Contents

[15.1] Battles

William is able to keep Morgan's wight at bay after it kills Macomb and runs off to attack the goblins. The goblins have found them, but they find themselves not only against the small group of humans, but the powerful undead hunter as well.

Sirilyr tells the others to run and stays behind to lead the monsters away from them. Sirilyr sees Macomb rise as wight, and watches it kill a possessed bugbear. Sirilyr flees the spawning undead.

Returning to the tower cabin, they discover the cellar, smelling of rot, concealing a secret passage to a level below, littered with bits of bodies. Ghouls lurk in the side passages and attempt to thwart their progress.

[15.2] The Guardian

Spencer back-tracks to find Sirilyr, but the Macomb-wight finds him, followed by a pack of goblin-wights. William comes in just in time, and they flee the area.

The priestesses find the underground tunnel leads to a deeper complex inhabited by ghouls and mysteriously ruled by something worse.

Sirilyr loses the others in the stormy night.

[15.3] Conclusion

Spencer and William manage to get back to the party with their warning. They and Sleene decide to part with Star and Georan. Sleene must find Feorik and Star must warn Tir about the undead goblins. Sleene's pendant leads them to the tower.

A gruesome laboratory is discovered. A specter forms and attacks until it recognizes its daughter, Linda. The red priest reappears; Orinden drives off Raymon while Ich grabs the book. Orinden and the priest flee, covered by undead under their control.

Sirliyr finds the river gorge, and finds the trial of the others. He comes upon the dwarf bridge, and finds the abandoned camp, and the tower. He shows up and helps defeats the undead.

Orinden has fled into the dwarven catacombs and they escape down the river.

 [15.1] Battles

            "Drive it away! Drive it away!" Sirilyr called, the fright edged his voice shrilly and chilled them all. William, nowhere to run, trembled as he felt the pressure. He found Arawn's heavy symbol that was previously hidden beneath robe and armor in his hands; he knew he had to help Sirilyr, had to overcome this wight before it reached them. Looking at Sleene's arm in his hand, William shook her, drew her eyes to his away from the abomination, "I know this is frightening, but I have not the power to turn this abomination alone. Please help me and call upon your earthly spirits to rid the realm of this evil."

            "I…uh…I have no power over such a thing," Sleene gasped, getting hold of herself. William's breath was faster, desperate. The wet, dull, pounding of the undead's blows rang in his ears.

            "Do what you can!" Spencer yelled at him as he grabbed Sleene away from him. "The goblins, slow them with your spells, make them come up the steep slopes!" He instructed Sleene as he dragged her south toward the edge of the thicket. Turning to the wight, William watched Sirilyr steadily giving ground toward them. Cursing and spitting upon the undead personification of his fears, Sirilyr matched the shadowy being shouted curse for quiet scuffle, scything strike for vicious blow, and grim growl for gnashing grimace. The creature was unaffected even has his blade in defense was shredding its desiccated flesh.

            "It's Morgan," William heard Macomb gasp. Both he and Star were transfixed with fright and horrid recognition. "Get behind me!" William ran towards the two combatants and came round wide on Sirilyr's left.

            "'Urry up ye bastards!" Sirilyr shrieked, as he thought this'll be a near run thing if me fellows ain't quick to act. "Bring fire!" He called painfully as he heard the scrambling behind him.

            "Georan!  Can your ways make fire?" Sirilyr heard the call from his left and realized how close he was. He must buy them time or they would be scattered to the winds by the creature's hunger driven fury. William had raised the iron medallion and was calling upon Arwan, desperation tinged his call for power. "Arwan...My great Lord and Master...Hear my prayers and answer your humble servant.  Lend me the power to turn this twisting of life from my friends and ward.  Please, I beg of you to help us live to see another bright dawn! "BEGONE FOUL BEAST, LEAVE THIS LIFE IN PEACE AND RETURN NEVER MORE!!"  Wheeling on the creature, William brandished the round of metal in his hand on a silver chain, and kept repeating, "Begone, begone, by the power of Arwan."

            To Sirilyr's dread the call was not affecting the creature; the young priest was their best hope. But hearing the voice assuaged some of his fear. I must work 'im in a circle ta keep 'im off balance or I'm done fer, the ranger thought as training began to override his fearful instincts. He calmed himself to the task at hand, "Come on! Come on..." He hissed at the now spinning creature of children's nightmares as they circled round. Again the thing leapt, razor sharp claws and glistening slime covered teeth shining in the orange firelight and lightning flashes.

            But the thing did not take the bait, as Sirilyr drew it round, it saw Macomb and Star and Georan. Unnaturally agile, it leapt sideways and in two bounds had crashed full into Macomb, too scared to act fast enough. Star screamed and screamed as she backed away watching the Morgan-wight tumble Macomb over and reign blows upon on the man. Morgan cried out briefly but was silenced abruptly. Flashes of light burst upon the creature as it continued to batter the dead man's crushed skull. Georan's spell had distracted it to look up at him with deep burning eyes that saw from beyond the grave. The pockmarks of the magic blasts seemed inconsequential against the rage and anger the mage saw in that hellish gaze.

            Sirilyr's inherent childhood fear of the undead was finally squashed by the furious revulsion he felt rising within him. He fought back with a flaming anger that the Gods would allow such as this to dare to walk upon the same ground as he. The soldier ran up and sliced across its back and followed by slamming his roundshield against its crouched posture, toppling it off Macomb, but it twisted back and onto it's butt facing Sirilyr. Star was still screaming, William still chanting, moving closer.

            Sirilyr advanced, but it was quickly on its feet. Georan's staff cracked over its head, but the brain beneath the dented skull was not driving this unholy creature. It engaged Sirilyr again. The hag's charm did no' warn me?! The abstract realization crossed his mind as he parried a slashing claw with his sword blade, slicing another long gash in the appendage. "Now, give me an opening an it's off wit' yer ugly 'ead!" The ranger grunted under the effort of yet another flurry of exchanged blows.

            Then the thing winced in pain. Sirilyr saw a bright light reflected in its hellfire eyes. William was behind him, near, and his call to Arwan had finally been heard. The light, visible only to those burning undead eyes, made it recoil. Star ran at it then, her fright and shock also turned to rage. She and Sirilyr stabbed it as it shrank and fled the holy power William called forth; fled down the steep slope into the wet darkness. They heard it sliding down the talus. "You bastard! You bastard!" Star cursed between gasping breaths. She dropped to Macomb's unseemly corpse.

            "So much fer being quiet," Sirilyr grimaced. "Damnit," he felt the stabbing pain in his upper side telling him the undead thing had broken ribs as he tried to breath.

            William let the iron round fall to his chest. His face told of his fear and surprise. He looked upon Star and Macomb, a great sadness and regret settled on his visage. Grimly viewing the body of what had been a good man, Sirilyr winced and cursed to himself as he lifted his sword to sheath its foul blade. "Damnit!" Exhaling to ease the stabbing pain and weakness he felt in his left arm and side. The ranger slung his shield with a groan. And using two hands was able to secure his blade.

            "The goblins, they come," Georan told Sirilyr who too stood in brief, silent contemplation. "Spencer took Sleene to entangle the slope, force them up the steeper sides."

            "Geo, take Sleene and the others and get them away from here! Now!"

            William turned to Sirilyr, and placed a hand on Star crouched next to Macomb. The older woman was silent now. "Great idea, but you're coming to!" He had an idea of what Sirilyr was planning. "If the undead follows, I will turn it again.  My hopes lie with the goblins fighting with the undead.  Come we must leave now." He patted Star.

            Holding his smashed ribs with one hand, his left arm hung listlessly to his side. "Me ribs is smashed and me leg is done in..." Staring hard into the priest eyes with a look full of meaning, "I'll no be runnin' wit' y'uns this time." Sirilyr hissed in pain. "I've a mind ta do this thing an 'ave a; a way ta stop them from followin' ye." The exhausted warrior looked back north to the wight's cave and then south towards the growing noises of approaching goblin party before turning his attention back to his old comrade. "Get it done Geo. Get them safe. And tell Spence... tell 'im ta take care o' Sleene." Lifting the magic charm of protection from his neck, "give this to 'er after... when yer all safe." The ranger swallowed hard and squinted hard to keep the emotion from his eyes.

            Georan nodded once grim faced as he took the charm and dashed off, to get Spencer and Sleene. Star stood too, anger, grief, fear, all combined in tight-lipped seriousness. She nodded to William, "We must flee. All of us Sirilyr."

            "They've split to either side!" they heard Spencer call out. "The first of um are caught in Sleene's plants, but they're pushing through! We need Sirilyr's bow!"

            "We've got to run! Sirilyr's hurt, Macomb's killed." Georan answered. "We're not enough." Indeed, their shouts were met by unintelligible shouts of monsters from one side of the ridge to the other, and the goblins slowed by the tangle spell.

            Placing his hand upon young William's shoulder and giving a squeeze. "Ya did good lad. William there is more to you than ye know. Only life will show it to you. Ye are a priest. Viatani would be proud." To Star he said, "I am sorry about yer friends, here, last night. You Tiran's ha' fought well." Now," he took the torch from William and tossed it at the ring of fallen hunters, "Get out o' 'ere! Tell the others I went on a'ead. Don't stop till ye drop!" Pointing to Macomb's still form Sirilyr quietly said, "leave 'im. There be more work fer 'e and I yet to do..."

            There was a startled screech from Sleene followed by Spencer and Georan unseen in the dark. "The trees!" Georan shouted.

            "Ah! Damn!" Spencer cursed. They struggled to the edge of light, wrestling with dark branches, clinging to them. William and Star went to help. The branches were animate, small humanoid forms made of thorny, intertwined sticks. As the three tried to pry and pull them off, the creatures grabbed and swiped with their small, clawed hand clusters. Already they had inflicted many superficial scratches, but with William and Star's help, the things were quickly broken, extracted, and smashed.

            Seeing there were only four of the spindly creatures assaulting the pair and knowing the fragility of the little 'gits', Sirilyr raised his mantle, the smoke blackened, field gray, dripping heavy cloak blended almost naturally into the early eve's storm troubled darkness. Sirilyr had grabbed Macomb's still form by the boots and dragged the still warm body. He had to wrap his good arm around the dead man's ankles and pull as if he were a plow horse. Sirilyr painfully hobbled towards the wight's lair; biting his lower lip until it bled. Sirilyr left the body where it could easily be seen from the sacrifice sight.

            "Thar's too many criss-crossed tracks on this 'ere ground fer em ta follow me." He commented to himself as he struggled to breath properly. Avoiding the barrow entrance the sorely wounded soldier then circled east, climbing painfully around to above the opening of the wight's lair to conceal and cool himself and wait. Lifting his face to the downpour, "At least the damn rain'll hide me scent." Laying down painfully with a slight grunt, just above the yawning opening he concealed himself upon the muddy ground.

            Sirilyr smiled thankfully as he saw his initial set of tracks were still quite clear leading up to the inky hole. He watched the others gather, notice Macomb's body, and heard Spencer say something. "Well now, it shan't be long now." He whispered through clenched teeth and fought the agony in his side. "At least the cool rain as soaked me through, that'll cut thar 'eat sight more than a might if'n I wallow like a 'og a bit in this ooze." After an agonizing roll, the stoic man awaited upon his fate.

 

            "They jumped from the trees!" Sleene told William and Star. "It stings," she complained as she inspected the scratches while they stepped nearer the torch on the ground. Her attention was drawn away though when she saw that Macomb had been dragged toward the mouth of the cave, and was lying unceremoniously on the ground. Sirilyr was nowhere in sight.

            Spencer looked about frantically, grasping for anything that might ease their present plight. Spencer's mind was racing; again caught in a death trap, he struggled for a way to survive. He turned to Sleene, "Your domain is the forest. Could you lure some of the beasts through dense growth and be sure of pacing them?" Spencer wiped his face nervously, wishing he bore a shield. Their archers would be lethal if allowed free reign, he thought disconnectedly. This was to be a sore test...

            "No more than badgers like last night," she looked to find Nip and Snap lying at the edge of light on the west side of the small thicket of trees. She knew she could also call upon these two to fight.

            "We've got to run," William stepped to them, "Get away, as far as we can. That dead thing, it will fight the goblins, and anything else alive. We'll call allies later." As if in answer, from the below out of the dark to the east, the wight had found the goblins. There were terrible screams, then frightful shouting. Shouts from the west answered - close.

            "Let's just run!" Star said desperately as the sounds of the wight killing goblins filled the night. She pulled William's cloak briefly, but took off north, running out of the trees west of the outcrop and Macomb's still form.

            William glanced at her fleeing form, then glimpsed Macomb spasming. He knew dark spirits were fighting over the prize left them by the Morgan's wight. "We must go now!" William said to the others hoping they would not notice the twitching of the dead man's limbs. He glanced at the five piles of desecrated remains at the bases of the ring of trees. They were still, but William now feared what they had done. "Follow, run. We have to get out of here!" A battle cry rose up from the west slope. The goblins had seen them. A javelin was thrown badly at them through the trees. They all ran, following where Star had disappeared into the dark and rain.

 

            Sirilyr heard the terrified screams from the east and watched Star run off to his right. After an uncomfortable pause that had Sirilry chanting run, run, run in his mind, the others finally followed her. Too close, two goblins entered the circle of faltering torchlight. One threw a javelin at Spencer trailing the group with the low forms of Nip and Snap at his side. The goblins, a third appeared, started to give chase when they stopped at looked in Sirilyr's direction. His heart skipped, and he hunched to push himself up and draw them away from his friends.

            But then he saw that they had not seen him, but something else that horrified Sirilyr. Macomb had stood up. The blood on his bashed skull glinted with a flicker of firelight as Macomb stalked toward the goblins, raising his arms in tight fingered claws. The goblins prepared to meet what they thought was a badly wounded, unarmed human. Then behind the goblins came the giant goblinoid creature with the axe. But something was different, something wrong with it. The bugbear raised its axe and with features twisted with bloodlust, cleaved down from behind and through one of the goblins skulls and into its chest.

            Blood and brains exploded everywhere and the other goblins jumped away terrified. The bugbear grinning with its feral teeth at the goblins, half his size, shouted in fright at it. It put its huge foot on the back of the dead goblin and pushed it off his embedded axe. The goblins shouted warnings to their still unseen brethren. Raising the dripping axe again, the monstrous goblinoid snarled loudly and transformed into a hideous thing of the dead causing the goblins to drop their weapons and run. Even Sirilyr jumped at the sight, some thirty feet away.

            But the Macomb-thing did not flinch and continued to close with the undead bugbear. It spun to face the smaller human form and gave another roar from its dead flesh head. Unaffected, Macomb's wight leapt at the bugbear. The axe came round and through the wight's left arm and into its chest. The severed limb fell off, but the wight just reached around and grabbed the haft of the weapon and held it so the bugbear could not free it. Releasing one hand, the bugbear made to shove the wight back with its foot. But the wight let loose the axe and grabbed the leg and lunged to bite.

            The bugbear-thing screamed in agony and fright, letting go the axe and pushing backwards off the wight. A spurt of liquid jetted from the wound as the bugbear backpedaled. The wight, axe still stuck in it, kept coming. Then something drew Sirilyr's attention to the darkness below and to his left. He realized the sounds of fright and battle had ended from over there. Then he saw the Morgan-wight running toward the bugbear. Seeing this second undead thing, gave it pause.

            Suddenly, the corpse visage vanished from the bugbear. It looked at the bleeding, one-armed human in front of him, still clawing for him with his axe half through his; and the undead thing running at him from the dark. A scream of utter terror erupted from this large beast. It made to run, but sharp pain from the vicious bite on its leg shot through and made it whine. The Macomb-wight leapt on it then, clawing and pounding on it, toppling it over. The Morgan-wight joined in. Sirilyr watched and listened, paralyzed with terror, to the horrid yelping and whining as the big goblin's life was rended from it.

            The rest of the living goblins had regrouped beyond the copse. They were not rallying though; more must have become entangled in Sleene's lingering spell. Sirilyr had heard these shouts before; Sirilyr had caused these shouts before. Trapped and scared goblins, the goblins called for help. The two wights rose from the now quiet heap of torn bugbear flesh. They turned from it and walked through the trees towards the terrified goblins, disappearing into darkness as the torch finally sputtered out.

 

            Once back at the tower, Feorik very carefully approached the hut, not wanting a surprise, either from Nasir or the flyer that Darvian had seen.  Once the way was proved clear, Feorik relaxed a little and they all went to stand around the trap door: Karod, Feorik, Darvian, Linda, Mellody, Storn, and Orinden. There was nothing for it but for all to go below, Orinden included, and risk getting attacked by Nasir when they came back to the surface.  It would be poor odds for the Red Priest, and Feorik swore he wouldn't let the man escape twice. But what to do with Orinden?  He hoped Linda had a solution, for Feorik's mood was sour and he would just as soon take the man down below with them blind-folded with hands still tied.

            The trapdoor was meant to be concealed and fit smoothly with the floorboards. Karod lifted the door using his dagger to wedge it up. It was not hinged. Under it, a steep set of wood stairs, practically a ladder, descended to a dark cellar. A very bad smell rose from there. Death and rot. But it was quiet. "We'll need light," Storn observed. The lantern was relit, and Karod ignited a torch.

            "Who's first?" Karod asked.

            "Feorik, Karod, you two check out the cellar. Call down Darvian or me next. Storn and Mellody will stay behind with Orinden until we are ready. We'll keep doing this until we find what lies below," Linda reasoned out a plan.

            Karod glanced to Feorik and to the stair. The light of his torch showed that they descended only about eight feet to another wood plank floor. "Doesn't smell so bad," Feorik muttered, compared to the sewers of Bilcoven anyways.  He loosened his sword in its scabbard and descended the stairs.  "Keep close Karod." His footfalls echoed through the dark room below. He disliked the underground, any place without an open sky, and his hand rested on his weapon's hilt.

            Karod came down a few steps just behind Feorik with the brand, and leaned over to look around. The flickering light of the torch revealed most of the room, except for the dark corners and shadows cast by the few odd chests and shelves lining the walls.  Once down the short stair, Feorik moved away from the steps and Karod came down.  He felt less threatened, with all the bones gone, but the stink of the place and generally eerie feel of the innocuous room kept him on edge.  Feorik knelt and inspected the floor, noting uneasily that the boards were not resting on the ground. The planks were not carefully laid with and gaps of half an inch or more. Under his weight, the boards bowed downward as much.

            The dirt and dust had accumulated, and the tracks of Nasir's prior passage were clear. He had obviously spent time looking around the room in some detail. Feorik stood to follow the trail around the square room. The walls were of large stones. Log rafters supported the plank floor above, and the cellar extended under the hall and kitchen as well as the workroom above. After walking and examining the perimeter Nasir obviously found what he was looking for and knocked over a set of shelves to reveal a hole in the wall. A ladder lay askew atop it.

            "Found something," Feorik called up, gesturing for Karod to come over with the torch and shine a light into the hole.  The rocks of the wall had been removed and earth excavated downward in a sort of half-shaft. Two spikes had been driven into the earth just above floor level. The torchlight just barely reached a flagstone floor nearly twenty feet below. After gazing down there a moment, the Warder strode to the stair and called upwards, "Hole in the wall, with a ladder.  Are we ready to go down?"

            Standing around the trap door Darvian was shivering slightly with his heart beating and his palms sweating he knew that he was afraid. But there was nothing for it, they had to go down there eventually. Linda's plan was reasonable and thus Darvian prepared himself to climb into the darkness. He stepped down to Feorik in front of Linda with the lantern. They walked to the wall and the hole. The lantern lit more of the floor below, but only showed more flagstones and debris, debris that looked like tattered clothes and bones. "More bones", Darvian muttered under his breath, "I hope they do behave this time." 

            It was clear they had to go further down, but the ladder Feorik mentioned was only twelve feet long. The two spikes driven into the shaft would be suitable to support the ladder, so it should be possible to climb down and while dangling on the lowest rung drop the last few inches. Equally it should be possible to reach the ladder again to climb out on their return.

            "I'll go first.  The most important thing is light, and then help in case something attacks me," Feorik said, taking charge now that the direction to go was more clear. "Karod, keep the torch ready, when I get down there drop it to me," Feorik said as he fed the ladder down the hole and hook it on the spikes.  "Then be ready to quickly follow."

            Darvian was wondering why anybody would design such a cumbersome system, until it dawned on him that this was probably a way to contain whatever roamed below. Then immediately another problem came to his mind. "What about Nasir? If the priest is not far away, he could sneak up and remove the ladder while they were below," Darvian shared his unsettling idea.

            The Warder eyed the gap for another moment, "That's why we looked for him," Feorik said flatly. "It's not an impossible climb back up."  Mellody came down, the Orinden, prodded by Storn. The paladin stepped over put a hand on Feorik's shoulder and the Brigantian looked down into the hole, concentrating fiercely.  Mellody's eyes were wide as she stood next to Orinden, still trussed.  The man seemed complacent - for now.

            "There are evil things down there. Undead," Storn warned.

            "Tie a rope around yourself, so we can pull you out quickly," Linda suggested softly.  Knowing it was a good idea, Feorik did so, the hemp tight around his chest; as he went down it would pull tightly on his underarms but his studded leather would keep take the brunt of the pressure.

            "As a safety measure, attach a rope to the ladder as well," Darvian offered.

            Feorik did so, one end of the spool of rope around his torso and another knotted quickly around the ladder top. Storn took the slack end of Feorik's, Darvian the ladder's.  Feorik reversed and quickly went down the ladder, dropping the last few feet to land in a crouch. He spun around, looking in all directions. The light from above did not penetrate the darkness around Feorik, he had a very nervous feeling, and gestured to Karod to drop the torch.  "Hurry down!" Feorik hissed.

            As the brand fell, two hunched forms congealed from the blackness. They were running at him from a passage at the other end of the room. Feorik scrambled for his weapons as the torch hit the ground next to him. These things were dead, long dead, but moving quickly at him with clawed hands and barred teeth. "Here they come!" is all Feorik could reply as he stepped away from the opening and drew his sword to meet them.

            The creatures fell upon Feorik like wild animals, grabbing at his arms, lunging to bite any close-by piece of him. His sword parried their limbs; they showed no sign of pain from the sliced and gashed flesh.  He heard Karod, or someone, hurrying down the ladder, but he was too busy to spare a moment to glance up. He managed to draw the ghouls to the side, putting the ladder behind them. Where their claws managed rake his hands and wrists, he felt the stinging, burning reaction as if allergic to their filth.

            Karod dropped off the ladder behind the horrors, while Feorik managed to score a few hits, all of which would have dropped a living man, but none of which affected these animate corpses. Karod hacked deeply into one of them from behind. It turned from Feorik and rabidly attacked Karod. From above, a strong feminine voice sung out. The ghouls winced as if lit by great light; Linda shouted her call of power louder. The monsters convulsed, seized up, and howled in pain. The eerie, hellfire light of their eyes faded as they fell to their knees, then slumped onto the ground. Laughter rolled deeply across the sub-cellar from the dark passage. Linda, still high up on the ladder, brandished her sickle in that direction and continued to call upon Brigantia. The laughter ended abruptly, replaced by footsteps running away down the hall.

            Feorik fought down a desperate urge to chase the laughter, but that would be foolish.  Instead, he kicked one of the bodies, just to make sure that whatever Linda had done to it wasn't temporary.  He picked up the brand, and called upwards, in a taut voice, "Should I burn them?"

            Linda was making her way hurriedly down the ladder. She came to Feorik and, ignoring his question asked, "Are you wounded?"  Feorik nodded.  "Hold there," she commanded. Karod took the brand and he and Feorik both peered at the passage as Linda examined the wounds with a critical eye. Claws has raked his hands and wrists, they bled, but were already swollen with poison from rotten filth. "Squeeze out the blood," Linda told him as she put away her sickle and retrieved a flask from her robe. Feorik removed the rope from his chest, and did as she said.

            The almost immediate attack had confirmed Darvian's worst fear; containment had clearly be on the mind of whomever had constructed this cellar. He could only listen to the animal frenzy of the onslaught.  He took a step backward from the opening, when he realized that Linda was stepping forward, calling upon the favor of her god. A gleam of hope blossomed in his chest as it turned out that the powers of Brigantia were strong enough to fight those horrors, but the battle was not over yet. The frightening, evil laughter rang through his ears and chilled his bones.

            Listening to the receding footsteps, Darvian accepted that they had to follow the source of this laughter, and quickly, while the tide of the battle was still on their side. Mellody went down ladder, and then Darvian climbed down the ladder as quick as he could and jumped the last few feet down to the floor below. He stepped next to Feorik and Karod, indicating to them that he would be ready to start the chase. Trembling slightly the young man hefted his quarterstaff in both his hands. A feeling of dread was slowly rising within him. As so often in the last few weeks he felt like he was in way over his head. Would his meager powers even affect abominations like those down here? Feorik noticed the look in Darvian's eyes and grunted something, but the words were lost as Linda started a chant and the others moved about in the close confines, which echoed loudly.

            Linda healed several ugly scrapes on Feorik's hands with holy water and prayer. Karod stood with the torch watching the passage. Orinden climbed down next, with Storn threatening to drop on him from above. Before Storn could drop off the ladder and rebind Orinden, the man moved over to the fallen bodies and inspected them. He frowned and stood with furrowed brows, then Storn grabbed his arms. "Come on, you can't bind me with those things down here! Look at this place!"

            The torch barely lit the walls of the square bottom of this sub-cellar although, without the two wood floors and cabin above them, this would be a large stone-lined hole in the ground with a stone tower at one corner. The cabin was definitely much younger. The floor was littered with fabric and bits of bodies. The walls were marked with scrapes and scratches all the way to the planks and support beams above; the dirt by the ladder had also been assaulted, but it was too loose to support them. These undead monsters obviously wanted to escape, but had not figured out how, or were not allowed.

            "You know what they are?" Feorik growled at Orinden, one-eye boring into the man.  Mathonwy? Sorcery? Accursed of the Gods?  Orinden knew things ... "Speak!"

            "Eaters of the dead," Orinden clarified. "Whatever magic is here has infected this place badly," he nodded at the walls. "Look, the walls had been painted. A place of importance at one time." He was right; although most of it had been scraped off, it was the paint that made the scratching and clawing of the ghouls obvious.

            "Bind one wrist, and hold the other end," Linda snapped as she finished with her incantations. "That was not Nasir. Something more than those," she nodded with contempt at the ghouls on the floor. "It was testing us with its spawn."

            "Orinden, know this.  If you help us with your knowledge against...this…thing, you will have my thanks," Feorik growled at the man.  He let the implication of the importance of having friends in the aftermath of this whole business hang in the air.  "But ... if you in any way hinder us I will kill you myself. Can swords kill it?" Feorik asked, as he turned to face the tunnel. 

            Mellody whimpered a little, as Karod looked to Linda for her reply. But it was Storn who said, "Swords and faith will be enough," and he gestured towards the direction that the laughter had receded.  Grimly, Feorik led the way with Karod across to the dark opening. The tunnel was ten foot tall and reinforced by large stone blocks. Dark openings loomed regularly spaced on either side; the tunnel proceeded beyond the range of the torch. Mellody neared with the lantern and illuminated the hall, showing five pairs of openings before ending in a room.

            Orinden was right, they were not in a simple potato cellar. The architecture and especially the regular design reminded Darvian of a place of worship. Out on the surface he could easily imagine that a meditative atmosphere could permeate these walls, but down here the chamber and especially the tunnel just instilled fear. Behind every opening, every dark alcove, some evil abomination could lurk, ready to cause more havoc on their bodies and souls.

            "This place is corrupt of evil," Storn told them as they hesitated. "Undead could be anywhere." Feorik breathed in and nodded, mustering courage. He nodded at Karod and at the first doors on his side; swords ready they stepped to the sides of the first openings. Feorik looked in while Karod watched his back. It was a small alcove, with tattered, ruined contents - more gnawed bones. As Feorik eased back, a creature jumped out, biting at him from the hidden corner. Instinctively swiping at it with sword to cover his back pedal. Something had come out at Karod too.

            More ghouls with sickening desiccated flesh, lips retracted in perpetual snarls to reveal elongated teeth choked with stringy fibers of grotesque feed. Eight more emerged tactfully from the other alcoves. They came slowly, studying the group as Karod and Feorik engaged the first two. Feorik took a deep breath as he readied for combat, and immediately regretted the choking stink as he almost gagged.  The thing he faced had clearly once been a man, but now insane hunger burned in its eyes. It bit at him while its claws scrabbed, eager and quick.

            Determined to put these abominations out of their misery as quickly as possibly, Feorik battled fiercely with his long sword.  The unarmored foes made easy targets for his powerful swings, but the fearless creatures felt no pain making it impossible to know if the blows were effective.  They faced creatures of darkness; creatures come alive from dark tales to frighten children.  Usually these tales ended with the heroes victorious and the Undead destroyed.  Usually.

            Darvian made to lunge forward with his staff as he saw the additional horrors surge out of the dark openings and proceed toward the battling warriors. Storn grasped him and held him back. For a moment he was set to complain loudly, but the sudden flurry of blades explained Storn's purpose and then he heard the call of Linda's voice and saw her upraised sickle. The priestess again called upon Brigantia against these violations of nature. The two struggling to eat and tear at Feorik and Karod suddenly winced, froze, and collapsed. The next two in the hall stopped, also afflicted with fright or pain at the priestess' call. "Thanks for saving my skin," Darvian muttered to Storn when the latter let go of his scruff.

            Feorik watched his foe tense and cleaved its head as it fell along with Karod's. Beyond it, the next ghoul turned and fled into the pack behind it while the next one approaching Karod dropped to its knees then onto its face. The warriors heard Linda's feminine, but commanding voice above their pounding heartbeats. With a glance at each other that conveyed a confidence that allayed some of their fright, they both stepped forward to meet the next two ghouls. Even as they did, the voice of Brigantia banished whatever evil animated the corpses. Beyond those, another fell, another fled crashing against the last two in the hall. The two swordsmen ensured the fallen were incapacitated as they stepped over them. The last two ghouls shrank back, sneering their feral sneers, turned to run. Linda's streaming voice silenced.

            Thankful for the Priestess' timely intervention, Feorik half-turned to call something back when the ghoul running away in front of him, turned suddenly and bolted straight at him. Before he could get his sword up, the thing had grabbed both his arms. It managed to sink claws to flesh on his left arm and Feorik felt the sting of its poison just before the smell of its maw and it gruesomely elongated teeth snapped inches from his face. An off balanced assault, Feorik twisted and threw it back ripping its claws from his wrist. Karod ran it through, and as it snarled defiantly, Feorik followed up with a heavy blow that sliced it from shoulder to hip.  Still and quiet, the corpse slumped, its evil ended.

            In the stillness, they listened to the echoing sounds of the ghouls fleeing deeper into this strange complex. At their feet the dead rested quietly now. Like the first two, their tattered clothes were those of peasants. Male apparently; their animation had mutilated their forms. Carefully approaching each alcove, they proceeded toward the room at the end. All but the last on the left were storage areas or studies, but all furniture and contents were destroyed. The last was a hall to a privy with four seats above a dark pit. The room at the end of the hall was long. To the left, about twenty feet the floor was raised a step; a dais heaped with scraps of wood and many bones.

            To the right, the fifteen foot wide room extended back thirty or so feet. Broken chairs and benches were scattered along the way. A heavy wood table survived, pushed askew in the far corner. These undead had been here a long time defiling the place. At that end of the long room, another hall with regular alcoves extended. A path through the refuse indicated that the ghouls and whatever ruled them traversed this room. The walls, lined with empty sconces, had also been elaborately painted once, but here interestingly, the flat ceiling, some fifteen feet above, was still painted as a partly cloudy sunlit sky.

            Entering the room warily, Feorik set his lone eye on the exit passage and waited.  Only after giving a minute for fresh horrors to arise from the alcoves beyond did he step further in.  Scanning table and refuse quickly, his attention focused on the painted ceiling.  "Why decorate a cellar?" Feorik asked no one in particular.

            Darvian had followed the two leading men into the larger chamber, examining it carefully. "I don't think this was a cellar when it was built", Darvian picked up on the question the warder had asked rhetorically. "This structure is very old. It probably was built as a temple above ground. Eons of time must have passed for it to sink below ground. And considering its age the structure is remarkably well preserved."

            "Or to give the priests a sense of space," Linda commented. Feorik and Karod, uninterested in that conversation, had slowly moved forward, until they were almost into the next passage. The stench of death rot was stronger.

            "No doubt there will be more of them there.  Linda, can you keep turning them away or does that power have its limits?" Feorik asked, not turning around.

            The Priestess replied, "It does take energy.  I will tell you when I feel too exhausted to try again."  Linda's voice was strong, as usual, but there was some small hint of fatigue there.  Mellody whispered or whimpered something, as if thinking on the consequences of Linda being too fatigued to keep turning back the horrors. 

            Storn grunted.  "We will prevail, fear not."  Karod kept his glaringly marked shield in front of him as, side by side with the Warder, he and Feorik moved into the next tunnel. Slowly they approached the first pair of openings under the tension and expectation of more undead pouncing upon them. Feorik saw that to his left was no small alcove, but a larger chamber littered with refuse. There were plentiful signs of passage into and out of all the openings. To Karod's right, the room was another ten-foot alcove, storage chamber or quarters. Nothing leapt out as they studied, ready to repel and attack.

            "We can't leave these unexplored at our backs," Feorik decided.  He then motioned for silence and gestured for the torch and toward the room on his left.  With the hot brand casting dancing shadows, he then stepped into the doorway. It took him a moment to realize what he was looking at pressed against the corner inside the room. Its filthy rags were almost indistinguishable from the stonework, but its pale desiccated face thrown back as it pressed itself into the corner gave it away. Feorik snarled as he and the creature locked glares. It smiled showing its deformed teeth and it relaxed its posture away from the wall.

            Feorik lunged to impale the abomination as it lunged at him. His sword stabbed through it, but gripped him with both hands and bit him on the left arm right through his armor. Sword arm awkwardly between them, Feorik kneed the creature off him and managed to whack a chunk off its skull on a back-swing exposing the goo of its brain. It fell as a great spasm shook his left arm accompanied by a burning pain from bite that shot right up his arm and exploded in his head. Then his whole body seized up; he could not even grunt as he doubled over in pain.

            Hearing the engagement across the hall, another ghoul leapt at Karod who managed to keep it at bay with his shield and nick it many times as it attacked recklessly. Storn rushed by Darvian to the opening Feorik had entered. Darvian heard Linda's invocation of power begin anew. It all happened so quickly, the young wizard watched terrified knowing his spells were not meant for the undead, but for bandits and brigands of this world.

            Once again, ghouls emerged from the openings along the passage, but only from the right. Those that lurked in the larger room to the left stayed within to engage Storn and Feorik, or so Darvian thought. Storn shouted out, "Feorik is down!" Feorik saw the respectable man through the archway withstand a full on charge from a running ghoul barely giving ground, then return the favor with several heavy blows of his mace that dropped the creature cold. The paladin emerged from the second archway to engage the ghouls approaching. Karod had felled the first and was battling the second when Linda's power cast down the hall like an invisible wave of pain, tearing at the evil spirits clinging to the long dead human bodies. But this time, none fell. None were ripped from this world and thrown back to their hell.

            They did flee the divine power though, and Karod managed to slay the one before him as it cringed. The others scurried away down the hall before having engaged Storn. Mellody rushed passed Darvian to the room where Feorik had gone down. Linda, hand on Orinden, came up  beside Darvian and stopped her deep voiced chanting, lowering the sickle, Brigantia's holy symbol. Darvian marveled at the power the priestess presented. "Watch him," she commanded pushing Orinden over to Darvian as she went to Feorik's aid too.

            "Priestess!" The strange voice called from the darkness at the end of the hall. "Your god will not protect you much longer in this place. We rule this place." Its chilling laughter bounced cacophonously down the hall.

            Brandishing her sickle once again Linda shouted against the laughter, "Show yourself spirit and Brigantia will put you back in hell!" But all was silent thereafter. Orinden was visibly shaken, Darvian could tell. The older man did not look away from the end of the hall as Darvian pushed him along so he could see what had happened to Feorik. Storn and Karod, weapons ready, stood watch against anything more coming down the hall. A stilled ghoul, dark ichor oozing from a slice out of its skull lay next to Feorik. Mellody had rolled him over away from the creature. He was not dead, but in some sort of convulsion, muscles tense and trembling.

            Mellody was praying over him, but her ministration did not break the paralysis. "Poison, I fear," Linda said looking over her assistants shoulder. Mellody nodded and began a new prayer in words Darvian could not follow. Suddenly, Feorik was shaking violently rather than trembling. Mellody grabbed his flailing arms and held them down, lying on top of him. Soon her words became recognizable and soothing. Feorik finally settled and took several deep breaths, finally opening his eyes to see the young priest atop him, smiling, Linda looking down upon him with a grim expression. He looked over to see Darvian and Orinden in the archway behind her.

            Mellody pushed up off him, and she and Linda offered their hands to get him back on his feet. Feorik stretched and rubbed sore and pulled muscles. "I do not know how these spirits have entered these bodies, but the flesh is corrupt and poison," Linda explained. "Watch the wounds for infection." Hands still shaking, Feorik thanked Mellody and then poured water into the wound and squeezed his arm with a grip of iron, as if trying to expel any lingering poison that way.  He was rewarded with pain, but at least the blood that oozed out was red and looked normal.  He tested each limb, finger and toe experimentally before just shaking his head.  Finally he just asked, "Who was that speaking, Linda?  Can you tell us?"

            "I think something controls these others," she said worriedly. "I feel the power of its evil."

            Feorik retrieved his sword and torch and kicked the ghoul at his feet before they went back to the hallway. He rounded on Orinden, "Or perhaps you know?" Feorik growled and pushed him out of the way as he went back to the hall to resume their search. Feorik was tense, but confident that if they kept their heads they'd see the sun again. He insisted on checking each room cautiously, but all the ghouls had fled.

            Now in charge of Orinden, Darvian again hung behind the others as they investigated further down the tunnel. The maddening laughter of their unseen opponent scared him, but thus far Linda's powers had proven to be stronger than its minions, and Storn had been like a rock in the tide. Darvian noticed that the furrier was transfixed on the source of the laughter. While making sure that the prisoner followed and didn't do anything funny, Darvian did not treat Orinden harshly. In fact it became clear that Darvian seemed to show Orinden some respect, though exactly what for was unclear. Stepping further along the tunnel Darvian address the furrier in a hushed voice. "Do you know what kind of abomination is expecting us further along this unholy temple?"

            "Nasir said there was minor undead, but worse guarding the wizard's treasure," Orinden answered. Darvian didn't like what he heard from Orinden. That Nasir had been down here before then was unsettling, but on the other hand it also proved that there was a chance to escape from this place of horror. 

[15.2] The Guardian

            Fleeing blindly into the rainy night, William chased Star down the treacherous ridge as fast as he could. Behind them Sleene, Georan, and Spencer. The hideous shouts and screams came and went until the noise of falling rain and wind drowned them out. It was impossible to say what that meant.  They ran forward.  Only the occasional rock tumble or grunt kept them together. Only the fright of what they left behind kept them going exhausted as they were.

            The ground fell away to the gorge below was a constant danger, but Star did not wish to lead them downward.  She soon turned to climb up the embankment, which all of them did.  Silhouetting themselves was no longer a concern thanks to the cloud, fog and darkness.  They reached even ground, turned and pressed onward. After perhaps fifteen minutes of hard exertion, Spencer felt near collapse and was sure the others would as well.  He was fairly certain he could account for his companions by ear, but it was hard to concentrate.  He could barely see a thing and everyone constantly was bumping, scraping and slipping in the rain-soaked darkness.  He stumbled to the nearest tree trunk and leaned against it, grateful for a brief respite. 

            He let his friends struggle on for a time, taking a better accounting of where they were.  When they had passed on ahead for some seconds, he concentrated on their rear to try to discover if they were closely pursued.  Pausing returned his senses to his consciousness and he was reminded of the burning scratches they had received courtesy of those animate branches.  It was terribly uncomfortable...he decided to press forth, bringing other pains back to mind.  He had heard nothing behind them, but the rain and the noise of their difficult passage had conspired to undermine his hearing.

            His short rest granted him energy enough to push towards the closest (and furthest behind) of the party.  He found Georan trudging along; "Geo," Spencer said hoarsely as he came up behind, and clapped his arm around his back.  The tall boy was bearing the test, but he could see his weariness.  The contact seemed to hearten them both.  Spencer pointed ahead to the right, where the next of their party could be heard. To his left he thought he perceived a movement on the ground.  Instinctively he glanced towards it, but quickly returned his attention to moving on; it was another snake, or hallucination, but he had no time for that now.  If only the snakes would attack their foes again!  Or if only he could speak to them as Sleene to her wolves...

            They pressed on with renewed vigor, supporting each other at every difficult step.  Thus they soon reached William and Star, whose face bore an expression of grief as much as exhaustion.  William wheezed slightly as he breathed, and a pained expression was on his face.  Star let herself fall to the ground at the sight of Spencer and Georan, but the two picked her up and embraced her as tears rolled down her face.  They encouraged her to keep moving, and together they went quickly.  Not far away were their remaining companions.  Sleene and her wolves had taken the lead from the frightened Star, and, being cautious about their path forward, was presently compelled to stop.  The party needed little convincing to halt for a time.  "We must tend our wounds," Star said what all were thinking.  A nearby spruce afforded them some relatively dry ground; they all bent low and found an adequate space to sit underneath. Sirilyr had not caught up to them.

            Knives were drawn and put to work on those with twig-creature thorns embedded in their arms and hands.  Georan drew half a loaf of unfresh and slightly soggy bread from his sack and tore it into pieces.  Everyone gave thanks as he apportioned it among them and they hastily downed the inadequate meal. Spencer continued to listen for Sirilyr or other pursuers, as did everyone.  Nothing was heard.  They were not comforted, for despite the rain it would not be impossible to follow their trail.  "We cannot stay," groaned Spencer regretfully.  They were completely soaked and the cold lay heavy on them now that they had stopped moving.  They shivered and tried in vain to warm their hands.

            Spencer said, "Sleene, what says your amulet?  Let us hope we have nearly closed the distance..." A movement in the murk caught his eye, but he stopped himself from examining it.  He merely closed his eyes and listened while she let the pendant swing and come to rest pointing ahead of them, into the darkness down the slope. Sirilyr had still not shown up. "By your leave, I'll call to Sirilyr" he suggested. In their silence he felt their concern, and hopelessness. Sirilyr had serious wounds; they all thought, at least subconsciously, that he intended to draw away their pursuers, probably with his life.

            Unwilling to accept that, Spencer called out into the night, not shouting, but in a loud speaking voice, "Sirilyr." He eyed the shadowy forms of his tired companions with an unseen contempt that grew as the moments passed with no response. Spencer wiped his face with his hands, bringing his stubbled chin to rest on them.  Then he got to his knees.  "I can't sit here.  I'm going back.  He must be down."  Saying no more, he crawled out from beneath the tree and began to labor back the way they had come.  Sirilyr might have lost too much blood or fallen down. If the latter, it might be impossible to find him in the night.

            "Don't go back," Sleene called out to him. Spencer could only hope he was not taking up another foolish solo mission.  In any event, Spencer was going back and left without reply. The rain and wind were constant and cold. The sound of the storm quickly engulfed him as he walked back south, one arm shielding his eyes from the rain, the other outstretched to make sure he did not walk into branches or trees. He slowly and cautiously progressed, fearing a tumble down the wet slope. He occasionally called out for Sirilyr. No response. It was hard to tell how far he had backtracked, but he was starting to get nervous.

            He gasped as a pair of glowing eyes appeared in front of him. It was too dark to see anything else but the hellish fire of something otherworldly. It leapt at him; foul, bloody stench filled his nose, as the unnatural cold, strong fingers closed on his shoulders. He collapsed backwards instinctually knowing that a mouth full of teeth was heading for his neck. They dropped and he rolled to try and dislodge the creature. It was strong, but one of the hands dislodged, giving Spencer room to desperately leverage away. They were still close though, and Spencer could make out the dark shape of it crouching to lunge at him again.

            On his ass, he could not get away before it would be on him again. Terrified, but strangely alert, Spencer went for his knife, a feeble weapon against whatever this was. "Spencer," his name came from the red eyes. Macomb's voice, but distorted. Suddenly, the hypnotic eyes were darting around. Dark shapes were springing upon the thing, snakes. It shouted as it stood, tearing the things from it. They were coiling around its arms, legs, biting at it.

            He was momentarily frozen by the incredible sight before him.  But after a second or two, he unconsciously began to ignore the snakes, as if he had expected them. "Where's Sirilyr?!" he cried, not certain if he was even understood. "Macomb!" It tore through the snakes, ignoring Spencer momentarily. Spencer groped for his staff, but it was not within reach, lost in the dark. Spencer quickly leaped to his feet, and moved to his left to place 'Macomb' between he and the ridge's steep slope.

            Denying the creature the benefit of further time, Spencer angrily rushed it, delivering a full-body check, knocking it towards the steep face of the ridge. They both hit the ground, the wight slid away from Spencer, starting to slide down the slick slope. The snakes scattered. Still holding his knife Spencer got to his feet while the wight struggled, groping for handholds in the dark. Half his party had failed to defeat a beast like this earlier, and this non-Macomb was the result.  Spencer had no desire to risk prolonged exposure to it. He gaped in the dark for anything he could heave down after the transmogrified Macomb.

            But it was too dark to see the ground clearly. Kneeling, he felt around the wet ground: leaves; a few branches, rotten and brittle; small rocks under. While he searched with his hands, his eyes caught movement. "Sirilyr!" Spencer shouted this time; Macomb's noise fairly marked their location to any nearby ears.  Besides, the pursuers seemed less threatening now. It was not Sirilyr that approached; Spencer could make out several shadowy small forms moving steadily toward him. Goblins. Curiously, there was light from somewhere.

            "Spencer!" A voice called out behind him still at some distance. Spinning to see, Spencer saw the point of bright light, emanating from the upheld hand of a bedraggled William. The boy-cleric had followed him, but had not spotted him yet.

            "We're coming for you," Macomb's low voice gurgled up at him. Spencer looked over fearfully. The Macomb-thing had got to its feet using a nearby tree. It stood and grinned in enough of William's light for Spencer to make it out, and the grisly head wound that had killed the Tiran. "You're one of us." Strangely it made no move to climb up the ten or so feet toward him and the more level ground. But then Spencer had an idea of what it meant. He looked to the goblins, more visible as William neared. No weapons, hellfire eyes, dead. Spencer immediately turned toward William.

 

            William had made to get up and follow Spencer, but Sleene grabbed his arm. "Let him go. He won't go far in the dark, alone if we don't follow. I trust Sirilyr to find us on his own. If he can," she said quietly and scooted closer to him. "What happened to Macomb?" she leaned in and asked him very quietly. "I thought I saw him moving?" William had too, and that brought back fear. He heard Viatteni's voice in his tired mind, telling him about the Realm of Shadow, filled with hateful beings always looking for a way to cross back into the Realm of Life and Light.

            Whatever the ritual that had been done to the Tiran hunters, a path had been open. For each life the wight took, more evil spirits would come to possess the bodies. Macomb was one of the pack now, and so would be the goblins and whatever else had pursued them. Breathing deeply, William whispered back, "Undead. I have to get Spencer to come back." He grabbed his heavy mace and followed the prophet.

            Spencer had already vanished into the dark and rain. He didn't answering William's quiet calls either, but fear kept his voice low. It seemed like a long time to be struggling ahead in the dark; Spencer had not hesitated. William began to feel very uneasy. He did not like being alone right now, not in the dark. Something made noises ahead of him. Voices maybe? William brought out the small, carved skull and invoked light upon Arawn's symbol. Wet glistening trees all around and a dark abyss to his right. He the sounds of Spencer and Macomb's struggle ahead. Pausing to listen carefully, William made out the grunt and scuffle of Spencer tackling the wight somewhere close by. 

            Raising the skull high, William proceeded as fast as he could toward the sounds, fearing for Spencer, his charge, and for Sirilyr, missing for too long.  To many things have tried to kill William since he left the temple. Beginning to have doubts about the wisdom of selecting an apprentice to help guard this man, William paused to pull out his heavy mace.  Why hadn't Viatteni come himself?! He would have been a lot more help! With a shake of his head, William headed toward the sounds, if it's more undead, he may just turn around and walk home.

            "William," Spencer yelled.  "Run!  Go back!"  Spencer spotted his staff a few feet away. He leapt for it and got to his feet to run toward the light, glancing behind him fearful he would be taken unawares from behind. Somehow the Macomb thing had jumped up the slope and was crouching, sneering, ready to make another lunge at him. The other dark forms were closer too. Heart pounding, Spencer sprinted. Footing was slick, and he almost lost it. He kept his feet, but Macomb hit him and they sprawled forward. Macomb was pounding and raking him with ferocious strength; Spencer was too terrified to do anything more than claw at the ground to get away. He knew if he looked back at that crushed head, it would be the last thing he saw. Thwack. The pounding ended.

            Desperately William had run up and swung the heavy mace, knocking Macomb off Spencer. William looked around and saw several other dark, short forms advancing into the light cast by his spell. Looking down at Macomb, even now righting itself, confirmed his fear. Hatred welled in him against the corruption of the man he had known, if only briefly. He jammed Arawn's encircled skull at the wight and shouted the god's curses upon the shadow spirit. The Macomb-wight cringed and stumbled back. William felt the power in his voice, in the invocation of Arawn's will. Macomb fled them; William kept the glowing symbol raised and his voice strong. He saw the a couple of the goblin-wights halt their advance; features twisted further by undeath. They too turned and fled Arwan's wrath.

            But there were more coming. Kneeling to Spencer, the man had rolled over to his side. He was cringing, but did not appear bloody. "Bruised only I think," he said pushing himself up.

            "There is no way for us to outrun these monsters, any ideas?" They got to their feet in the ring of bright light, Spencer looked at William with an air of awe and gratitude. Rain poured upon them as the undead goblins slowly closed in around them with the steep slope falling away into darkness behind them. 

            There was little time for pleasantries. "I know not how to defeat them.  They know only violence..."  He looked to William for guidance.  "They run...shall we attack from behind?"  he asked.  "These monsters spread like disease; if they are not checked they could overrun everything!  Who knows how many there are?" He thought of climbing a tree and defending it with his knife.

            William looked around wildly at the creatures.  His mind, racing with what-if and doubts, used the time between action and reaction to bring clarity and focus to his vision.  The closest of the undead beasts running at him had the fresh cuts of battle. There were scratches and bite marks, and one particular gash had split a deeper red upon the creature's shabby garments.  The wound that killed it. It was dead. I can spare no life, and I will receive no mercy.  Whatever happens here this night, it will not be forgiveness!

            Blinking as the thoughts brought confidence, William brandished the glowing skull once again.  He hoped that the fell beasts would be smart enough to be intimidated by the prospect of future Judgment of Arawn.  But there was no fear in the beast; it came on fast.  "Spencer, I think its time we run as fast as we can that way." Turning to grab Spencer, William saw wide-eyed fear in his eyes. Spencer pushed William aside as he brought his staff up and over his head. Turning on instinct, William saw the distance between the creatures and them was non-existent. 

            Grabbing his upraised staff with both hands, Spencer brought it down hard with a loud crack on a goblin-wight as it ran up. William let his glowing symbol fall back to his chest and brought up his own heavy weapon. Spencer had shoved him aside, but could not shield him from one of the encircling creatures. It ran up on him, a rabid demon. William could feel the evil emanating from it, hungering for life, hating him for living.  The will of the teaming evil dead burned in its eyes, breathing and scratching, thumping and gurgling, manifest in its flailing and gnashing fists. He could only back-step and try and to get his mace between them.

            When the torn and bared bone fingers scrapped across the chain on his chest, William could only think of failure. Viatteni believed in me. My Lord Arawn believed in me. Why am I failing them!?! "Back to the abyss with you beast!" Anger and frustration exploded. He did get the mace up in both hands, pushed the thing from him, and jabbed it square in the snarling face. The force of the check had fractured bone and the little goblin wight staggered back. Only for a moment though; the hit would have dropped a living goblin, but this thing felt no pain. It lunged back at him, but, teeth clenched in his own snarl, William brought his mace around hard again on its neck.

            He felt the bones snap and it fell over unmoving. The spirits had not fully corrupted the body; he had destroyed its ability to hold the demons. Shocked, William let out a pent up breath. He was shaking and his heart pounding. He looked to his right to see Spencer mostly keeping the other three at bay with wide, fast swings of both ends of his staff. Feeling confident once again, the priest brought up his god's symbol. "Please Mighty Arawn, diminish these souls and let the bodies come to rest!"  He looked to the cluster that was upon Spencer, holding aloft the skull that was so unlike in shape, but alike in state. William hurled the powerful curses he knew to drive them back.

            The light seemed to searing the skin of the creatures and made them cringe. Spencer crashed his staff upon one, felling it. William's words and brandished symbol brought pain to the violating spirits. The undead turned and fled the Holy Light.  William kept calling Arawn's curses and saw that even a couple others that had not reached them yet had turned away. Giving them a few seconds, he stopped and said to Spencer, "I cannot keep this up."

            And there was Sleene and Star to consider.  "Let us retreat to the others, then defend as best we can..." The pair ran.

 

[

This is an ancient dwarven outpost (no connection with the Underdark). Abandoned when the dwarves left, it was later discovered by the curious humans granted the land by the elves. The first Marchion's advisor had been corrupted and desired to rule. He performed magic that deformed and corrupted the Marchion's first child. Fearful of being banished from their newly awarded territory, the noble family secreted the prince here, under the protection of a cult of monks lead by the wizard that had caused the defilement. The evil prince grew and eventually began to kill. The monks imprisoned the fiendish prince and collapsed the chambers to hold him.

Raymon discovered the place. He stole many corpses from the graveyard and put them to work building the cabin at the base of the tower and excavating the ruins. Eventually, after his demise and they cleared their way through to the complex of chambers around ancient prison and tomb. The zombies, eventually became ghouls under the corruption of the place. Slain monk guardians that had risen as ghasts were now freed to rule, except for the specter Raymon's chambers.

The openings on the left lead to a large room, the kitchen of this ancient underground abbey. To the right, the alcoves are more servant quarters. The end of the hall is a broken wall and continues beyond to stair down to a four-way junction. Raymon's laboratory is a sunken room, former mausoleum, at the end of one branch. Another is branch leads to a series of rooms that served as the dwarven leaders chambers and where the monks hid the prince. The last branch leads to a natural cavern complex that winds about to an opening in the river.

]

            At the end of the hall, the reinforcing blocks had been removed, revealing not dirt, but a continuation of the tunnel, without any breaks in the regular pattern of blocks. The removed blocks were neatly stacked to the side of the passage. The sky painted ceiling continued, and, although the walls were scraped and chipped, the walls were adorned with a forest scene most of the details obscured. At the end of the tunnel was an opening to the right. As they neared, upon the end wall was a crudely scrawled figure in dark paint, an outline of a figure holding a blade in its outstretched left hand pointing down at the opening. The right hand hung down and was depicted to be dripping something.

            The opening turned out to be wide worn and chipped stairs descending from the packed dirt floor. While the fresco might have been an interesting artwork, Feorik, Storn, and Karod paid it no mind as they approached the shadowy stairs.  The surviving ghouls were down there, as well as whatever master they obeyed.  The foul air was worse at this end of the hall and almost unbearable as the warriors peered down the stairs. They were looking forward to ending this, one way or another, once and for all. Their light illuminated the stairway down to a dirty stone floor some twenty feet down.

            The depiction of the sky continued down the stairway and along the corridor below as did the scraped up scenes along walls. The dust and dirt was still settling on the stone floor from the fleeing ghouls, but aside from their strong stench they were hidden and quiet beyond the reach of the lantern. The passage continued some hundred feet where it passed through into a larger room and continued on. Cautiously, they approached ready for more ghouls hiding around the corners, but the room appeared empty. The square room formed around the intersection another hall perpendicular to theirs, providing three other exits beside the one they approached.

            Beneath the minimal dust and dirt on the floor, brown stains corrupted the gray granite. Piles of refuse, perhaps formerly furniture, littered the perimeter of the room. A small block or pedestal rose from the far right corner. But, drawing most attention, in the center of the room, was the symbol of the Marchy of Bilcoven set in marble in the stone floor; white base, black eagle wing, yellow star.

            Feorik wondered at the purpose of such extensive construction underground in this remote locale; surely it would have cost a fortune in time and material. Entering the room, he never removed his gaze from the exits until he was almost in the room's center, a foot behind the central imprint but not touching it.  Feorik quickly swung his attention to each wall and ceiling, too, for faded writings, perhaps, or maybe a cunningly concealed door from which enemies might spring.

            Entering the pedestal room trailing behind the others Darvian suddenly gasped in surprise and almost stood rooted to the spot, staring at the marble floor. "What is the symbol of the Marchy of Bilcoven doing here? I expected this structure to get older and older as we descend further into the temple. The stairs leading down lived up to that expectation, but the symbol does not. Either it is a recent addition to this temple or the Marchy is much - much older than I anticipated?"

            Linda bit her lip, perhaps composing a reply, or perhaps not wanting to reveal her knowledge in front of their prisoner.  Orinden just laughed, a grating sound. But the exchange was cut short by a grating war cry forced from undead lungs. From the passage directly across, two ghouls rushed at Feorik from the darkness. Repulsion and rage filled Feorik as he gripped his weapon and prepared to meet the charge, but before they emerged from the hall, a wave of putrescence erupted, the worse stench of rot imaginable. Unprepared for that onslaught, Feorik wretched uncontrollably, vomiting as he dropped to his knees.

            Karod was just behind him, managed to keep control, and advanced to protect the fallen Watcher. Storn ran up too as the first of the ghouls came out. Darvian smelled the foul air, fought his own nausea, and fear. He glanced to Orinden and saw him calm, but pale. Linda and Mellody lifted their sickles and again called upon Brigantia to drive these evil creatures back. Unaffected the snarling, evil things smashed into Storn and Karod, heedless of the massive damage inflicted by their weapons. Although unpained, Karod and Storn quickly beat and sliced the deformed creatures into stillness.

            Darvian loosened his grip on his staff, grateful he did not have to rush to the priestesses defense. They had stepped further into the room, chanting to Brigantia. Darvian could not see the light, the power, coming to their call as he could when looking through that mirror the night before, but he knew it came to their call, knew these two had the favor of their goddess. The fallen corpses left all in silence except for Feorik's coughing. Storn pulled him up grasping his dropped sword, and the old, deep voice rumbled from the hall to the left, "You profane my temple and disturb the flock! You will worship Immshin and no other!"

            Storn and Karod rushed to put themselves between that hall and the priestesses. Feorik stood with the two creatures at his feet, studying them and the hall from which they came. Many footprints had disturbed the dust into that hall; the fleeing ghouls from the rooms above. Just beyond the egress in that direction was another opening in the hall's left wall. It was dark and quiet beyond, and Feorik felt vulnerable, like unseen eyes stared at him from the dark. The two ghouls, smelling far worse than any had above, also wore the vestments of monks or priests, now torn and clinging to the broken things as shrouds. The bodies lay atop the inlaid Bilcov crest; a symbol that Feorik had sworn his service.

            "Nothing there," Storn announced. Feorik looked passed the ghoul corpses to the passage on the left; the dust revealed the passage of a few in that direction, but not nearly the numbers that had run straight across. Feorik then looked across to the passage on the right. By comparison, that side of the room, and that passage was neglected entirely, but it was difficult to tell. Only after studying the exits did Feorik allow his eye to wander to the pedestal and noticed it was adorned with carvings, as was the wall above it.

            Still nervous, Feorik turned again to face the passage across from that of their entrance. "Most of the ghouls went this way," he told the others, "we need to beware."

            "We need to leave this place," Orinden said with hard tone. "Your power over these demons wanes priestess, and these are not the worst of them."

            "He is right of that m'lady," Storn warned. "An evil has permeated this place, but I sense worse in every direction. Will Brigantia hear you from this place?"

            "She will!" Linda snapped. "This place is wrong, corrupt. We must find what was brought here, or the others will." She shot a glance at Orinden. "Watch the passages while I inspect that pedestal," she grabbed the lantern from Mellody and headed straight across the room.

            "Here, Karod, I want to look at the other side passage," Feorik said. As Karod and Linda approached he added, "Beware the symbol."

            Linda stopped and glanced at it and the corrupt bodies therein. "Bless the symbol Mellody, perhaps this is not the Marchy, but something prior." Linda continued on, although sidestepping the sigil. Karod took his watch on the far side of the symbol, and Feorik moved off on. Darvian watched as Mellody shuffled around for her holy water and prepared for a ritual blessing. Linda kicked away debris that consisted mostly of gnawed, marrow-sucked bones, and stood before the four-foot high stone. "You have entered the sacred realm of Immshin, Lord of Winds. Display proper reverence or risk his rage," she read from the wall. Without more words, she studied the markings on the altar.

            Darvian was dreadfully curious about it too, and he slowly strolled over to the pedestal and started to examine it carefully, though still keeping Orinden at his side. It was adorned with symbology of trees, clouds, lightning and other unknown glyphs. Feorik had enough light to see that the passage continued on and turned to the right as the light faded. He was correct about the dust and debris; this passage was neglected. Except for a set of prints coming and going very recently. He turned to see Linda, Darvian, and Orinden kneeling, studying the altar. Feorik approached curious despite his wariness of the place; the talk was welcome distraction in the dusty underground place of that stank of must and death.  The rot of the undead wafted unpleasantly, and the fact that there was more of them weighed on all their minds. "What are we seeking down here, exactly?" He waited for Linda or maybe Darvian to offer an explanation.

            Darvian could not make out the carvings, and if Orinden did he did not let on. But Linda straightened and said, letting his question hang in the air, "I do not know of Immshin or his worship, but his altar demands reverence: a supplication or gift. I fear both. I agree with Darvian that this place is much older than the Marchy, but elves ruled here long before we came. Perhaps the symbol is theirs, adopted by their appointed rulers."

            "The ghouls are human form," Feorik mentioned," and dressed as monks." Not interested in blaspheming any gods, even something as foul as this one, Feorik didn't suggest they touch or otherwise harm the altar.  He suspected that the Priestesses and the Crusader would, but that was their business.  The world would be a brighter place without it, surely.

            "So whatever this place was built for was converted for use as a temple of Immshin. But the object of our quest was brought here only seven years ago. These creatures surely have been released by whatever it is," Linda concluded.

            "The passage there," Feorik mentioned, "has the prints of one coming and going."

            "Nasir," Orinden said, perhaps unintentionally.

            The sense of dread he had felt since climbing down that accursed ladder only increased. Darvian wished there would be a way to leave this place now. But he was also curious to find out what Linda was talking about. Quite obviously she and Orinden knew much more about this place and the evil that was linked to it. When Orinden uttered the name Nasir, Darvian rounded on him. "So you think Nasir is down here? Then explain me one thing, why did those ghouls not attack him? Is Nasir a follower of this Immshin?"

            "Nergal, or something like that," Orinden answered. "A god of death, not of the winds. He can rebuke the creatures as she can," he nodded at Linda, "perhaps better. He said he came here alone, but whatever guards this lore was too much for him alone."  Darvian glowered at Orinden. He liked the story the furrier told less and less, especially the fact that the red-clad priest could be down here with them right now.

            "If Nasir is ahead of us, we should hurry," Feorik suggested. Orinden's voice grated on Feorik's nerves.  The man was some kind of dark sorcerer himself - what had it been called? Mathonwy?  The Warder recalls fighting off animated animals at Orinden's abode in Tir. He stalked up to the north exit and peered into the darkness.

            But there was nothing to it, they had to press on, one way or another and Linda started to look tired. Tearing away his attention from the fascinating altar in this shrine carrying the symbol of the Marchy, Darvian addressed Feorik and Storn. "If you both decide to press on, deeper and deeper into this dungeon of evil, I will follow you. But I feel that we are all exhausted and might do better to rest. Maybe we should return to the surface and recollect our strength?"

            "If there is a second entrance and Nasir is down here, we can't let him get it,"  Linda cautioned.

            "If these ghouls shun that way then we should investigate, but we'll get trapped there if they come back," Storn said, not turning his head from the south passage. "Leave the cursed altar alone."

            Watching the north passageway, Feorik adjusted his patch as he passed a glance back towards the altar.  Was it really none of his business?  Feorik changed his mind as he looked from the dead Ghouls to the altar and back.  The power that had filled them had to have come from somewhere. "I know not of Nergal or other forces of the dark," Feorik growled.  "But ... if breaking or otherwise ruining that altar might somehow stop the dead from walking, then I will help."  Without tools for breaking stone, though, he didn't think it was going to be possible.  Another thought crossed his mind, attacking the altar might bring the rest of the Undead here in a mad rush to defend it. He kept this idea to himself; Mellody was already frightened enough.

            "This place is desecrated, but perhaps this cult of Immshin predates the corruption. Whatever his presence now, we'll leave his altar alone," Linda agreed with Storn, although not wholeheartedly.

            "We'll clear out this place later, with more men," Storn said, "let's get what we came for and get out."

            "I'll watch the room," Karod volunteered, "and call out if they come back."

            "Mellody, stay with him. First we'll set a circle of protection on the hall."

            Mellody came up and offered the lantern to Feorik. He took it and stepped into the hall studying the prints on the floor. Behind him Darvian, Orinden, Storn. The hall was adorned with faded paintings of regal looking stout humanoids adorned in black with the occasional weapon, crown, and scepter painted silver or gold. Ahead the hall turned right. "Wait," Storn called as Linda and Mellody performed their ritual casting. Karod, bearing the torch, stepped into the circle they formed of crumbled dung; it dawned on Darvian how out of place these two were. The blessings of Brigantia were meant for the green fields and bright sunlit skies.

            Feorik continued on to the bend in the hall. The spooky funerary procession on the halls continued on ahead to a set of closed doors. The prints continued through the doors as far as Feorik could tell. Nearing the ornate doors, he could tell they were made of sturdy wood, somehow unravaged by the age of this place. The tracks definitely went under them. After a quick inspection, Feorik tried the curved brass handles, but the doors were locked.

 

            Sirilyr was alone in the dark now. Grizzly visions running through his mind; still too shocked to move. Something touched his leg. With an uncontrolled grunt, Sirilyr quickly rolled onto his back. Feint jumped back also startled, but Sirilyr recognized the wet-dog smell. Sirilyr reached to pat the dog. A vision flashed through his mind of Feint horribly corrupted by the creatures that feasted noisily in the dark, but his hand was greeted by the gentle licks and nuzzling of a scared friend, not the teeth of a monster. Swallowing hard, the haggard ranger hoarsely whispered as he scratched the animal's ears, "It's alright laddie. But it's time ta go." Rolling quietly away from the gruesome carnage Sirilyr and Feint the loyal hound slipped into the night.

            The ranger moved in as direct a line as he could, trying to cover his tracks by staying to stone and damp leafed earth. He tried to search out the party, but the night was too dark and the storm too loud. It was cold too. Sirilyr carried Feint against him both shivering as they made they way along the treacherous, slick ridge. They slide down an unexpected slope, coming to rest on his backside. He knew finding the others was in vain; he hoped whatever demons behind him would not follow. He thought to make back trails, disguise his tracks, keep going, all the things he was trained to do. But the pain, the cold, the exhaustion was overwhelming.

            He forced himself up, could see nothing. Feeling his way to his left he came to more slick scree. They were in a hollow that the others, a bit further west, probably missed. The easiest way out he discovered was east. He found himself trying to make progress back north through the tree and stone littered terrain. He fought the fatigue as long as he could, breathing in ragged hissing gasps as he pushed himself forward. "Must find 'em..." The words repeated over and over again in a Hellish mantra in the man's mind. Feint's big brown eyes watched his human concernedly as they staggered on. Still the rain fell in sheets. It seemed to Sirilyr the wind blew them onward, like soggy leaves. The forest had no sound save the roar of the storm's passing. He lost all track of his progress; he could have walked miles or mere yards from the ridge.

            At some point he had lost consciousness. He awoke to find himself all but frozen, back against a gnarled tree halfway up the slope of another ridge. It was light, perhaps just passed dawn, but the sky was uniform gray, and still raining. Not the windblown sheets of the storm, but a steady soaking fall. Feint slept beneath his crossed arms between his drawn up knees and chest. Sirilyr had no sense of direction, he was shivering and numb, and had no memory of how he got here. 

            Pulling a few pieces of jerked meat and hard bread, the two forlorn companions had a meager, and quick breakfast. The ranger filled his water flask from the top of a rock rivulet of running rainwater as Feint hiked his leg on the bottom of the same rock. Sirilyr spoke softly to the dog as much to ease his own as the animal's mind. "We'll head north up ta the top o' this ridge. Then we'll turn west an' watch fer the others below us. We'll stay just along the bottom o' the ridgeline and stick close ta the shadows, use the trees fer cover. We're soaking wet an cold so's even gobbo sight won't be able ta pick us up tha' well."

            Fashioning a walking stick from a sturdy branch with his hatchet as he spoke. "C'mon laddie, we've got some way ta go afore we rest again." His wounds ached and throbbed from under their stained bandages. Sirilyr saw that the dressings still held fast and he believed he could travel... if he paced himself. "Keep your senses about ye now. I'm relyin' on tha' nose and those sharp ears an eyes o' yours ta spot any trouble." The woodsman grinned at the tail wagging hound looking back at him, as if to say "C'mon let's go already!"

            Thoughts of Sleene and worry filled his mind. Sirilyr forced them down and concentrated on his surroundings as he and his hound began their search for the missing party. One eye always lingered on the back trail as they marched. The storm had scattered debris and washed all signs from the earth. Sirilyr felt very alone in this strange forest far from the lands of his home. His breath stopped fuming later in the morning as the unseen sun warmed the autumn day a bit. But his soaked clothes and wounded flesh did not harbor any heat.

[15.3] Conclusion

[a]

            They ran as quickly as they could in the slippery, blinding dark.  A sickly scream curled forth not minutes after they set off running; and several times they heard branches snapped underfoot behind them. Branches whipped them in the face and arms as they passed, and soon the sounds of their heavy breathing and pacing hearts drowned out most all else.  Spencer began soon to feel soreness where he had been bludgeoned by the Macomb-beast.  A shoulder and ribs were protesting their maltreatment, as were a hip and thigh.  But the rush of combat and flight still did much to pacify.  The various bodily insults by this point had almost become one general throbbing pain.  They had now each gone through so much that discomfort was, for now, the norm.  William seemed in better condition though tired, and continued to be the only thing separating Spencer from 'death'.  Neither would have made it without help.

            It seemed like hours, but was actually mere minutes. Their progress was quicker this time than ever, despite the darkness and wetness and misery.  They had now covered this ground twice before and could support each other; also the imminent danger did little to slow them.  The rain had intensified, as had the wind. But suddenly Spencer remembered why he had come back in the first place.  "Sirilyr," he panted as they ran.  A single word, yet its meaning for the two men was more than they could express.  William stopped them and turned, squinting in the shadows.  "Do you see them?" he whispered to Spencer, looking to the man he was supposed to be protecting. 

            "No, but I think I hear them in the forest.  I don't think they know to be quiet when stalking someone... I wonder how they can be following us...."

            Turning to look around, William tried to find the glow of a campfire that he was sure would be lit by know, knowing the wounds that they all had suffered, and the cold that was even now setting into his limbs, climbing ever closer to his torso.  Looks like it's going to be aching sleeps and fountain nose for me!  Once again looking to Spencer, William panted, "Where do you suppose Sirilyr has gotten to?  I think that if the dead have taken them, he would have been there with Macomb and the goblins... ROTTING MOTHERS do I hate those things...I have only ever heard about them.  To see them, to smell them, oh Lord what a mess. I don't think I will be sleeping well for years to come!"

            Spencer was shocked and relieved by William's timely rescue and his mind was only on escape, not on the miracles that this young boy produced.  Looking at the young priest with a comical expression, hidden within the shadows of night, "We must keep moving, else we get caught again.  I do not see what is out there, nor do I hear friendly sounds."  Getting his bearings and following is trained direction sense, Spencer lead the pair in what ought to be the correct direction.

            They moved a little more slowly this time, taking more care.  The pressing fear of being caught however, carried their feet faster and higher than simple desire to move could make them.  Ahead in the trees, was a soft glow that signaled fire.  William and Spencer made it back without further calamity, and if a tear was to be seen on either face it was not due to their wounds. Hearing the noisy approach in the night, their companions had roused themselves from beneath the sheltering tree.  They heard Star, Sleene and Georan calling to them and thus were met without undue delay.

            Their hails were answered by cries of "Get up!  Arm yourselves!  Get ready!" by William and Spencer.

            Sleene's first question was "Where's Sirilyr?" 

            But her query went ignored. They were helped to the struggling fire where they doubled over from exhaustion as they hastily described the situation between heavy breaths. "Undead...they're spreading like plague...behind us...very close..."

            "How many?"  asked Georan.

            "...they are many...there's no time..."

            William stated grimly, "All the goblins...Macomb..." Star looked ill and furious.

            No more mention of Sirilyr.  So hope remained with the three, especially Sleene.  She was filled with new resolve; she must survive the night, learn of his fate at any cost.  She looked up to find herself meeting Spencer's gaze.  Their eyes met, but Spencer closed his, bowed his head.

            "We'll tire before them.  Before dawn..." he managed.  Each of them was already near depleted.  Their only salvation would be the priestess's party, but there was no way to know how close they were. "Sooner or later we must fight."  He looked to William for his assessment.

            Spencer wanted more than anything to run, but felt they would be overtaken at disadvantage.  May as well stand with what strength they had.  They were probably not totally outmatched, but the consequences of defeat were abominable. "We might hide in the trees.  I like the chances better than running or standing ground."

            "Or we all run, split up, get back the Marchy," Star offered bleakly, face pale.

            "NO!" Sleene outburst. "I cannot leave my mission. The priestess needs us, and we need her." She reconsidered.  "Wait. I can conceal my passage, and do the same for three of you. Sirilyr probably thought he would lead the goblins away from us, but he did not know about these undead things. We should do the same. Star can you find your way back? Take one of them," Sleene nodded at the men, "leave a trail to draw the undead away from us. Get back to Tir, warn them about these creatures."

            "I'm not leaving Spencer," William stated, "that's my mission."

            "Geo, will you go with Star? She shouldn't be alone, and you and she are in better shape to move faster." He nodded.

            "I can get us back," Star said.

            "Hurry, we'll leave the fire, you go east, we go north down the slope. Come on, get up, the spell won't last, so we'll have to move fast for twenty or thirty minutes. Then we can rest, they won't find us." The little woman pulled them up. Grim faced, Georan faced the three of them, "Godspeed."

            Sleene knelt and scooped some muddy dirt into her hands. She muttered an incantation upon the mess and smeared some of it on Spencer and William's footgear. Standing, she told Georan and Star, "Don't let them catch you, but wait as long you dare." She looked down at Nip and Snap, sitting patiently looking up at the little druid with tongues lolling. "You two must come with us. Run! Go!" She pet their heads and pulled their scruffs to get them on their feet and slapped their haunches to sent them down the slope. "You too, come on!" she patted William and Spencer's shoulders, and bounded onto the slope after the wolves.

            Spencer looked at his friend Georan and at Star with great concern. "Just go," he warned, knowing how close their enemies were and surprised they had not yet arrived. "Take care."

            About to drop, but with images of newly dead creatures still moving and wildly attacking them still fresh, William and Spencer breathed deep and followed Sleene onto the slick rocky slope with but a glance at Star and Georan who looked at them with concern, fright, and worry. Sleene's spell did nothing to help them keep their footing or light their way. They all stumbled down into the dark, bouncing into trees and tripping over rocks and roots that could not find a path beneath them. As quickly as they could did not seem very quickly, but they pressed on, following the noises and whispered directions Sleene offered from her lead position. Rather than fight the terrain, they followed it, trying to stay northbound, but really only trying to put distance between themselves and the ridge full of undead horrors. The rain and wind persisted as they went.

            All thought left them except those that somehow urged their legs and arms to work. They had no idea how long they traveled in the dark storm before Sleene finally stopped them. They all packed into a cranny that really only offered protection from the gusting winds. And that is where they awoke to the gray of an overcast dawn. The three of them, backs sore and necks cricked, leaning against each other, with Nip and Snap lying on their legs; unpleasant wet-wolf smell permeating the air.

            After they untangled, Spencer took a cautious look around. Spencer furtively paced this way and that in a morning light that, though dull, was blinding by comparison to the seemingly never-ending nights they had just endured.  His friends assumed he was confirming their security; that he was, but also he was mindlessly hoping to catch sight of Sirilyr.  Seeing nothing immediately near them, he climbed a tree upon the ridge they had slept against, finding nothing but storm scattered forest debris and unfamiliar terrain. He noted what terrain he could though it aided them little at present.  The woods and rolling land that surrounded them scarcely allowed observance of any persons nearby; he could neither see nor hear any undead nor troops nor pilgrims...nor Sirilyr. 

            He returned to the nook where Sleene and William were stretching and eating cold rations.  They offered him food but he simply sat down again.  "See anything?" asked Sleene heavily.  "No," replied Spencer, his voice cracking.  They saw his lip quiver before he put his face in his hands, back hunched forward.  After a few moments, he rubbed his whole face several times and sniffed.  He unceremoniously reached for and grabbed the nearest food, which happened to be a biscuit William was holding.  He ate in silence, unable to rid himself of the image of Macomb's violated shell and the uncertainty of Sirilyr's fate.They really were still tired and exhausted, all with dark rings around their eyes, and haggard, but there was no way they would get anymore good rest. The few minutes was all they took. Sleene checked her pendant and found it came to rest pointing west of north; their flight brought them further east of their target than they were the day before.

            Focusing on the mission, they walked north and west, much more slowly. The motion helped ease the cramps and cricks and keep them warm as they went. Occasionally Spencer would scout ahead along a ridge before they walked along it, but mostly they stayed together and kept to the treeline. They did feel more exposed than they did when they knew Sirilyr was prowling about, but none of them said anything about it. They just kept going. It was mid-afternoon when they came upon a ridge with very few trees along its spine. They spotted the cobbles of an ancient road, overgrown and largely jostled out of alignment with the passage of time. It lead north, exactly where Sleene's hawk pointed.

            They followed the road, keeping at the edge of the trees that lined it, but wanting to enjoy the much easier travel. At times the road descended and ascended other ridges and became more overgrown. Eventually, they saw the road ahead come a bridge with a low stone rail. No one seemed to be around it. They concealed themselves in the trees and Spencer snuck up to see if it was guarded. Soon he waved Sleene and William to approach the ancient marvel. "Alas that Georan cannot see this..." whispered Spencer.

            Spencer pointed out the many footprints, made since the rain had stopped this very afternoon, which had disturbed the muddy dirt along the bridge. The tracks crossed the bridge many times. On this side it seemed some went to the east, some south, all getting lost in the foliage. Sleene noticed the berry bushes surrounded by their desiccated fruit. Sleene chilled at the observation and glanced around expecting more unnatural beasts. "Animals shun this place," she told them pointing to the bushes.

            Spencer noted her observation with nervousness.  He looked back along the path they had trod to arrive at the bridge, and then began to look around them and listen intently for any sign of others.  He gestured toward Sleene's breast, indicating that she should consult her amulet.  He proceeded to attempt to decipher the footprints around the bridge, but made little progress.  It was rather a mess of tracks and could have been caused by at least a dozen people.

            Spencer tried to make sense of the tracks. The most recent seem to be crossing to the north, a large group. They came from the east around the fallen tower, but another large group, or the same group came from the north and went east. Why would they cross and go back? There were only three or four sets that came from the south along the road. No animals. Spencer looked at Nip and Snap, who were shying away from the bridge.

            He faced Sleene to learn what her strange jewelry had revealed.

            "They are across," Sleene reported as expected by all three of them. Despite any danger they had no option but to follow it.  "It is foolish to linger here.  We can talk under cover.  Let us first cross.  Tread upon existing prints," he suggested.  He led the way across, quickly crossing its span and scanning the opposite side for any possible danger.  Once across, they took in their new surroundings and sought to discover in which directions the path now lead. Nip and Snap refused to cross, and Sleene eventually gave up and told them to guard the bridge half-seriously.

            North of the bridge, the signs the others left lead in two directions: north and west, with more traffic westward. They found the storm-ravaged camp with tents blown over, although other equipment was scavenged, and most tracks led north through the still array of pine. They followed north about half a mile where the woods opened into the tower clearing. Sleene knelt and revealed the brittle animal bones that crackled beneath their footsteps. The wet weeds smelled like dead animals when she bent her head to look closer.  "This place is corrupted!  What could have caused such a twisting of nature?"

[b]

            Anger welled in Feorik as he faced the closed doors, washing his concerns about magic and traps aside. He set the lantern down and sheathed his sword to retrieve his ax and assault the door. He wasn’t going to let this construct deter them from extracting whatever evil lay beyond. "WE'RE COMING FOR YOU!" He shouted as he reigned blows upon the doors, chipping away the wood to get to the bolt or whatever held them shut.

            "What is going on?" Karod yelled from his position back around the bend at the entrance to the hall.

            "Doors bar the way," Linda answered him as she maneuvered forward. Storn did not let her in front of him, but they both went by Darvian and Orinden. It did not take long for Feorik to sufficiently weaken the wood around the bolt and Feorik was able to pull the doors open with two hands and a mighty splintering of wood. Storn had moved up and stood ready to receive the attack whatever lay beyond; Linda behind him looking curious now holding the lantern high. But beyond the door was just an extension of the ten-foot wide hallway for about another twenty feet where the way forward became just five feet wide and tall.

            The paintings changed, and were perhaps a bit less faded. The figures were no longer proceeding, but were seated or kneeling facing ahead where the hall narrowed. On the two sides, carved into the stone were names. Atop the narrow hall, large letters carved in foreign script announced the family name of whomever build this crypt, and down the walls to the sides of the hall were written names in small letters of the same script. The wall was only about a third full of names, probably a family tree of those buried beyond. However, towards the bottom, a short list of names were carved in characters more recognizable as Milar names and dates; however the names were unfamiliar and dates between 30 and 50 Brendil Reckoning; over four hundred years ago.

            That proved the construction age of the place to be much before the Milar came to Brendil. The strange, blocky characters were not flowing elvish script either, so this place probably predated elvish possession of Bilcoven. The skilled stonework of this place and the nearby bridge, the stout figures in the halls paintings, and now this list certainly seemed to indicate dwarves. There have been no dwarves for hundreds and hundreds of years; the sturdy race was mostly legend and myth now.

            With no threat of immediate danger, they filed slowly through the doorway absorbing the meaning of what they were seeing silently. Darvian spoke first, "The Immshin cult must have found this place thirty years after we settled Bilcoven. But abandoned it twenty years later."

            "Why would a wind god want a underground complex?" Orinden asked sounding genuinely curious.

            "A dwarven complex," Storn clarified what they all were thinking. Orinden was fascinated by the lettering and moved up to inspect. Darvian stayed close behind the bound man.

            Feorik cast an annoyed look at him. "No matter," he said shortly returning his gaze down the narrow, short passage catching glimpses of Nasir's alleged tracks in the light dust. "Damn. I think there is another door." Linda adjusted the light a bit to shine down the hall, and indeed a black double door blocked the way. The short passage was of unadorned gray blocks and opened up again after forty feet in front of the doors. Cautiously, Feorik stepped up and squatted into the passage. His shadow blocked most of the light so he took the lantern back from Linda. Wary of trapped blocks, he proceeded to the end. The area in front of the doors was ten by ten feet, stone again painted with the squat dark figures now holding hands upraised toward the black doors.

            It felt colder, and Feorik felt uneasy and vulnerable. He stepped down, fearful of infamous dwarven traps. There was no dust here, no way to follow in Nasir's exact footsteps. There were marks on the floor where the doors had scraped forward. And it really was colder. The black doors loomed taller than the previous set. Not wood. Feorik approached slowly and extended his hand to feel the cold, dark mass of cast iron. His ax would certainly not penetrate these. The iron doors' brass handles and escutcheon was similar to the other doors'. Whatever lay beyond was well protected by this portal. Angry and frustrated, Feorik told the others what he saw and concluded, "We'll have to find a key or pick the lock." The statement brought Ras' recent demise to mind.

            "Any writings? Symbols?" Orinden called down.

            "No. Not in the whole room," Feorik snapped. He really wanted to the throttle the man. He heard them talking back in the other room, heard Nasir's name. There had to be a way through. He looked back to see Linda coming through the short hall. "We can't get through," Feorik warned.

            "I want to see," she answered.

            Feorik grunted. "I don’t like it."

            Linda came through, followed by Orinden and Darvian. Storn stayed back, there wasn't much room for him anyway. Stumped, the Warder simply glowered at Orinden with suspicion for a long, dangerous moment.  If the man didn't know more - a lot more - than he was telling, then he was a squirrel.  A desire to grab the man and shake answers out of him was overwhelming but instead he took a deep breath and turned to face the doors. "There must be a key…", Feorik stated.  How were they supposed to find a key?  He started tapping the doors experimentally with his fast, as well as gently pushing. They heard a click and Feorik felt the doors move a bit, then they suddenly burst open with a blast of cold, unpleasant air. The doors knocked into Feorik and Linda, who bobbled back into Orinden and Darvian. The doors came to a stop with a grating, iron screech. Feorik scrambled to get his weapon back to ready and get himself squared off and in front of Linda to face whatever lay beyond.

[c]

            No one came out when they approached the cabin.  The signs in the grass showed that the other others had walked around from the east side of the structure and had trampled much of the grass in front of the side cabin. On guard, Spencer peered through the door. The leaves and dirt on the floor inside had been pushed around, but otherwise it was just quiet and too normal looking, albeit a mess. He could make out a stone fireplace across the room from the door, a chair. A hall across from the door led further into the cabin. The stone block wall of the tower formed the left wall of the front room, with no opening. The other walls were wood.

            Spencer pulled back from the door, raised a hand.  "Stay for a moment," He requested of his companions.  As quietly as he could, he moved to the west and carefully peered around the tower base to ensure nobody was there.  The wood cabin wall extended further north with a wide stone chimney about half way along it.  To the east were more trampled weeds and patches of disturbed dirt. Beyond the front part of the cabin was a covered woodpile storage area with another closed wooden door into the structure. No other windows.

            Spencer jogged back to Sleene and William.  "Sleene, stay clear and listen for anyone approaching.  Figure out where we might go next.  William, you and I will search this place."  He drew his knife and opened the front door wide, entering with caution. The hall that led out of the front room jogged right at a closed door. At the hall's dogleg, an open door revealed a bedroom, and the door to the woodshed. The hall continued north; many tracks disturbed the debris that had spread throughout the cabin. All was quiet at the first closed door. Spencer stepped further to look down the hall, but it was too dark to see much with no windows. Spencer lit a torch while William pushed open the closed door.

            A skeletal, decapitated corpse lay in the storage room beyond. The stone wall of the tower formed the south wall of the room, and it had been repaired to allow a heavy, wood door to be installed. The bedroom shared the fireplace with the front room. Its bed and cot contained new looking bedrolls. A pile of smelly bedclothes in the corner provided more evidence that the others slept here. In fact, Spencer found the coals in the fireplace were still warm.

            Down the hall, the next closed door was unlocked and opened to a kitchen and eating room. A large fireplace for roasting occupied the far wall. Animals had invaded from its chimney and despoiled everything they could. A few small casks may not have been cracked open among the mess on the floor. It smelled of old rot and mold, but nothing stirred. An open door at the end of the hall led to a ransacked workroom. Outside light trickled through decaying shutters. In the floor, a trap door was opened with a steep wood stair descending.

            Otherwise devoid of occupants, he told William, "Look around for anything unusual or helpful.  Be quick!  I'll check the tower and get Sleene."  He found the door barred, no keyhole. There was no other egress from the tower. Spencer went to the front door and motioned for Sleene to come. "So, we proceed across the clearing next?" he asked Sleene. Stopping inside the door, Spencer worked to light another torch. "Anything yet?" he called to William.  "Let's be fast, here.  I'm sure our visit isn't welcome."

            "Just dark and eerie," William called back.

            Spencer knew Sleene would be especially uncomfortable.  She seemed to suffer human settlements only by necessity, and this outpost was uniquely distasteful.  The contrast in construction between the tower's base and the rest only heightened the sense of crudeness and corruption they all felt.  The bones outside were clear reminders of the perverse cult happenings that had been witnessed too often over the last few days.  The disrepair; the foul atmosphere; the mess; all the uninviting features caused no surprise among the three as they investigated.  Even the skeleton almost seemed a fitting furnishing, disturbing though it was. Having ignited his torch, he turned to find Sleene still at the threshold.

            Her face showed strain, some combination of anger, disgust, anticipation, determination.  Clearly she would rather be spared this manifest affront to her sensibilities; she wanted to vacate this befouled grounds, not enter further into it.  Looking her way, Spencer's eyes met Sleene's, and he momentarily forgot where he was.  To him she represented a certain innocence he was drawn to, though he was sure she was not wholly innocent; yet she also possessed a profound, innate wisdom of things that belied her youthful and attractive exterior. Spencer felt that they had great parallels of spirit, yet great divergence of experience and thought.  They could learn and grow and share much together, given time.  She was the first woman about whom he had felt that way, but her distrust and dislike of those outside her metaphysical realm seemed perhaps too great to overcome.  Spencer gazed intently a few moments, his face seeming to concentrate on something far in the distance.

            Suddenly, Spencer snapped back to attention and their dangerous situation. Between her hands the pendant had come to wobble facing down. Spencer hoped this was not the case, but had figured it was. Standing straight, he held his hand out to Sleene, an offer and request of support through this challenge ahead. The headed into the back room, taking care at each step and studying every surface the torch illuminated.  They joined William and looked down the stair. A dusty wood plank floor was below about ten feet. Spencer debating nudging the young priest down first, but mustered his bravado and descended first. The previous party's passage was obvious in the years of dust and dirt and Spencer followed them to the ladder.

            Come; there's a tunnel down here," Spencer spoke quietly to his companions.  He shone his torch all about the cellar as they came on the off chance there was anything of interest. Gathering at the shaft, he again made to descend first.  He put a finger across his lips, suggesting they should control their noise until they knew the situation.  He stepped over the shaft to the ladder and began to descend. When his head cleared the floor was he held his torch out to see what was around.

 

            [The torch barely lit the walls of the square bottom of this sub-cellar although, without the two wood floors and cabin above them, this would be a large stone-lined hole in the ground with a stone tower at one corner. The cabin was definitely a much newer construction. ] He saw two bodies lay on the floor that was littered with fabric and bones. The walls were marked with scrapes and scratches all the way to the planks and support beams above; the dirt by the ladder had also been assaulted. Something obviously wanted to escape, but had not figured out how, or was not allowed.

]

            The bodies showed no sign of moving, so Spencer climbed to the last rung and dropped the remaining distance to the floor. He unsheathed his knife and waited, watching the bodies and the exit for awhile before motioning for his friends to follow. He moved one of the bodies. He did not recognize the old tattered peasant garb. He nudged the body to see who it was and recoiled at the drawn, desiccated visage that rolled over to stare at him from gray dead eyes. This was human once, but its lips were drawn back and teeth somehow elongated and sharp. Several bloodless cuts had severed the flesh to the bone on its face and arms. Its clenched fingers ended in thick claws. Spencer eyed the other similar body warily, and decided to keep his distance. Sleene and William dropped down and looked upon the dead body.

            "Ghoul," William announced. "Very old and starved."

            "Only one way to go," Spencer indicated the passage at the other end of the room.

[That passage was ten foot tall and reinforced by large stone blocks. Dark openings loomed regularly spaced on either side; the tunnel proceeded beyond the range of the torch.  Seven more bodies lay immobile along the hall, one nearest had been decapitated. All but the last opening on the left were to small alcove storage areas or studies, but all furniture and contents were destroyed. The last was a hall to a privy with four seats above a dark pit. They came to the strange room at the end of the hall - fifteen feet wide and fifty long. Twenty feet to their left the floor was raised a step; a dais heaped with scraps of wood and many bones. Broken chairs and benches were scattered along the room. A heavy wood table survived, pushed askew in the far corner. The undead had been here a long time defiling the place. The walls, lined with empty sconces, had also been elaborately painted once, but here interestingly, the flat ceiling, some fifteen feet above, was still painted as a partly cloudy sunlit sky. To the right, at that end of the long room, thirty or so feet, another hall extended. A path through the refuse indicated that the ghouls traversed this room often.]

            "I do not understand this place," Sleene commented as they observed the room.

            "Nor I," William answered, "seems very old."

            "I just want to find the others and get the hell out of here," Spencer snapped. This place was eerie and felt wrong. He moved directly to the dark hallway to their right. His torch revealed another series of archways spaced along the passage littered with a few more ghoul corpses. However, to the left the openings entered a larger chamber, a kitchen littered with refuse. There were plentiful signs of passage into and out of all the openings, and a ghoul with a severed skill just inside the first opening. To the right, were more ten-foot alcoves, storage chambers, or quarters.

[At the end of the hall, the reinforcing blocks had been removed revealing a continuation of the tunnel, without any breaks in the regular pattern of blocks along the walls. The removed blocks were neatly stacked to the side of the passage.

The sky painted ceiling also continued, and, although the walls were scraped and chipped, a forest scene was still obvious despite the obscured details. At the end of the tunnel was an opening to the right. As they neared, upon the end wall was a crudely scrawled figure in dark paint, it held a blade in its outstretched left hand pointing down at the opening. The right hand hung down and was depicted to be dripping; wide stairs descended.

The foul air was worse at this end of the hall and almost unbearable as they peered down the stairs. Their light illuminated the stairway down to a dirty stone floor some twenty feet down. The depiction of the sky continued down the stairway and along the corridor below as did the scraped up scenes along walls. The passage continued some hundred feet where it passed through into a larger room and continued on. ]

            "Grim," Spencer said as he paused at the painting. He glanced at the others. In the silent moment, noises echoed quietly up the stairs. Voices? Chanting?

 

[d]

            Sirilyr wandered northward, crisscrossing back and forth diagonally across the northbound paths he suspected the rest of his party would have taken as best he could. Sirilyr moved as quietly and as concealed as possible, stopping at regular intervals to listen and search for their tracks. He traveled fifty minutes an hour and rested for ten. The ranger had halted sometime around noon under the cover of a medium sized Fir tree and rested with Feint curled by his thigh. He broke out some more of the hard bread and dried venison, giving a tough fatty piece to the hound to gnaw on. Sirilyr chewed thoughtfully as he watched the open meadow. "The forest can't o' swallowed 'em up. And if'n they'd been caught..." Sirilyr shuddered at the thought of Sleene under the hands of the forest goblins, "well, we would'a 'eard the screams." He finished his unpleasant thought quietly.

            Finished with their meager lunch, the hardy pair made their way to the end of another north running ridge and turned west. The woodsman watched for sign and sniffed like the hound for any tell tale smell of smoke. He stopped and listened at intervals but heard only the call of the birds. "If our lil' friends stop signing, get under cover me lad." The brown hound sneezed on the man's leg as he looked up at him in reply with a toothy smile. They bore west by north west as needed to clear obstacles. No signs of passage, but the sound of rushing water drew Sirilyr through a tangle of brush. Hours of monotonous trekking had the ranger's wounds throbbing to the steady rhythm of his heart.

            Sirilyr at first thought he had come upon a large clearing as the sky seemed to grow before him. Moving forward until at last, he and the hound came to the edge of a water-cut canyon. Taking a long pull from his near empty water flask, he called, "Feint! Come 'ere lad an 'ave a drink." The tired pair rested and watched the canyon's far side, about a half-mile across, for movement.  Through the autumn stripped trees that lined its rocky edges, Sirilyr could see a little river flowing west to east. Mountain peaks were much nearer to the north under the overcast sky.

            "Well... I'm bettin' tha' we missed Sleene. Her pendant led her north and west, but she could be off our nor-west track. We're goin' ta head east ol' son; back toward Bilcoven. If we don' cross their trail, this here stream'll bring us back to the Marchy. Maybe," the ranger said with a wink at his companion. Sirilyr was not confident in that, but he knew he had traveled north-northwest Tir for a couple days now; that was enough to him get back to civilization. After the hourly break the pair began to descend.

            Taking his time, Sirilyr side stepped and slid his way down a soil filled crevice, at last reaching the bottom where the dog had impatiently waited and watched, having had his fill of the fresh, cold water slicing like a blade through the floor of the canyon. The ranger paused to refill his water flasks and have a quick wash. "Whew! Tha' was refreshin'... Allright, let's climb out'a 'ere. I don't like the bottom o' canyons in the fall or spring. They've a nasty 'abit o' floodin' at a whim o' mother nature. Up we go!"

            The climb out took almost four times as long as the trip down had taken. By the time Sirilyr had crawled out of the place, he had Feint under one arm with his walking stick and literally was clawing his way over the rim. Picking a low-limbed fir, the ranger dropped the hound and his stick under the cover of its branches and chose a bare stick as big around as a woman's wrist, also picking up a large stone, and a sturdy storm-dropped limb. The ranger gouged a shallow trench parallel to the rim's edge. He laid the stick in the shallow trench and covered it with earth and patted it firm. The rock was placed on top of the now convenient over hang at its far end. The trap was devilishly simple, the small limb would hold the wait of a rope or an arm's grasp, but not hold the full wait of a goblin's body for more than a few moments. Sirilyr then used the dropped branch to sweep his tracks from the lip of the canyon back to the tree. Satisfied that he had covered his tracks and trapped his back trail, he rolled under the tree and cuddled with the hound for warmth and another swig of water.

            The weary pair moved on after about ten minutes had passed, pushing eastward. Sirilyr looked for trails or sign as they moved atop the canyon. But they seemed to be on the only track over this wilderness, although many game trails intersected with it. "We travel until sunset my boy. Then we'll hold up in some covered spot away from this track; a place where we can 'ave a small, smokeless fire. I'm gettin' soft in me ol' age." He chuckled at the thought of living to get old... Feint smiled back and wagged his tail, glad that his friend seemed in good humor. Maybe they'd catch a rabbit later? Sirilyr used every high point they came across searching for the path which Sleene and the rest of the party must have taken in their own journey northward. He wondered if she was well and thought of him as often he did of her. "Come on buddy, we've a bit further ta go today." The hound panted and walked at his side in silence, if the sound of a forest can be called silence.

            The little river canyon widened into a small lake about thirty feet below. The cliffs formed the south and east side of the lake, with a more gentle forested slope on the north. It was a beautiful landscape, but Sirilyr was wary of the darkening overcast sky. Dark would bring an end to his search, and mean he'd be on his own for another couple days. He shivered with cold made worse by lost blood. The undulating terrain continued to require more effort than he wished climbing up and down spillways to the water below. At the east end of the lake, a fissure in the sturdy bedrock rock allowed the damned water to flow out, in a rushing, bolder choked wash. The gorge formed continued on eastwardly, settling out forty or so feet deep. The north side was forested, although more evergreen than deciduous.

            Sirilyr was moving autonomously, almost thoughtlessly when Feint yelped a warning, and emitted a low, uncertain growl. Letting his walking stick fall, and pulling his shiny blade, Sirilyr ducked behind a nearby tree. Nothing visible, but Feint's nose was twitching. "Ruff," the dog barked up at him and started wagging his tale. That seemed like good news, but Sirilyr still didn’t see anything.

            "What'cha smell boy?" he whispered.  Then he heard rustling coming at him from the forest. Wary, he watched and was very relived to see two familiar wolves darting through the trees. "Yer' buddies Nip and Snap little guy! Go get'm." Sirilyr smiled and gave the little canine a solid pat.  The three met up and exchanged their olfactory salutations. Sirilyr approached the cavorting trio. "Whar's yer human?" he asked, petting the musky wolves, not really knowing which was Nip or Snap. They didn't answer of course, but the ranger knew she had to be close.

            He continued to walk along the gorge with his new companions, more alert now. Then he saw the bridge ahead. Cautiously, Sirilyr approached from the cover of the trees. Nothing moved, so after a while of watching, Sirilyr came to the impressive structure and saw the plethora of tracks leading back and forth across the bridge. Oddly, the wolves and Feint shied from the structure. Many booted tracks came and went over the bridge.

            As the ranger studied he spoke quietly to himself, a habit from his extended sojourns in the woods and lonely places of the kingdom. "A small group o' three, one a female was last ta pass...headin' north outta yon forest ta the south. A larger group from the north crossed o'er the bridge an' moved on ta the east... maybe before the group from the southern woods. I doubt they saw one another from the age o' the two party's sets o' tracks. Unless the smaller group was careful, an' watched as I did; they be movin' steady from the woods, like nothin' was after 'em or rather the danger had passed an they knew they could cross the clear ground wit' no worries."

            The soldier chuckled at what he read next, "They shuffled around a bit when they got right 'ere, probably makin' up thar minds as ta where ta go... or even if'n they wanted ta risk crossin' the bridge at all. Means they feel weak. They did cross though. Real cautious at it too. I wonder..." Sirilyr raised his eyes to the forest on the northern side. First, the ranger was careful to scout the from the vantage point of the gaping holes in the walls of the ceilingless ruin. He could find no sign of who, or what, had once watched over the bridgeway above the chasm. Little was left in the dust colored wreck, save for the scorching of fire and tumbled brown stone. "From the earth ye came... and to the earth ye will return," whispered the tired soldier. "I need a place ta rest and 'ave a bit o' a meal."

            The man stood up and strode in a straight line in the small group's tracks across the aged span. "Where'd they go?" The woodsman clenched his jaw and determined to make as imposing, formidable, and unafraid a warrior as ever lived as he boldly gambled. He banished the running thought that if he had led a as large a unit across this bridge as the eastern borne party which had crossed earlier, he would have left a guard to secure the crossing for further use... and to deny its use to others. The soldier fingered his sword and axe hilts. If trouble came, it would come from ahead. He began to softly whistle a slow ballad he had heard once at a minstrel show, where the main character had faced impossible odds and one just knew he was going to die for having done so. A wry grin played across the ranger's face as he felt the pain from his leg as he forced himself to walk normally in his own parody of the act.

            Across without incident, Sirilyr noted the animal's refusal to follow. Unhallowed ground, he thought uneasily. The tracks on the north side headed both north and northwest, but the carpet of blown pine needles made it impossible to judge which group went where. To the northwest the trees grew denser and the ground rose more steeply than to the north, "maybe a place ta rest o' bit."

            "I would no' 'ave left this place unguarded. I wonder if there is another defendable place nearby?" Sirilyr moved silently and remained hidden in the shadows of the nearby trees and rocks as he made a hasty search of the nearby area. He could see nothing amiss. But he felt as if he were being watched in this unholy place. He couldn't say why he used the word 'unholy' in his thoughts, he just knew this was a site which had seen much evil. There was a tangible taint upon the ground from whatever had gone on here. 

            Uneasy in this vile place, Sirilyr drew his sword and unslung his shield. Using his tracker's eye to find any trace of wilderness type traps, the ranger watched carefully as he gently probed the needle covered ground. The woodsman also looked for any sign of Sleene's passing. The man's heart would have leapt with joy had he been able to find even a bit of recognizable cloth from one of the party member's weather and war worn cloaks. Finding little other than indentations in the damp ground where the weight of a humanoid had depressed an indistinct print.

            Sirilyr found a covered spot where he could cook a bit of meat under the thick foliage of tall trees that would filter his smoke and not make him noticeable. Placing a bit of tinder under the wood he had kept dry in his haversack, Sirilyr struck flint to steel and the sparks quickly became a small, almost smokeless fire. Sirilyr placed the last of his dried venison into a water and wine mix and added some hand axe broken hard cracker to thicken the fare. The wind was right to ensure the aromatic smell of the bubbling supper was carried to his furry friends hungrily spying upon him from the far side. "Let's see if the needs o' nature overrides the limitations o' fear," chuckled the sweating soldier as he placed his battered tin cup in the glowing coals to boil his herb tea and to cleanse his irritated wounds. Laying back against his shield, propped against a high pine tree, the man allowed himself the luxury of some rest as he draped his heavy warm cloak about his tired form.

            With supper almost ready he called to the trio, "Nip, Snap, Feint! Come and get it lads or I'll feed it to the forest creatures; I will!" Sirilyr wondered if there were any around. Spooning out three portions of the steaming meat and thick broth upon pine needle filled hollows for his friends. Settling back to enjoy his own meal with a hearty sigh and a louder "Mmmmmm... tha' is good!" Which huffed from around his first mouthful of hot food in too long of a while; although the pleasure of it was dampened by the strange way his voice seemed out of place in the silent pines. Sirilyr banished the thought and forced a smile as he saw the three look at one another and whine as they considered the danger against the definite reward.

            Feint as expected, was the first to break ranks and make for the sweet smelling food across the bridge. But would the leaner wolves come in? "Both Sleene and a meal are on this side lads, come on. It's alright fer now." The ranger concentrated and projected his desire and comradeship outwards towards the animals, as if willing them to approach simply because they wanted to do so.

            It was the first time Sirilyr had consciously tried to work one of the spells his mother had used many times to entertain him as a small child. He hadn't tried this in the past because he had up until now considered the small spell to be naught but child's play. He would have never considered that one day his life may depend upon it. And the soldier in him knew, his life did depend upon the success of the friendship spell. His odds of survival and of finding the others would vastly improve with the aid of the wolves.

            The ranger was surprised to find himself holding his breath as he saw the hound cautiously at first, then trotting faster and faster cross the bridge making a bee line for the meat he could smell on the wind so well that his empty belly growled at him to hurry into a loping run and find his human across that unpleasant ground so he could feed upon the mouth watering morsels he knew would be waiting for him there.

            The wolves too were hungry and their loved one was also across that same stretch of vile ground. The man to whom their lady had shown favor would be the fastest way back to her side. What to do? What to do? Nip licked his salivating lips and cast his eyes to Snap as he thought. Snap yawned in response and whined a bit as she felt her belly protest as her nose carried the smell of blood broth to her tongue. The pair had known hunger before and could endure it, but their girl was on the other side of the bad place as well. Should we cross? She will need us and be happy with us for bringing the man to her.

            I'm hungry... The she wolf's thoughts caused her to look doubtfully to her mate as he wagged his tail looking questioningly to her. What to do? HE IS A FRIEND. He has food ready. He is calling to us. OUR GIRL IS ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THIS BAD PLACE.  She wants him. SHE WANTS US. Together we would find her. But we have to cross here! What do we do? The unspoken exchange of thoughts was witnessed or imagined by the ranger as he concentrated harder in his effort, reciting as his mother had done long ago. The ranger's body slowly began to rock in a rhythmic time as he felt his soul begin to call out in a flow of power directed towards his furry friends. One word seemed to explode in Sirilyr's mind, "COME!" The ranger whispered, "Come on lads!"

            But as he opened his eyes expecting to see the wolves racing across, he saw them disappearing into the trees, and a chill passed through him as he felt the lingering emotion that drove them away: fear. But not an understandable fear of something unknown and dangerous; the chilling thing was their fear of the wrongness of the place, like it did not belong even to this world. The kind of fear children have of the monster under the bed they know is not there, but nothing in the world would make them put their feet on the floor until the light of day; irrational fears that adults learn to lock away and not bother with.

            At least Feint overcame it, Sirilyr thought as he watched the little brown dog lapping up his reward. But a new chill swept him as he picked up something from Feint. It wasn't that Feint overcame his fear, but Sirilyr sensed he had locked it up with a will and prescience that did not belong in the mind of a dog. Sirilyr quickly steeled his mind shut as he felt his instinctual curiosity was suddenly going to open whatever box of horrors his pet had learned to survive. But Sirilyr suddenly lost all comfort in his meal, and felt himself fumbling to hold the lid on his own mental chest full of irrational fears. Not the least of which was Feint suddenly looking up at him and smiling as he transformed into something he should not be. But the dog kept eating hungrily. Nothing in the world would make Sirilyr stay here alone in the dark. He quickly finished his meal and put out the fire, while keeping his thoughts on being watchful for anyone, or anything, undead, moving in the area.

            "Two choices Feint," Sirilyr told the dog as he pondered which trail to follow. "North with the large group or northwest with the small? I'm in th' mood for company." He made his way back to the bridge and began to follow the tracks northward. Again Feint refused to follow. Sirilyr tried to carry him, but he was not going to settle down for it. Sirilyr didn't want to let him go, but he did. "You git w' the wolves, keep them near, boy," Sirilyr told him as he set him on the ground still holding him firmly. Feint eagerly licked at Sirilyr, a canine acknowledgement, and Sirilyr let him go to run back across the bridge. Sirilyr found it hard to turn around, and kept watching after Feint was out of sight. He still felt that childish fear that turning around now that he was all alone was going to plunge him into some otherworldly void.

            "Ahhhg!" Sirilyr snarled getting angry at himself, banishing the fear with something Sirilyr had made stronger before every battle he faced. He turned to face the void, which of course was not there. Keeping the rage just below boiling, Sirilyr set off north. The tracks were not hard to follow, and seemed to follow an ancient roadway that was now represented by a slightly wider distance between the oldest of trees. The pine canopy was thick and after getting through the growth at the edge, the undergrowth was very sparse. It was also a bit too dark, but Sirilyr was not going to light a brand just yet. After several minutes of walking a brisk pace, probably a half hour, maybe more, Sirilyr saw a wall of foliage ahead, a clearing. He could make out the hole that the group he followed had bashed open through it, and was glad to see the sky was still light.

            He was more cautious as he neared the trail through the tangle that ringed the clearing; another place to keep watch on. But he saw nothing, and worse, still heard nothing at all in this cursed wood. He walked up and peered through the plants into the clearing, almost circular with the very odd stone tower and attached dilapidated wood cabin at its center. Only a few barren saplings grew from the grassy field several hundred feet in diameter. His sense of unease was even greater as he studied the place. The tower was not taller than the surrounding pines, making its existence all the more irrational to the soldier. A place of secrets.

            The door of the cabin right of the tower was open to the blackness within, and even from here Sirilyr could see the crushed grasses of quite a bit of traffic around the front of the place. In addition to the wide trail made by his group, a smaller trail from the woods to the door emerged about thirty yards west of Sirilyr. No one watching that Sirilyr could tell; but he could not see what was beyond the open door or battered shutters, or behind the dark narrow slits around the tower. No way to approach without being seen. Except at night. That was not going to happen.

            Sirilyr decided to walk straight across with that confident swagger that made one think twice about the man behind such bold, dangerous moves. He did feel like a thousand eyes watched him cross. As he neared the cabin door, the dampened grasses began to snap and crunch under his feet, and he knew it was not twigs. But he did not take his eyes off the door, fully hoping a familiar face would run out. The room beyond was empty, but the dirt and dust had been recently disturbed.

            Sirilyr called out, "Sleene? Spence? Linda? Brian?" before deciding to venture inside. No answer. Then he decided to walk around the exterior, just in case they had left through a back door. Outside, someone else had obviously walked around the structure, this very day. But as he came around the round tower and the dark shuttered windows of cabin, he found no sign of their egress. On the east side of the cabin was a woodshed with a door inside that had been used. Sirilyr followed the crushed grasses with his eyes to see many freshly dug and filled in holes east of the cabin.

            He approached one and leaned down. His suspicion about the crackling bones of small animals on the ground was confirmed, but he couldn't bring himself to dig up whatever they were burying so haphazardly. He rounded the cabin back to the front door seeing no sign that anyone left the cabin other than southward on the large trail he followed, or the small one east of it. "M'guts tell me this is th' good Linda's handiwork. But whoever ye are, I hope yer in there somewhere so I'm not wondering around alone with the spooks."

 

            The darkness seemed slow to retreat from Linda's lantern. The mausoleum beyond the black iron doors was quiet. The cold, pungent air had stilled, but a great sense of unease permeated. Short, wide steps spread down to the chamber in shambles, obviously not the place of rest intended. In the center of the room was a table strewn with tomes, scrolls, jars, boxes, and bones - including a few skulls. Slumped over a large tome in the middle of it, seated back to them, was a body in ragged garb hanging loose over the desiccated skeleton beneath. Several skeletons, headless, lay on the floor. Along the walls, six sarcophagi sat and odd angles; some used unceremoniously as shelves for more books and scrolls, pouches and sacks. Others stained with black, unseemly dried liquids. Behind the table, another stair climbed up to a dark loft.

            Delmen had spoken to young Darvian of wizards' caches; secretive men so obsessed with the knowledge their strange art revealed they would shun the world and die among their treasured scrolls and tomes. "Oh father," they all heard Linda whisper and realized her observation. Raymon's room, it dawned on Darvian, and Linda all the time knew that she was looking for him, that he was a key figure in the evil permeating this place and radiating out into the entire Marchy. Now was clearly not a suitable moment to contemplate such intellectual endeavors; under other circumstances Darvian would have been delighted to find such a room and take all the time to nose around, read, and study. The shadows seemed to be deepening.

            A darkness congealed out of above the slumped skeleton.  First a mist, then fog until a form of darkness took shape. It snarled from a roiling visage of hatred and anger, "THIS PLACE IS MINE!" The voice was gravelly and seemed to echo from elsewhere. Not the voice that had been haunting them. The specter before them grew larger, more substantial, more powerful. Its darkness took on an ill faint green glow; it suddenly lunged at them. Feorik recoiled instinctively knowing his powerlessness against this otherworldly foe.

            But Linda sprang forward to the first step, brandishing her sickle and holding the bright lantern high. "Father NO!" she yelled at the apparition. The insane visage suddenly looked surprised and its flowing darkness stopped at the bottom of the stairs to study the priestess. "Brigantia demands you!"

            That the shade was familial to her was no real comfort - the insanity in its voice and its otherness gave him no illusions that they could combat such a thing as they had the Ghouls.  The Brigantian was their only hope to see the light of day again. The specter winced and snarled, and seemed to diminish slightly. "Linda? My child," its whisper was hollow and sorrowful for moment. But again angry, "You mustn't know!"

            "Father your secret is out. We must end its threat," Linda spoke with her father's dark ghost without lowering her stance. "You must rest now, Raymon. I will keep it safe."

            "NOOOO!!!" It suddenly exclaimed and lurched forward. "The demons will come. None shall take it!"

            Linda was trembling facing the dark, incorporeal form that towered before her. "You must leave this place father. Let the goddess of life protect your secret."

            "AAAH, HAA, HAAA, HAAA," its raspy laughter born of insanity. "There IS no life Linda. All is darkness and illusion. All must die in cold shadow. I hold the secrets your goddess hides from you!"

            The elder priestess stood her ground. "Others will come for the book father. You must let me take it." Darvian and Orinden had backed against the wall, with Feorik in front of them, all transfixed by the scene, minds racing with their own scattered thoughts of the various events that had all conspired to lead them here to die.

            Darvian looked to the table, but it was obscured by the angry specter towering in front of Linda.  They were all looking for the book the demon had shown him after all, the book containing dark knowledge and the information it needed in order to return to its native plane Feorik would trade this moment to face, weaponless, a hundred dark goblin warlocks ready to feast on his soul.  He shook his head clear of panic and focused on the room instead.  If this is where the thing they sought was, then was Nasir here, too?  Or was he behind, lurking, plotting with the Other voice?  He half-turned to keep watch as the conversation between father and daughter, as surreal as it was, continued.

            "The Red Priest!" Orinden shouted, probably louder than he intended. "He comes for the book. You faced him before and he lives; he is down here, somewhere, to try again." The confidence seemed to edge away as he spoke. But Raymon's specter did seem to care as it shifted focus to the man in the back.

            "The ghouls, they come!" Storn shouted down from the other end of the shortened hall.

            "NOOOO!" the damned man howled. His billowing form concentrated, retreated slightly.

            "They're coming Linda!" Mellody high voice called from further away, running up the hall from her and Karod's post.

            "Watch out!" Linda exclaimed as she dove to the side. The specter had lost its human shape and became a hovering dark mass, still shimmering eerily green. It rushed forward, straight at the passage. "Get down!" Linda cried as it moved passed her. Darvian, Orinden, and Feorik dove for the walls. Feorik closed his eye and bit down hard on the inside of his mouth.  But the thing had not attacked him, or them. It rushed by, leaving a wake of cold tendrils and dread.

            "Great Dhagda!" Storn exclaimed, "Watch out, it's coming your way!" he yelled down to Karod and Mellody.

            Mellody screeched in fright at first, but then agony, and silence. Karod shouted, "Mellody! What is…"

            Its…its killing the ghouls!" Karod shouted down the hallway after a dreadful quiet. "But Mellody has fallen!"

            Looking about as they gathered their wits, Feorik focused on Orinden, "What did you do!" Feorik grabbed Orinden so that the man could not use the confusion to try to escape. "Come on," he said gruffly, pushing the man back toward the low passage.

            "Are you crazy!" Orinden resisted. "It's gone, get the book!"

            "The young lass is down! We're going to her!" Feorik tried to spin him around to force him. But Orinden was not cooperating.

            "I'm not going through there. It could come back any time," he sounded genuinely concerned, and was acting like a cat being pushed into a sack.

            "Nobody is safe with my father here," Linda said. "I have to go to Mellody." She shoved the lantern at Feorik and pushed passed to crawl into the hall ungracefully.

            "Storn. Storn! There's more ghouls coming! I don't know where that thing went, but I need your help getting Mell away!" They heard Karod call out. Linda was about half way through the strange constriction, and redoubled her effort to crawl through.

            Orinden sneered at Feorik, "We're trapped, but I'd rather be on this side than that."

            Feorik watched Linda go out, but his main senses were on Orinden.  "The book is here? In this room?" he hissed at the sorcerer.  "Where?"

            Hands still bound behind him, Orinden nodded at the slumped skeletal figure at the table, tome beneath its head. A strange sensation was coursing through Darvian as Orinden pointed out the book on the table. It did remind him of the vision he had had and there was an almost incontrollable urge to get a hold of it. Was there time to have a look or should he follow Linda and deal with another onslaught of undead creatures? While his mind was still debating over these options, his feet seemed to answer for him, as Darvian slowly walked down the steps towards the table in the middle of the room.

            "Take the book then, if you think it wise, Darvian.  Then we can get out of this tomb." Feorik snapped.

            "I think so," Darvian answered, "I get the sense that is the book I saw in the demon's mind." He handed Orinden's rope to Feorik, and grabbing his quarterstaff tightly in both hands he prepared to poke at the skeleton sitting at the table, hoping beyond hope that it might not spring alive. Orinden and Feorik watched as he neared; both not eager to enter further themselves. Feorik rationalized that he was not going to let Orinden out of arms reach.  Darvian was obviously timid about his approach, but it was not the skeleton that made him recoil suddenly.

            Atop the desk, a gruesome creature suddenly appeared. Small with spindly arms and legs, covered with oozing warts and crooked spines. Behind its horned and bat-like head, wings unfolded and flapped unnaturally. A sneering grin revealed its rows of needled teeth as it reached down and grabbed both sides of the book and flipped the skeleton off of it sending the skull careening toward Darvian. But whatever hair and sinew remained held it and it flopped staring at them upside down from the middle of its back. Darvian leapt back, and scrambled until he tripped on the bottom stair and fell on his ass, still holding his staff awkwardly. The creature slammed the book shut with a loud clap and cloud of dust.

            Feorik skin crawled as a deep unease weighed him down. The creature stared at him from black, otherworldly eyes that drove him back against the wall. He knew he should turn and climb into the low tunnel and scramble away from this demon, but he also knew he should not turn his back on it. If he kept it in sight, it could not magically close the distance between them and sink its teeth and claws into his brain. It hefted the thick tome and beat its wings rapidly, raising off the desk. They were all unsettled by a glimpse of the flattened, dried face on the cover.

            Another loud slam echoed from behind them. Storn and Karod had slammed the wooden doors on the advancing ghouls. The creature flapped away toward the dark loft and disappeared from sight. "What the hell was that?" Feorik managed to ask from his dry throat.

            "Where'd it go?" Darvian asked as he scrambled backwards back toward the black iron doors. The ghouls began beating and slamming on the door.

 

            Sirilyr got an acrid torch lit and entered, sword drawn, into the living room. A chair had been moved so someone could watch out the door. A fire had been lit in the fireplace; heat was still coming from dark coals. More old dry wood was stacked next to the fireplace. He went to the hallway opposite the front door leading back into the cabin. The curved stone wall of the tower receded behind the crude plank wall. About twenty feet back, there was a closed door to the left and the hall turned right. Actually it dog-legged to the right and straight back again. The woodshed door was opposite the closed door, and the open bedroom door opposed the continuing hall.

            Sirilyr peered into the bedroom and noted that it shared the fireplace with the front living room. There was camp gear and a couple sacks left haphazardly one of the two beds, still damp. A dagger, short sword, and a red mace with symbols etched around its shaft lay on the other. Sirilyr thought he recognized the gear and stepped in and opened the sacks. He felt a great relief to see a collection of empty ceramic jars, jars he had grown accustomed to seeing with the Priestesses of Brigantia. He wondered at the weapons; they were not Brian's or Storn's. He was armed enough, and obviously they felt they did not need them. At least he now knew they had been here, and probably meant to return. Tower? Or cellar?

            Sirilyr looked down the hall. One closed door on the left and the open door at the end. There certainly was much more traffic down this hall from the far room and out the woodshed door. He tried the door on his left anyway. It was stuck, but gave under pressure. An old headless body had rotted and desiccated on the floor. It was a ransacked storage room, but also had a heavy door set closed in the stone tower wall. Keeping his blade and eyes pointed at it, Sirilyr stepped beside the corpse, and over to try the door. As suspected, it did not even budge.

            He went back down the hall, and noted his footsteps took on a hollow thud as he passed the woodshed door, cellar. He peeked into the fouled kitchen, and then went down to the workroom at the end of the hall where the trap door stood open. He looked down the steep wood stair into the cellar below. Still no noise from below, and no light. "Yer down there somewhere," he whispered as he took a step and leaned over to see what he could.

 

            "That must be them," Spencer announced after listening to the noises for a few seconds. He started down the stairs, drawing his dagger, fearing the worst. [The depiction of the sky continued down the stairway and along the corridor below as did the scraped up scenes along walls.] At the bottom, they saw a bright light wobbling and wavering some hundred feet down the passage. They rushed to it, but as they neared they began to realize it was not the pilgrims. A man with a brightly glowing mace and dressed entirely in red battled a strange dark figure. They fought in a room twenty feet beyond where the hallway entered; more bodies littered the floor around the melee.

            Spencer stopped, suddenly unsure what he should do. The dark figure was not right; it seemed humanoid, but it seemed to flow and change shape as it dodged the sweeping mace. The red man, exhaustion and desperation clear, loudly chanted strange words. He was being driven to their left, away from an arched opening exiting the room opposite them. A wide, tired swing left him open, and the black figure reached in and grabbed him by the neck. He was lifted off his feet; a terrible sound escaped his throat as it was squeezed.

            The dark figure did not seem to have any legs, but rather seemed connected, supported by odd, shifting shadows that survived the bright light of the mace. Suddenly the man was thrown down on his back, the mace dropping from his hand with a loud clank. The dark thing disappeared, seemed to melt away from the prone man into the eager shadows around the mace's glow. The man sat up and desperately grabbed his weapon. When he realized his enemy was gone, he held the mace in both hands and seemed to be praying.

            "He hasn't seen us," Sleene whispered watching the red clad man.

            "What was that?" Spencer asked still frozen by the nagging unease of seeing something that just shouldn't be.

            "I don't know, but we have to help him. Come on." The druid started walking, pulling Spencer by the arm. They were nearing the room when the red-clad man noticed them. He scrambled to his feet and rushed at a few steps at them, brandishing his mace.

            "Wait!" Sleene called out to him seeing the fear and anger in his eyes as he hesitated near the center of the room to get a better look at her and the two men. They reached the end of the hallway and saw it opened into the square room.

            "Go! Get out of here!" The man said with an unfamiliar accent. He swung his glowing mace, gesturing back the way they came. They saw that two other halls exited the square room in the middle of the left and right walls. But their attention was drawn to the inlayed symbol in the very center; set in marble in the stone floor was then white base, black eagle wing, and yellow star of the Marchy of Bilcoven.

            "You need our help," Sleene half stated, half asked taking a step toward him.

            "No! Go!" The man shouted and moved at them threateningly while beginning to speak unintelligibly.

            "What is going on?" Sleene asked as she backed away from him.

            "Stop!" Spencer demanded, feeling inadequate with his dagger against the man with the heavy weapon and painted chain armor under his tattered red cloak.

            But the man did stop, just short of the large symbol in the floor. He grabbed the spiked knob of his mace with hardly a grimace, then flung the welling blood from the wounds to splatter the fallen bodies around him.

            William pushed between Spencer and Sleene and shouted, "No! You musn't!" He ran at the man with his own mace over his head. He leapt over the corpses and smashed down at the man, who managed to counter the blow as he back stepped toward the hall opposite them. William was in a fury and kept pounding and swinging, keeping the other man on the defensive.

            Spencer moved to block the guy from getting away, but as he moved, so did the bodies on the floor. Sleene screamed, and Spencer jumped away as a sharp-toothed ghoul grabbed at him. He put his torch and short blade between him and the thing that rose up next to him, a rabid perversion of a man with sharp, clawed hands and snapping elongated teeth. It seemed to delight in the terror that reflected in Spencer's eyes. He managed to fend off its attacks with some innate defensive instinct, but his mind that seemed to be watching from far away noticed grimly that it paid no attention to the burns, tears and rips on its hands and arms as it drove him back toward the left hall. Sleene too was being attacked, and driven back toward the hall they came from. William's momentum had played out against the more experienced man, who now easily avoided the young priests blows, and began to put William on a desperate defensive.

 

            Suddenly, as he was looking for signs of the creature that grabbed the book, Feorik was shoved hard at Darvian. Orinden's rope was yanked out of his hand as he pummeled into Darvian, still trying to right himself on the steps. Orinden bounded down the steps the other direction and spun to face them. Holding his right hand at them, rope dangling, "This will not be my tomb!"

            As they righted themselves, the shadows next to Orinden darkened and a chill washed through the room. Their wide-eyed stares, got Orinden's attention too and he turned and backed away from the specter that flowed out of the wall. "Fool! Your suffering will be eternal!" the deep voice boomed. "Where is the book!"

            "Stay back!" Orinden shouted at it along with a string of unintelligible syllables. The specter lunged at Orinden, who seemed to throw his hand at the massive dark shape. It was a hand, glowing first green then bright blue as it grabbed the ethereal neck of the specter. A pained howling wail erupted, and the darkness and cold that shed from the undead thing suddenly melted away.

            Stunned at the display and surprised that the specter disappeared, Feorik and Darvian righted themselves, but were frozen by indecision. Darvian looked at Orinden whose eyes were dark and angry. The ghostly hand hovered between them with that same threatening gesture. "Get us out of here Orinden!" Feorik demanded.

            Orinden just smiled and began another incantation. Feorik sprung at him in rage, swiping with the lantern at the floating hand that easily dodged and flew back at Orinden. As Feorik ran up extracting a hand axe, Orinden vanished in a swirl of colored light. His axe passed right through without affecting it, but he swore he saw not only the form of Orinden, but that of the little creature with the book sitting on his shoulder. The mist faded. "Did you see that! Did you see the creature?" Feorik shouted out his frustration.

            Feorik's question hung unanswered in the suddenly quiet and still crypt that Raymon had turned into his foul laboratory to study whatever arcane black knowledge that that damned book contained. "What creature?" Darvian finally managed to speak.

            "The thing that got the book was with Orinden in that cloud of smoke. He's in league with demons!" Feorik shouted loudly. Darvian could tell Feorik was irrationally angry. Perhaps that was better than the despair Darvian felt growing in himself.

            "The ghouls no longer attack the doors!" Storn yelled from the other side of the passage to this tomb.

            Hope lifted the dread from Darvian. Feorik ran back to the stairs shouting, "Let's get outta here!" He passed Darvian, bounded up through the iron doors, tossed the lantern into the low entrance passageway, and practically jumped into it himself. Darvian was suddenly struck by a curiosity about Raymon's studies as the light dramatically lessened. Pausing as he climbed the crypt's stair to look around the shadows. Raymon had surely kept notes, diaries, and spells. Now is not the time, Darvian acknowledged, but he would come back, prepared next time.

            "Orinden drove off the ghost with his magic," Darvian heard Feorik explaining hurriedly to the others, "then vanished with the book and…and some demon. We have to get out and find the bastard!"

            "Okay, okay!" Karod said, "Just wait. There is no room here. Stand back."

            "We cannot leave Mellody here," Linda said tearfully.

            "And we won't," Storn told her. "Darvian, come on!" The mage was almost through the crawl space. Karod opened the doors a bit, and there was nothing beyond trying to get in. But there was the sound of melee.

            "Come on, that may be Orinden!" Feorik complained.

            "Karod and I first," Storn said pulling the doors open and beginning a steady pace back down the hall away from the corrupt crypt, Feorik impatiently behind them. He had left the lantern on the crawlspace, and Darvian grabbed it as he climbed out. Linda was lifting Mellody, tightly wrapped in her cloak, like a sleeping child.

            A sore lump formed in Darvian's throat. "Let me," he said setting the lantern down and leaning his staff. Linda looked at him with tear streaks down her cheeks. She steeled her expression, and nodded with a look of understanding at the mage. He took Mellody in his arms as Linda had, and could not help but look down at her pale face. He looked away from the expression of fright and pain that lingered, and spread to his own with a chill that spread through his body. Linda grabbed the lantern and staff and set off after Feorik; Darvian followed and tried not to think about Mellody's death by the undead horror that Raymon had become.

 

            Sleene and Spencer were losing ground to the ghouls and William was nearly defeated by the red cultist when a man suddenly appeared in the middle of the Bilcoven symbol with a blast of colored mist that rapidly dispersed. Orinden of Tir, Sleene immediately recognized. He looked somewhat shaken and disoriented and he looked around and took measure of the chaotic situation.  He was not pleased when he saw Sleene. "You bastard!" she spat, but kept her attention on keeping her staff beating on the two ghouls attacking her.

            Then things got worse. Sounds of scrambling and snarling rolled from the hall to the right. More ghouls were coming.  "Damn! What have you done Nasir?" Orinden shouted. Five more ghouls ran into the room, seemingly straight at Orinden like they were after him.

            "We can go this way," Nasir said trying to push William out of the way with a low swing. William avoided it, but a glowing orb from Orinden's hand blasted into him and threw him off his feet into a lump. "Did you get it?" Nasir asked, but Orinden did not answer as he ran, pushing Nasir along, into the hall opposite where they entered. Sleene and Spencer were left alone to fight the ghouls in the weak light of his battered torch.

            It was too late to get back to the hallway from where they came. The undead fought irrationally, relentlessly forcing both Sleene and Spencer to keep moving and keep giving ground or have their weapons torn from their hands. "Get to that passage," Spencer yelled to Sleene. They back stepped defensively as the five ghouls loped nearer. Spencer saw William's slumped form and hated to leave him there. He and Sleene closed together and got side by side in the hall as the additional ghouls crashed into the three they had been fending off. The chaos as the monsters clawed and jostled each other gave them a bit of a respite, but eventually a morbid pack mentality developed. The veritable wall of snarling undead forced them back further from the only way they new out of this hell.

            Beyond the ghouls from far down the hall back across the room, a light shown, dim at first then brighter. Too busy to shift focus, Sleene and Spencer could only hope it was the pilgrims they had been tasked to find. They had already been pushed about twenty feet down the hall. Storn and Karod also saw the distant wavering light of Spencer's sputtering torch, but did not recognize the combatants. They hurried their pace once Linda was close behind them with the awkward table lamp.

 

            It had not taken Sirilyr to long to surmise the situation when he found the sub-cellar littered with twisted bodies of defeated undead. He soon abandoned cautious exploration, and hurried along the strange subterranean complex. Where ever they were, he new they needed him. As he descended the stairs under the faux sky, he heard the first sounds that he had not made himself. It sounded like animals, feasting, frenzied. He ran forward, hoping that it was not too late. Visions of last night's horror in the woods flashed at him, Macomb's twisted, bloody features as he rose from the dead. His anger welled to blot out these thoughts. He brought on a battle rage to fend off the fear of what lay ahead.

            At the bottom of the stairs he saw light ahead down the long hall, just a glow, not its source. As he ran toward it, something dark and sinister passed by and momentarily darkened the glow. It was not a figure, more like a mist, but whatever it was made Sirilyr's skin crawl, and made him slow his pace as he realized he had no idea what he was up against in this alien place. Then he heard the snarling turn into pained inhuman howls. He slowed when he saw the light ahead intensify, and heard voices.

            "The ghost!" Karod called out. "It attacks the ghouls again!"

            "They must be attacking Orinden," Feorik answered. "Keep going!" Karod had slowed, not so sure.

            "Yes, go," Linda said urgently. "We cannot let him kill him that way." Darvian understood her, even if he suspected Feorik would not. He desperately wanted to set Mellody down, could not get her freaky image out of his mind. Whatever Raymon had become, he was holding open the door to a fearsome hell Darvian had not imagined. He watched the specter tear into the mass of ghouls, sucking them howling off their feet, and throwing their still, cringing forms to the ground behind him.

 

            Sirilyr saw Storn and another man run into view, then heard Linda, “Feorik, stay away from it!”

            The unknown man stopped obviously confused then noticed Sirilyr’s light and brought his weapons up facing the passageway. “Someone comes!”

            “Sirilyr!” Sirilyr called. “Friend!” He hurried up the hallway.

            Karod and Linda came to Feorik, but the priestess only warned them to stay back again and kept on toward Storn and the terrible racket still coming from down the dark hall to the left. “Father! Father! You must stop this!” she yelled down the hall. Sirilyr could not see to whom she was talking to as he entered the room, but saw the floor littered with undead. He also noticed the symbol of Bilcoven in the center of the room where Feorik and Karod stood.

            “What is going on?” he asked, then noticed Darvian approach from the right hall carrying Mellody’s still form.

            “Hell,” Karod said simply. The young man had the look of shock.

            “Unclean spirits, leave this world!” Linda began a call to Brigantia to banish the undead.

            “Her father, Raymon, has become a specter. He has killed Mellody,” Darvian told Sirilyr, and swung the young priestess around. Sirilyr’s blood went cold when he saw the look of horror frozen on her white face. Streaks of gray lined her hair. “Orinden stole the book he was guarding, and now he attacks the sorcerer.”

            “And these?” Sirilyr looked at the fallen ghouls. “Wait. That’s no ghoul.” Sirilyr noticed William’s body near the north passage. They moved toward the body. Sirilyr knelt and recognized the priestling from Arawn’s temple. Linda’s angry chanting stopped and the hall went quiet. “William?” Sirilyr was shocked to see him. He quickly felt for a pulse. “Still alive!” He inspected the boy for wounds; he could tell he was banged up some and some fresh blood stained his armor, but no apparent serious blade wound or broken limbs. He rolled William over and shook him lightly, “Wake up.” The boy groaned and winced as brief consciousness brought pain.

            “I lost him and the others in the woods,” Sirilyr told Karod and Darvian, who had set Mellody down and come over.

            “He wasn’t with us. He must have come while we were in that room,” Karod said.

            “Have ya na' seen Geo, Spence, Sleene, Star?” Sirily asked them as he inspected the boy for wounds.

            But the answer was interrupted when Linda said as she came back from the hall. “I think I only drove him away, but there’s no sign of Orinden. Who is that?” she asked when she saw Sirilyr holding William.

            “A priest from the temple of Arawn. We were coming to find him,” he gestured at Feorik, “when I got separated. Sleene must be here, she had a pendant that pointed the way.”

            “Here,” Linda produced a ceramic vial from her robe and handed it to Sirilyr who poured its contents into William’s mouth.

            The boy responded, slowly his eyes opened with a measure of clarity. “Sirilyr? Thank Arawn you’re okay.” He stopped as memories came back. “The red priest, he animated the dead and I attacked him. Something hit my back and I went down.” He noticed the others standing over them. “Sleene and Spencer were with me.” He shuffled to get up, and Sirilyr helped him.

            “They aren’t with us,” Darvian said. “Which way did Nasir, the red priest, go?”

            “He came from there,” William indicated the nearby hall across from the one they all had entered from.

            “That could have been Sleene and Spencer down there,” Darvian suggested to Linda indicating the hall where the ghouls had been battling

            “Whoever was there fled,” Linda answered.

            “Let’s go find them and get out of here,” Darvian said.

            “What about Orinden and book?” Feorik asked.

            “We know they have it. We’ll find them,” Linda concluded. “William, can you help Mellody?” She led him to where Darvian had set her.

            William looked frightened by what he saw. “I can perform the ritual, but…”

            “Please, we have to make sure she gets away from this place,” Linda said. “Feorik, Karod, stay with us in case Orinden comes back.”

            “Sleene! Spencer!” Storn called down the hall where he kept watch.

            “Good ta see ya again,” Sirilyr told the paladin as he approached with Darvian, “despite the circumstances.”

            “Ay soldier.”

            “No answer,” Darvian observed.

            “Let’s go get ‘em.” Sirilyr stepped over the contorted ghouls and down the hall with his torch. Despite the dust and dirt, there was no clear sign. The hallway continued straight for about sixty feet. About forty feet down was a side chamber lined with cells similar to those on the level above. These were vacant apart from the debris of destroyed furniture, and no one returned their calls from the eerie shadows.

 

            Sleene and Spencer had barely noticed the dark cloud gathering behind the pack of ghouls, and did not understand it or the coldness that washed down the hall. But suddenly a ghoul at the back was lifted up into it, its screech was the first sign that these things could feel pain, and fear. The battle paused. The dark mist had formed arms of incorporeal strength, and the ghoul had its unlife painfully extracted. It shrunk and cringed, then was thrown aside, and the specter reached out for the next. An angry, otherworldly visage of ultimate anger formed in the shadowy maelstrom. About to be overrun by ghouls and an incomprehensible terror, the two had run.

            They cut left at the first passage beyond the first turn in the hall, and the ghouls had gone by. They found themselves out of breath in an antechamber around a corner and out of sight. A large stone door adorned with a large thunderhead symbol blocked their progress. The stone doorframe was etched with images of swirling vortices. There was a keyhole in the door for some long lost key to open. They stood quietly while their breath return to normal, neither wanting to speak of their predicament, both expecting the ghouls to come for them at any time. The torch was battered, and its flames unsteady.

            "Sleene, Spencer?" The words rolled down the hall to them, not shouted, but cautiously loud. Storn's voice? The two looked at each other in the dim light, both bedraggled with sweat, blood, and bruises, and smiled their relief.

            "We're here!" Spencer called back.

            "Come quick. The ghouls'r coming back!" Sirilyr told them.

            They left the chamber and rushed to meet their lost companions. "Sirilyr!" Sleene exclaimed. "How…"

            "Nay time for tales lass," he told her. "Glad t' find ya both. "

            Darvian ushered them back down the hall while Storn and Sirilyr kept their attention on the ghouls lingering at the extent of their light. Storn was set to destroy these abominations, and Sirilyr feeling the strength of the man, was eager to fight the undead at his side.

 

            William used what little he had of his holy ointments and water to bless Mellody's corpse, and was performing an unpracticed ritual prayer to Arawn to protect her soul in the afterlife. Linda joined him in the appeal, but he knew her demise in this place was probably beyond his inexperienced power to affect. The older Priestess had great power, but her goddess drew from life energy that had little sway on the other side. "We have to bring her to Master Viatteni. Our prayers will protect her from the dark spirits for a while."

            Darvian had returned with Sleene and Spencer to watch the ritual silently with Karod and Feorik. William was still obviously pained when he knelt to lift Mellody. Spencer realized that Brian was not present, but offered to take the priestess himself rather than ask a painful question.  Sounds of battle echoed back down the hall as Storn and Sirilyr engaged the ghouls. Linda frowned with weary frustration. "We must leave. The specter still haunts this place." She walked to the hall where Storn and Sirilyr fought around the corner and out of sight.  "I'll go with Karod to help them. The rest head back up to the cabin, hurry. We'll catch up."

 

            Crushed, torn, and dismembered ghouls littered the hall. When Linda and Karod arrived, the two had defeated all but three ghouls cornered at the end of the long hall. They too soon fell. Although curious about the wooden doors at the end of the hall, they were locked and sturdy, and Linda ushered them back with warnings that the specter of her father still roamed the dungeon. They ignored the two side passages as well.

 

            They all climbed up and out of the strange underground complex and gathered outside the cabin in the dusk. "We must get Mellody to my temple," William explained.

            "I am afraid to leave the cabin without that book," warned Darvian. He briefly explained his vision to Sleene, Spencer, William, and Sirilyr. "Something that book brought here comes out in the woods at night. It drove us here."

            "Nasir found another entrance to that dungeon, and he and Orinden have the book." Feorik said. "The demon should plague them now."

            "And my father," Linda said. "I think it best we get as far as we can from this place tonight. And decide our path tomorrow." Agreed, they headed away from Raymon's tower toward the ancient stone bridge. They made it little further south down the overgrown path before the darkness forced them to stop.