completely in a matter of seconds. Laera squinted her eyes shut tightly, trying not to imagine what would have happened had the high priest not snatched her from that berth. She was certainly no expert rider, and would probably have panicked in much the same way her poor beast did. Silently, she thanked Tunare for Yeolarn Bronzeleaf’s strength and reflexes as she clung even tighter to his saddle.

As quickly as it began, the rumbling faded, as did the frantic gallop of the high priest’s mare. Risking a peek, Laera looked back to where they had been, to find the entire pass filled to capacity with the enormous, but oddly graceful arc of the newly collapsed snow. The spectacle was marred in several places by large chunks of ice and the occasional tree that had been caught up in the chaos. She estimated the wall stood well over a hundred feet high, possibly two, effectively blocking the path through the gorge.

Silence reigned in stark contrast to the bedlam that ruled moments before. At first, Laera thought the stillness was caused by shock at what she’d just witnessed. But her mistaken notions were put promptly to rest as she squirmed against the pommel digging in her side to get a glimpse of what lay in the opposite direction.

It seemed snow wasn’t the only thing blocking their path. Standing grimly in a row were tall human warriors, armed to the teeth and with faces painted in a myriad of whorls and exotic patterns. Laera recognized them as the tall barbarians who inhabited the northlands. The pass was filled with hundreds of these brutish-looking humans, each clad in a variety of armor, and carrying their own assortment of weapons aimed the elves’ direction. They cut off any retreat they might have made, no less effectively than the avalanche cut off the pass.

In the tense quiet, the two forces faced off. Seconds ticked away until one barbarian wielding a crooked staff easily longer than the tallest elf stepped forward and pointed his colossal hand at the avalanche beyond.

“So witness the might o’ the Tribunal!” The man’s powerful voice rang out to echo among the crags, his words heavy with a northern accent.

“Who are you that crosses the path of peaceful travelers!” Yeolarn Bronzeleaf shouted in return, causing Laera to cover her ears.

“We are the servants o’ the Six Hammers, elf!” the barbarian called back, making a sweeping motion at the entourage behind him. “We are the deliverers o’ justice upon all who seek to do harm upon the populace! Aye, even upon the gods and their mortal instruments shall it be delivered by our swift hand!

“And ye not be peaceful by any means, follower o’ Tunare. Nor the company ye keep! Both yer goddess and Innoruuk ‘ave been delivered their judgment fer crimes against all o’ Norrath! Even now the war o’ the heavens commences in the deliverance o’ their verdict by the Tribunal!”

Horses nickered, sensing the tension of their riders, and smelling, too, the suffusing scent of upcoming battle.

“And what does this have to do with our band of wanderers?” Xon Quexill’s voice rang out. “Surely you don’t believe a paltry band such as this could pose any threat to the mighty Six Hammers of Halas!”

“Dunna ‘sult me intelligence, inkie!” the barbarian barked. “Ye harbor the advocates o’ yer gods in prophecy that will spell doom fer all lands o’ Norrath! Aye, even Halas!”

“If your claim is true,” the master necromancer replied, “then what makes you think our gods would allow you to hinder us!”

“Yer pale gods are a wee bit occupied at the moment! The Tribunal has seen to that, backed fully by the other gods who’re threatened by their actions! That leaves ye and us to settle matters here, and by my count we have ye outnumbered three t’ one! I dunna think ye’ll be treating the likes o’ us the way ye dealt with the gnolls o’ Blackburrow!”

A raucous cry went forth from the assembled barbarian soldiers while the elves looked on, their faces grim. There was no denying the truth of the man’s words. If anything, he was being conservative with the ratio he touted.

“It seems we are wedged between the Tribinal’s gavel and bench,” Laera heard Xon Quexill’s voice speak in an undertone. The necromancer had maneuvered his steed closer to their location during the verbal posturing. Looking up, she found Dreketh seated on her own horse next to him.

“In a literal sense, no less,” came the high priest’s response, glancing at the wall of snow over his shoulder. “In over fifty campaigns, I’ve never seen such odds overcome.”

“I have no gift for military strategy, but I’m afraid I must concur.” As the necromancer spoke, Laera slid cautiously from her undignified position to stand on the trodden snow. “The only importance now is the survival of the nexus to fulfill the prophecy. Our lives are meaningless beyond that sacrifice.”

Yeolarn Bronzeleaf nodded, his face a hardened mask. Turning, he gestured to Headmistress Netheel on her horse several yards away.

“My lord,” she said, approaching.

“I charge you with spiriting the advocates safely from this place,” Tunare’s high priest instructed. Lifting a gauntleted hand, he pointed to the fallen avalanche. “How many of our number can your power accommodate over that ridge?”

The head mistress considered the wall of snow and rubble stretching off into the pass behind them.

“On horseback, I think no more than six. There is no telling how deeply the blockage extends, my lord.”

“Very well, select three escorts to aid you in your protection,” the high elf said. Turning, he addressed Xon Quexill. “I presume you will demand two of them be Teir’Dal, in the interests of serving your advocate?”

“Better than that,” replied the necromancer evenly, “I shall accompany them myself. As custodian of the Pact, I and I alone know the whereabouts of Erollisi Marr’s vault, and so must lead them there personally.”

Yeolarn Bronzeleaf’s complexion turned a mild reddish hue.

“Of all the cowardly-”

“Spare me your indoctrination of honor and sacrifice, priest of Tunare,” Quexill raised his hand, forestalling the high elf’s words. “I have seen the visions the prophecy has to offer, and it is not my destiny to die here with you. Beyond that, there are other…considerations I must attend to.”

Laera flushed hotly as she looked down at her feet, knowing that the necromancer referred to her unique predicament.

“But you shan’t remain without a certain amount of protection,” the necromancer continued. “I may be a callous bastard and a coward to your eyes, but I do know the value of numbers. Prepare yourself.”

His eyes rolling back into his head, Xon Quexill murmured in a guttural tone. Arms outstretched, he raised his palms to the sky, his voice growing louder. Joining it in a dark harmony was a rumbling not unlike the one accompanying the avalanche moments ago. It reverberated among the crags and sheer cliffs all about in a much similar fashion.

“Fallen armies of the Father, arise,” the master necromancer finished, switching to the common tongue.

Snow erupted from the ground all about in large clumps and wisps of glimmering specks. Within each burst stood a skeletal warrior, clad in ancient ceremonial armor of Teir’Dal design. Dozens of such eruptions took place amidst the combined army of elves, causing the soldiers to blench momentarily. After the master necromancer’s spell completed, they found their number easily doubled in size, swelled by the ranks of the undead.

His arms now fully raised, Xon Quexill opened his hate-filled eyes to peer out across the snowy pass toward the Tribunal’s army. Seeing the once contemptuous and jeering assembly now daunted by the undead spectacle unleashed before them, he recognized the moment of opportunity and seized it. Reaching forth his blue hand, the dark elf necromancer ordered his hosts to the attack.

Howls of rage emitted from the undead troops, shrieking an unearthly battle cry in defiance of the Six Hammers’ attempt to thwart their master’s designs. En masse, they rushed toward to their destiny at the hands of their hated enemy.

Casting one last sneer toward the master necromancer, Yeolarn Bronzeleaf drew his silver mace from its holding ring fastened at his belt.

“If I live to draw breath upon this land, I swear I will find your cowardly corpse at the end of my weapon, Teir’Dal,” he muttered. “May we all live to see such a day.”

Raising the gleaming mace above his head, Tunare’s high priest shouted his own battle cry, taken up by those living souls among the army’s ranks—dark and light alike. In the cold air of Everfrost Peaks, the armies of elf and barbarian collided.

Turning his back on the ensuing battle, Xon Quexill addressed those who remained. The necromancer’s features shown haggard and somewhat gaunt from casting so powerful a spell.

“We must flee,” he said urgently. “Quickly, before the forces are overwhelmed.”

Without hesitation, Headmistress Netheel closed her eyes, weaving her hands in quick intricate patterns. A spark of magic permeated the air around them as the mounts brayed, discovering that their hooves no longer met with the ground. The spell of levitation was complete.

“Come, child,” she said to the awestruck Laera gawking at the floating horses, as she herself stood earthbound. “In your steed’s absence, you must share my mount. Quickly!”

Laera nearly took hold of the headmistress’s outstretched hand, but hesitated mid-reach. She realized that all bets were off in this final stage of the Pact. Hearing the sounds of war being waged behind her, it dawned on the wood elf that the lines once drawn through the unlikely band of soldiers no longer existed in their thirst for blood. But not elf blood, nor was it the blood of barbarians, or any mortal race.

It was the blood of gods. Laera’s quandary about bridging racial gaps was suddenly and gruesomely answered.

The young druid realized it was time to do what she should have done days ago in the Karana Plains. From now on, the Pact belonged to them—she and Dreketh. From now on, she decided she was going to do things her own way.

Looking defiantly up into her former teacher’s insistent face, the young druid turned on her heel to take up Dreketh’s capable hand instead. Scrambling, she climbed atop her companion’s horse to rest in the saddle behind the shadow knight. Her arms wrapped around her friend, she held firmly to the dark elf’s midriff as the small collection of horses rode over the otherwise impassible avalanche, away from battle’s fury.

Away from death’s icy grip.

Chapter 27 - Necessary Evils