“But it's time – gotta take a stance
'Cause I won't get a second chance
And I know now I have to make it alone.”
Roger Hodgson - “Had A Dream” - In The Eye Of The Storm

---

William held his five playing cards quietly, his expression revealing not a hint of the quality in his hand. Opposite him sat Claypool, a middle-aged, slightly plump man, more than a little nervous about his own poker hand. The piles of coins in front of the players were stacked high in William's favor, and in the center was enough to make or break Claypool. The inn had drawn quite a crowd this night, some eager to socialize, others eager to earn some fast silver. William and Wizard had come for the latter, though had indulged in the former whenever their winnings were appropriately high. In William's case, that was quite nearly every game.

“It is your bet, sir,” William reminded his opponent cordially. “Or shall you withdraw?”

William knew exactly how to peg some people. Claypool was a prize he had waited long in the city for: a man both stupid and rich. Now, after several hours of playing, the man remained stupid, but was certainly not rich.

“I call,” Claypool said, hesitantly pushing his last few silver coins into the center of the table.

William smiled. “Then the game is at last over,” he said, laying down a trio of jacks and a pair of aces.

Claypool stood in frustration. “And all I had was jacks and fives!” he said with anger. William flinched imperceptibly and scooped up the cards almost before his opponent could realize the error. Almost.

“Hold a second!” Claypool screamed in outrage after a short pause. “You held in your hand three jacks? And I held two?”

William glanced at the crowd, evaluating in an instant his standing. A dozen accusing glances returned his. “Wizard,” he said quietly, still scanning the crowd's faces.

Wizard stepped from the side, closer to William. “Use your spells,” William ordered with a whisper. “We must get out of here.”

Wizard stepped back quietly, weighing his options. He knew as well as William that spellcasting within the city limits was strictly forbidden without need for self-defense. The mob may look angry, but they certainly weren't threatening. Still, he thought, the crowd was entranced with William. If he were to conjure a convincing illusion, the crowd may not notice a spell had been cast. He carefully began a gesture, followed with a handful of quiet words in an arcane tongue.

The doors to the inn suddenly burst in, sending patrons scurrying for safety. A pair of tall, imposing guards stepped in, glancing around the room. “All right! Who sent for the guard?” one of the two asked aloud in a gruff voice. A dozen fingers pointed at William and Claypool.

William's playing partner stepped to the guards. “Ah! good sirs. You could not have come a moment too soon. This man,” he said, indicating William, “has cheated me out of nearly a hundred pieces of silver. I demand he be taken away.”

The guards looked at William, who had just finished scooping his newly-claimed silver into a money pouch. “Glad to!” one said as took a step forward. William acted without hesitation and drew a short blade, concealed in his boot.

Wizard gasped. “William!” he said urgently. “I think you had best do as the guards say.” He winked, and the two guards mimicked his move. William casually returned the blade to his boot and gathered his possessions together.

“I will go without a struggle, then,” he said with mock humility. The guards flanked William and began escorting him to the door.

“What about my money?” Claypool said suddenly.

The guards hesitated a moment, then said in unison, “Evidence!”

Wizard casually followed, trying his best to ignore the few faces still eyeing him suspiciously. The four made it almost to the doors when a new guard stepped in to the inn, barring their way out. The third guard wore a slightly different uniform than the first two and had the markings of a captain on his mail vest. William and the guards tried to move past, but were held back.

“And what have we here?” the captain asked suspiciously.

The guards remained calm, but said nothing at first. Claypool stepped forward, though, and began to recount his version of the night's game, only slightly biasing the story in his favor. The captain listened carefully to the man's story and then turned back to the guards. “Is this what you observed?”

The two guards looked to each other briefly, then one answered. “Yes, sir.”

The captain looked at the guards uniforms, carefully eyeing the details. Wizard shifted nervously, looking for any way past the man.

“Why are you wearing no rank insignia?” the captain asked calmly. The guards said nothing. “And why did you not salute me when I entered?” Again the guards said nothing, but raised their arms in a pair of identical salutes, both bad. “And where are your weapons?” the captain asked finally.

Wizard cursed under his breath and tried to make his way out the door. He had tried his best, and it had been insufficient. William would have to fare for himself. The captain, though, thought not. He grabbed Wizard as he tried to move past, jarring the man's arm so violently that the spell he had cast suffered likewise. The two guards faded into nothingness. Instantly, Wizard tried a gesture to restore his illusions, but the captain had seen enough.

“Down to the ground, magician!” he shouted, nearly throwing Wizard to the floor. He turned to William. “Are you associated with this individual?” he asked, already suspecting the answer.

William shrugged his shoulders and said convincingly, “Never seen him before tonight.” The captain may have believed him, if not for several helpful tavern patrons shouting disagreements.

Another warned, “Careful, cap'n! He's got a knife in his boot.”

“All right, you two!” the captain said, drawing a short sword. “You are in a lot of trouble. You're coming to the station with me.”

Wizard glanced expectantly at William, as if waiting for a signal to break for it. William shook his head slowly, looking at the dozens of potential witnesses. “This one we ride out,” he said quietly with disappointment.

---

The small, walled city of Baytun is a legacy from the violent past of Lendore Island. Once it had been a small keep, supporting miles of sparsely-populated farmland, protecting the farmers from the rampaging orcs so prominent two hundred years earlier. After the rangers had established the safety of the island, the orcs stopped their raids and the lands around Baytun were settled by far more farmers than the keep could protect. A smaller set of walls were built a few decades back around the still-growing city, but the settlers continued to expand the borders. Now, with a thriving fishing community scattered up and down the coastline for nearly a mile in each direction, the tiny walled city is protection in theory only. Realizing the futility (and the cost) of continued security on the walls, the city's baron reduced the soldiery on Baytun's walls to a handful at each of the two gatehouses, charging them with the task of checking the hundreds of people that come and go daily. Needless to say, they rarely stop people at all, unless it is after dark.

Abraham, though, is half-orc. An accident of birth cursed him forever to be perceived as a threat by his race alone. Now, he staggers into the city of Baytun supported by his only two friends left alive: the priest Bangkor and the elven wizard Lavarock. Partly because it is after dark, and partly because of the strange appearance of the group, the guards stop the three men at the gates. “Hold it there, now.” one guard said, holding up a hand. “What seems to be the trouble, here?”

“Our friend is sick. We must get him to a healer,” Lavarock answered.

The guard looked at the nearly unconscious half-orc suspiciously. “We don't want any trouble here,” he said.

Abraham pushed himself up so he stood on his own two feet. “If we want trouble,” he said with difficulty, “I'll make sure you know about it!” He tried walking past the guard, but stumbled forward, his companions barely preventing him from collapsing to the ground.

“Now wait up a moment,” the guard said as the three moved slowly past him.

The second guard shook his head. “Oh, let them go. They don't look like they're capable of much trouble to me.”

The first guard shrugged his shoulders. “I guess you're right.” Then, after the three were out of earshot, he added, “I just don't like those half-orc bastards polluting our fine city like they do.”

Later that night, Lavarock and Bangkor sat in the common room of the 'Beachside Rodent', a large inn that once overlooked the sea, but now overlooks a twenty- foot stone wall. It's reputation as a high-class inn disappeared as suddenly as its view had when the outer walls were built. Now, it was home to anybody who had five coppers for a night and a meal. Despite its unusually low price, though, the two were alone in the room because of the hour. Even the bartender had called it a night, locking up his bar before he crawled off to his room.

“I think he's getting better,” Lavarock said wearily to his companion.

“But it is the nature of certain magical curses to give the illusion of wellness, while all the while deteriorating your body,” Bangkor offered pessimistically.

“Still, the healer will know, right?” Lavarock asked, eternally optimistic.

The two made a good pair. One saw only the bright side of things, the other only the dark. With Abraham around as their swordsman, the three were able to do nearly anything. “The healer may want some payment, though. We've spent nearly our last coins on this wretched inn.”

“Ah, we can get some money. That's no problem.” Lavarock pulled a small vial of oil from his pack nearby. “Oswald and I can get into any money box anywhere and be gone before the owner knows what hit him.”

“Like Restenford?” Bangkor reminded the elf.

“Well, we made it out safely, didn't we?” he said, carefully returning the vial to his pouch.

“And with half the ranger force still looking for us, I may remind you!”

“I doubt it. They've got better things to do than track down a couple of petty jewel thieves.”

“Especially jewel thieves who didn't steal anything, right?”

“Don't rub it in,” Lavarock asked, more than a little humiliated.

“Also, remember this: The healing could take weeks. If we get caught stealing here, we couldn't skip town without leaving Abraham behind.”

“Just as well. It'll be safer to play the good guys for awhile. Almost a challenge, you know?”

“Look,” said Bangkor, in a moment of optimism. “Why don't we catch some sleep. In the morning, who knows? We can take Abraham to the healer and maybe they'll be generous.”

“Perhaps. But, the healers of Diancecht weren't able to do anything for him.” Then, lost for a moment in thought, he added, “I still wonder what that accursed animated skeleton did to him.”

Bangkor shrugged his shoulders as he stood. “Who's to say? I don't suppose you want to go back to the Pentepila and find out?” Lavarock stood in silence and the two wandered to their room.

The September sun had burned off the morning fog and risen well above the horizon by the time the two were awakened by Abraham. The half-orc was in surprisingly good humor, and it seemed that the night's rest had done him more good than the other two expected. After a quick meal in the common room, the three made their way across the small town to the temple to the father, Dagda.

The small temple had been housed inside the original keep at one time, but relocated outside when the outer walls were built. The new building, though, was no more larger than the cramped, original temple and only housed one full priest and three full-time acolytes. Together, the four gave services daily and had a monthly ceremony on the day of the new moon. This morning, the acolytes tended the small garden in the tiny courtyard before the temple itself, while the priest studied in his chambers.

Abraham, still a little shaky from his illness, did the talking when the three arrived in the courtyard. “I have come for healing,” he said gruffly. His two companions cringed, wishing he had worded his request a little more humbly.

An acolyte looked up from his gardening. “Are you a worshipper?”

Abraham began to answer, but Lavarock interrupted, trying to save the half-orc from answering inappropriately. “We are from out of town,” the elf said simply, hoping the evasive answer would be enough.

Another acolyte took an interest in the conversation and stepped up. “What is your ailment?”

“I have been cursed,” the half-orc said quickly, not wanting to stand back and let his comrades do all the talking.

“Cursed, eh?” a new voice said, as the priest emerged from his room. “By what?”

Abraham eyed the approaching man, studying his bearded face. He could almost see the man's distrust. “I battled an animate skeleton in the ruins of an ancient temple. The priests of Diancecht patched my wounds, but later I grew ill and could not even walk without my friends' help.”

The priest seemed unimpressed. “And why did you not ask the healers in Restenford to help you? They are famous for their skills.”

“We had already left Restenford and were on our way here when the illness struck,” Lavarock said, interrupting.

“And the priests in Restenford failed to notice this illness?” the priest asked, noticeably skeptical.

Abraham had grown restless. “We told you. The curse did not appear until after we had left the city!” he snapped.

“Very well,” the priest said. “For a token contribution, I will see what I can do.”

Lavarock and Bangkor sighed relief, but Abraham was incensed. “I will pay you nothing, unless I can be guaranteed of help!”

The priest raised an eyebrow, but before he could speak, Lavarock stepped in. “My friend is obviously not in his right mind, sir. We would be most happy to pay you for your services.”

The priest stared at the visibly irritated half-orc. “You will pay me nothing. A donation of a few silvers, though, to the temple would be sufficient.”

“Silvers!” screamed Abraham. “And this even if you are unable to help me?!”

“If you are unwilling to donate, then you are unworthy to receive our help,” the priest answered calmly. “Now, if you don't mind, we have work to do and would appreciate it if you left.”

Lavarock started to plead, but Abraham had already turned his back and was headed for the gate. The magician followed after a momentary, awkward hesitation. Once outside, he stopped the half-orc by grabbing his shoulder roughly. “Are you crazy?”

Abraham glared back. “You saw the man's face. You knew why he denied me. I could not bow to him even at the cost of my own life,” the half-orc said grimly.

The elf looked confused. “What are you talking about?”

“The priest refused me because I am half-orc. If I had been human, he would have helped me without question.”

Lavarock started to debate him, but stopped to think a moment. Bangkor spoke up. “He may be right,” he said to the elf. “If you or I had been cursed, the outcome may well have been different.”

“Of course it would, we would have been more polite.”

Abraham turned in anger to the elf. “You know not the price of honor! The man deserves none of my time, even if I am in need of his. The man deserves nothing from me…” He paused, reflective. “…except death.”

---

Wizard sat in his jail cell, running his finger back and forth over the rough stone slabs that isolated him from the outside. The only other view he had was of the tiny wooden door with its barred window slightly smaller than his own hand. Every morning and every evening, the guard came to deliver his meals, but this day he heard the keys jingle in the lock shortly after what he guessed to be noon. In a flash, he stood. 'This could be my chance,' he thought as he readied his weakened arms in a spell-casting position.

The outer gate swung open behind the tiny door. 'What paranoid peoples these jailers are,' he thought as he heard the keys jingle in the lock to the inner door. 'They encase me not in one door, but in two.' The outer door latch shut again, and the inner door swung slowly open. Wizard lowered his arms. The guards had never entered his cell before. What could this mean?

William stepped into the dark room and lifted a hand to his face. “Whew! This place reeks, Wizard. Have you any pride?”

“Plenty,” Wizard answered with disappointment as he sat back on his bunk. “But it seems my predecessors and the jailers do not.”

William stepped farther into the cell. “Well, they let me out as you can see, but I'm afraid they didn't want to let you loose just yet.”

“I'm not surprised. They said a month, and it's been only a week. Why have you come here?”

William moved closer, kneeling on the floor next to Wizard's bunk. “Because I have to tell you something.” The tall man glanced behind him to the open inner door. The guard who had let him in was not in sight. “You must sit this sentence out in its entirety. Do not escape!”

Wizard's face fell. “Three more weeks,” he said with teeth clenched. “Do you know what it's like down here?”

“I can guess,” he said, glancing around the room. “But I have need for your spells after you are out and if we have the entire city of Spindrift on our backs, we will be unable to accomplish what I want.”

Wizard hesitated a moment, thinking. “I've taught myself a new spell, William. It seems to work quite well on the rats.” He raised his arms suddenly and spoke a few, short words.

William stepped back, swiftly reaching for his sword. He cursed as he grasped an empty scabbard. Wizard completed his gestures and a bolt of dim, red light flashed to William's head. The fighter dropped to the floor, motionless.

Wizard stood over the paralyzed William. “I will do as you say, William. But remember this. This torture had better be worth my while. If it's not, you will not have me to help you out.” He waved a hand over William and the man's muscles jerked to action again.

William stood slowly, keeping his eyes on Wizard. “It will be worth your while, Wizard. I give you my word.”

“You're word is worth nothing.”

William hesitated a moment, then turned and left, saying nothing more.

---

The sliver of the waxing moon provided little light in the temple's courtyard, but Abraham moved silently through the bushes never-the-less. Behind him, not blessed with the night vision common to those of elvish or orcish stock, Bangkor mumbled in indignation as Lavarock guided him forward. The three spoke not at all as they approached the temple building housing the priest. Abraham slowed to a halt and raised his hand in gesture to the others. Lavarock tugged at Bangkor's arm and they, too, stopped.

“They post no guards. This will be easier than I thought,” Abraham said, after peering around a corner of the building. “The priest's room is the first window down. Bangkor, you're up.”

Bangkor moved slowly past the half-orc, carefully feeling along the wall until he arrived at the window. Once there, he kneeled below its ledge and began a series of magical gestures. Adding an eery hum, a spell began to take form. He raised his voice slightly, but the noise began to echo strangely and fade away. In a few more seconds, no noise came from his lips, though they moved anyway.

Abraham and Lavarock stepped up to Bangkor as he stood up next to the window. Their footsteps faded to nothing as they entered the region of silence around their comrade. Abraham drew his blade and, with a quick nod to the others, thrust the pommel through the window, silently spraying the floor of the room with glass slivers. Abraham hefted himself through the hole and awkwardly fell into the room, again without a sound.

Across from the window was a modest, wooden bed with the temple's priest. After checking from a distance to make sure he remained asleep, Abraham helped his friends into the room. Lavarock went silently to the door and held it from opening, while Abraham stepped up to the priest's bed.

His sword still drawn, the half-orc hesitated over the man's sleeping form, almost wishing the man would provide more of a challenge. Then, without mercy, he brought his blade down hard on the sleeping form. For some unknown reason, though, the priest sensed the danger and was able to roll off the bed, clear of the main thrust of the weapon. Instead of piercing the man's chest, the blade grazed his left arm as he fell out onto the floor.

Before the pain registered, the priest had withdrawn a small, ceremonial mace from beneath the bed. Abraham's second blow was diverted to the floor as the priest stood. Without a sound, the priest screamed as he saw the others and realized his predicament. He staggered back swinging his mace wildly as the pain flared in his arm. Abraham, taken aback at the priest's initial evasion, gauged his opponent carefully for a few seconds before trying his third blow. A faked thrust to his left side made the priest try an abortive parry, opening his right side to Abraham's real blow. The blade sunk deep between the man's ribs and he slumped to the floor. A final jab ensured Abraham's victory.

Lavarock immediately began searching the room for valuables, while Abraham poked his head through the window to make sure nobody was in sight. A few moments later, the noise of Lavarock's searching began to echo faintly through the room, indicating that Bangkor's spell was fading. The elf, cautioned by the others, stopped his search and the three climbed back into the courtyard.

Once clear of the temple grounds altogether, the three converged near the east gate out of the city. With their packs in hand, they walked casually out the gate. As they were leaving the city, the guards gave them no trouble. Once clear, Lavarock turned to Abraham.

“Do you feel better now?” he asked, showing his distaste for the evening's activities.

Abraham stared forward as they walked into the night. “My honor is restored. My health is not,” he answered simply.

---

William walked the streets under the full moon, his eyes constantly scanning the alleys and buildings for the source of his unrest. An eery presence was all over the city this night and so overwhelmed was he, that no walls could hold his curiosity in check. He had crossed the city twice and had carefully noted the intensity of the sensation everywhere he went. He was near to the source now and so had become even more alert.

A noise drifted from an alley as a pair of cats began a hissing contest. This, William barely noticed. His senses were attuned to a far different level. Then, he sensed it. Below his feet, he felt the power of the incantation. Like a spark, the realization hit him. 'The sewers!'

The cats in the alley stopped their verbal fight and scattered for cover as William, armored in a light chain mail, came jogging into their alley. Their territory, it seems, was disputed only among their race. William darted down the narrow alley until, near the center of its length, he suddenly came to a halt. To one side was a grating, inset into the stone foundation of the Beltine inn which formed the left wall of the alley. Easily large enough for a man to pass through, the city had seen its way to bar and lock the entryway to prevent unauthorized passage. This presented William with only a minor annoyance.

He kneeled before the grate and grasped its bars with both hands, closing his eyes and breathing deeply as if in meditation. With a single breath, he whispered a chant, “Mine is the strength from the blood of a thousand. The bars are the strength of none.” With what would have seemed to an observer to be no more than a minor tug, William wrenched the metal grating from its hinges and snapped the padlock as if it were wood. Without another thought, he placed the bars gently to one side and climbed into the sewers.

The stench of the sewers was strong with the rot of the city, and their height was more appropriate for a gnome or goblin, but William walked on. The power he could almost see now, its invisible lines dancing in front of his eyes, leading him further down the pitch black corridors. The passage turned once, then again and again. He could see nothing with his eyes, but followed a trail more clear than anything he could have seen in daylight.

Finally, in the distance, he saw a glow from a fire and heard the rhythmic chants of a ceremony in progress. He slowed to a stealthy pace, keeping his body close to the right wall. Ahead, the cramped passage fanned out into a central chamber at the intersection of three sewer tunnels. In the expanse of this intersection sat six men, facing one wall, wearing dark red robes. Between them and the wall was a cauldron with a blazing fire, while chained to the wall was a woman, her body bruised and beaten, her head slumped forward in exhaustion. A seventh man danced slowly before the helpless prisoner, his rhythms matching the sound of the chanters.

As William drew closer, he readied his sword. When he was no more than twenty feet away from the nearest in the group, he saw the dancing figure more clearly. It was certainly not a man as William noticed its matted hair and scabby skin. In place of normal fingernails were a set of two inch claws, as black as the cauldron the creature danced before. Its eyes glowed an unnatural red, and William saw patches of exposed bone in places that would mean death to a normal man.

William had seen a creature like this once before. His master had called it a 'wight' and one had quite nearly been the death of him years ago (as was nearly everything in his training). Then, he noticed a peculiar thing. The wight moved with an uneven motion, as if it were a puppet on strings. The six men, every time the wight moved inappropriately, would frantically gesture and chant and the creature would once again begin to move in its dance before the chained woman.

William cradled his sword in his left arm as he pulled a pair of shurikens into his right hand. With a cry, he hefted the throwing stars at the nearest of the six and readied his sword. The shurikens did their work and the first man slumped over dead. Almost before he hit the ground, though, William was onto the next in line. That man's severed head rolled next to the cauldron before the remaining four could put up any form of resistance.

While one man remained crouched, gesturing frantically to keep the now-rebelling wight in line, the other three produced long daggers and began to encircle William. A feint with his blade left William free to give the nearest of the three a high kick to his chest. That man fell backward, bumbling into the cauldron and screaming in pain as the heated metal seared his backside. A slash with a dagger barely missed William's face as he rolled back away from the other two. The dagger's blade, he saw, glistened in the firelight with an oily coating. 'Poison,' he cautioned himself.

The singed opponent staggered back, trying his best to ignore the pain he felt. William chose him as his next victim. The man slashed wildly with his blade as William dodged under his swath and cut the man`s abdomen with his sword. As the man doubled over, the other two ran up to get a clear shot at William's back. William grabbed the wounded man's dagger hand, twisted to his left, and forced him to thrust the poisoned blade deep into the gut of his surprised comrade. The poison, he noted, acted quickly and, as the burned man collapsed, the last combatant was alone. The frightened man turned to flee, but fell dead after only a few paces with a pair of shurikens in his back. William turned to the sixth man, still trying to keep the rebellious wight in line.

The man's face showed his fear, but the wight was more of a concern to him. William slowly reached down to retrieve one of the daggers. He made a sudden throwing gesture at the desperately chanting man, but held tight to the dagger's pommel. The man flinched just enough. The spell was broken and the wight free. It hesitated only a second, looking at William, then dove on the last chanter as he tried to stand. With a searing touch from the creature's clawed hand, the color left the man's face and his skin began to shrivel. Even as the man's corpse fell to the ground, the wight stood and looked hungrily at William, its eyes glowing brighter than before. William held his blade out in front of him defiantly. The wight waited a moment, and then sprang away and scampered off down an opposing tunnel.

A moan from his right brought William's attention to the prisoner. He approached her and gently lifted her head. In the firelight he saw the face of a child. She smiled weakly and her voice croaked out a hoarse whisper. “Have you come to bring me home?” she asked.

William shook his head ever so slightly and whispered soothingly, “How old are you child?”

With a new energy, she raised her head more “I'll be twelve next spring,” she said with as much pride as she could muster.

William suddenly looked disappointed. “Barely worth the effort to sacrifice.” He placed his gloved hand around the girl's throat and with one swift motion, snapped her neck. “You're no good to me alive, girl,” he said as if an explanation were needed. “I need someone a little more worthy.”

He turned from the carnage and walked down the tunnel from which he came.

---

Abraham, Lavarock, and Bangkor had rested in the barn for two days now, carefully avoiding the old man who owned it by hiding in the loft or sneaking out the back as he came in. They were certainly not afraid of confronting him, but it was decided that Abraham needed the time to rest. In the two days, his ailment had all but faded, seemingly going into remission as it had when they first left Restenford. Now, he was up and about and eager to leave. His long- term plans, though, pleased neither of his companions, least of all Lavarock.

“I say we should head straight for the north side and get some well-deserved rest in comfort,” argued Lavarock as they were waiting out a cold drizzle before they were to leave.

Bangkor huddled under a blanket the three had found in their temporary home and said nothing.

Abraham paced, his brow furled with growing anger. “And I don't care what you think!” he shouted back at the elf. “My ailment demands attention and only the priests I speak of will help me. We go there or we go nowhere!”

Lavarock had sat through this stubbornness for nearly an hour now and could stand it not a moment longer. His possessions already packed before the rain had delayed their departure, he stood and lifted his bundle. “You finally said some sense, Abraham. We go nowhere if you go to those priests in some gods- forsaken corner of the wilds. I, however, am going to the north side of the island.” With a huff, he turned from the two and made for the barn door, opening it carefully as he peered out for sign of the barn's owner.

“Where do you think you are going?” asked the half-orc furiously. “We can't leave now!”

Lavarock swung the door open and turned back to the two. “I can do anything I damn well please! I don't need you telling me how to live,” he spat out as a final gesture before storming out through the open door.

Abraham remained silent until Lavarock was a few paces into the drizzling rain, then with a voice showing an authority he no longer possessed, called back to the elf. “Lavarock!”

Ignoring his better instincts, Lavarock stopped and, after a thoughtful hesitation, turned to face Abraham. “What?” he said irritably.

“Fuck you.”

Lavarock hesitated a second, said nothing, and turned away from the two for the final time.

Inside the barn, Abraham turned to Bangkor, his anger at Lavarock's departure still evident. “So, what about you?”

Bankgor's face remained calm as he slowly looked up at Abraham. “I'm still here, aren't I?”

Abraham grunted in agreement, then turned back to their packed equipment. “Come on. Let's get out of here. This rain won't be letting up for some time. No sense waiting it out.”

---

Wizard shielded his eyes from the sunlight peeking through the clouds above him as he walked. To his left, William gestured wildly as he talked of his plans for the evening. His eagerness was clear, thought Wizard, but for what ends? William refused to detail just exactly what he had in mind, but kept asking Wizard questions about his spells. The two continued to the Beltine inn where William had relocated to during the three weeks Wizard remained in jail, but just before they entered, William pointed down an alley to the right of the building. “This is the place I spoke of. Will your spells be able to conceal us?”

His gaze tracing the high walls of the flanking buildings, Wizard carefully examined the narrow alley, as if he needed to study the area thoroughly to provide William with his answer. “I suppose so,” he answered in his usual non- committal fashion as the two stepped into their inn.

That evening, with Wizard still in the dark about much of William's plan, the two stepped out of the inn and, making sure no witnesses were watching, slipped into the darkened alley. A pair of the ever-present alley cats scampered to safety away from the two visitors as William made his way to a grating to their left. He whispered an order to Wizard. “Cast your spell now. No one must see this.”

Wizard glanced out into the main street before beginning his enchantment. Carefully he traced a series of complex gestures in the air and spoke aloud a few words of an ancient language. From within and around his fingers, clouds of dim light drifted lazily, dissipating as they left his hands. After a minute of this, he brought his arms back down and took a look at his handiwork.

William looked skeptical as he examined the opening to the alley. “There is no change, Wizard. Has your spell failed.”

Wizard said nothing, but walked back to the street where he turned and looked back at William. His eyes never quite made contact with William's and with a satisfied nod, he walked back. “The spell works. We could stand in the open now and passers-by would see only an empty alley.”

“Good.” William pulled the broken grating from its hole and, after setting it aside, pulled up on a short rope anchored to the grating and descending through the open hole. At its end was the body of a cat, its fur matted and its skin torn. Dried blood covered its body in patches, but the meat on its bones remained intact.

“Animal butchery?” asked Wizard facetiously. “I'd say you need some more practice.”

William ignored the remark and removed the dead cat back from the rope tossing it down through the hole. “Do you know what a wight is?”

Wizard shrugged his shoulders as he kneeled next to the grating and William. “Isn't it an island?”

“It is an undead curse. A person killed by a wight becomes one: a creature whose touch is so cold that it can kill as easily as you or I can breath. They feed on the warmth of human life.”

“I take it that this has something to do with your ex-cat there.”

“There is a wight in the sewers; probably three by now. I want to catch one.”

“Wouldn't it be easier to buy a dog?”

“I mean to kill it,” William answered, ignoring his comrade's light-hearted remarks.

“Then why do you need me? You're the swordsman.”

William gestured toward the main street. “I hear somebody coming. We will need some 'bait'.”

Wizard suddenly looked concerned. William's action was not questioned, just his timing. “After all the trouble we got into for a bar fight, you think we can get away with murder.”

“That's what your spell is for. He'll never know what hit him and nobody will ever see him again, no matter what we do with him.”

“As long as my spell lasts, and as long as we can keep him quiet,” Wizard cautioned.

A lone figure walked quietly down the street under the light of a waning moon. At this hour, with the streets all but deserted, he refrained from making any unnecessary noises, but when he walked past the alley near his inn, he would have given his right arm to scream for help. As it turned out, he lost a lot more.

William's forearm wrapped tightly around the man's neck as he cupped his other hand over the man's mouth. In one swift motion, he dragged him into Wizard's spell range. Using a section of rope as a makeshift gag, the two were able to keep him quiet enough to ensure that nobody would notice them.

Their prisoner struggled violently at first, forcing William to knock him unconscious. Then they were able to bind him firmly and carefully lower him through the hole and into the sewer. Hanging upside-down with his head a few feet above the floor of the sewer tunnel, the man awoke after a few minutes with little capacity to cry out and even less capacity to escape. Not knowing why his captors were doing what they were doing, the man was terrified. He tried to scream, but what little noise he could muster was muffled by not only his gag, but also the sewer walls. His struggles only exhausted him and in the end, he was forced to give up and let himself dangle.

The two above waited calmly as several minutes ticked by uneventfully. Wizard grew anxious as his spell began to fade and whispered his apprehension to William. “And what if one of these creatures isn't nearby? What if they're gone or dead?”

“They already are dead,” William answered simply.

Wizard opened his mouth to continue the argument, but was caught short by a scream from their bait. The noise echoed through the sewers below them and the sheer terror behind it was enough to make even the two above jump. William and Wizard scampered over to the hole and peered down.

Below them, in the dark, they could see nothing except a pair of eyes glowing brightly with an eery red color. The man, gag still firmly in place, was screaming with the renewed energy common to people in near-death situations, but this outburst lasted only a few more seconds before being abruptly cut off. In the darkness, the two above could see no details.

“Damn!” cursed William. “We lowered the bait too far. If the creature is done feeding, he'll most likely scamper off into the tunnels again. Unless we can find something to tempt him into staying.”

Wizard shrugged his shoulders and tried to peer deeper into the darkness. He could see nothing and no further sounds came from either the wight or the bait.

Suddenly, William's arm was on the back of Wizard's neck, pushing down. In panic, he flailed for a second as William's vastly superior strength pushed him farther through the hole. Even after he was able to grab the wall to his left as an anchor, his strength was no match for William's. Only his unpleasant fate, should he fail, kept him from giving up. He twisted his body around as best he could, still fighting William's grasp, until he could look at William's face.

William gritted his teeth and held firmly to Wizard's neck, his grasp shifting to a choke hold when Wizard twisted around. Then, as abruptly as he had attacked his comrade, he loosened his grip just enough to let the illusionist catch his breath. “Mine is the strength from the blood of a thousand…” William began to chant.

Wizard's left arm shot up within inches of William's unflinching eyes and with a lightning swift gesture, coupled with a loud, staccato burst of archaic words, a dazzling array of bright light beams shot out at William's face. William cried out in pain as the light temporarily blinded him, giving Wizard the second of freedom he needed. He scampered to his feet and took a few steps away from the sewer entrance even as William recovered from his shock and drew his sword.

Wizard's mind raced. He went through the list of spells he had practiced and a few he had not, weighing their advantages and disadvantages in the given situation. William, though, knew when to quit. He had seen Wizard's spells before and wasn't willing to risk tasting them again.

“Good!” William said with a smile as he sheathed his weapon. He extended a hand toward Wizard and stepped forward cautiously. “You've passed my little test,” he lied. “I can let you in on my big plans now.”

Wizard took a step back, mimicking William's step forward. “Not likely, William or whatever your name is. I've seen you play poker. I know a bluff when I see it.”

“No,” William began to argue, “you've got it wrong. I'm…”

“Shut up!” ordered Wizard. “We've been on the edge since we first met. You weighing the advantages of keeping me around, yet always keeping your eye on me in case I should falter in my allegiance. I locking my door every night and securing my valuables away from your sight.” He paused to catch his breath, still not fully recovered from William's attack.

“You need some time to rest, Wizard. Let's turn in and discuss this in the morning, shall we?”

“We'll turn in all right, but I doubt whether we'll discuss this in the morning. Say goodbye now if you want to for you won't see me again!” Wizard took a few cautious paces back and then turned at the street and went through the door of the inn.

William stood silent for a moment longer, then returned to the sewer grating. After carefully replacing it and concealing any signs of the evening's activities, he brushed his clothes off and, following Wizard, went back into the inn.

---

The dawning sun was barely a red glow on the horizon when the captain of the guard was roused from his sleep by one of his soldiers. “Sir, there is a man to see you. He says it's urgent and he refuses to talk to anyone but yourself.”

After the understandable sets of morning grumbles and curses at the soldier for waking him, the captain donned a loose-fitting outfit and stumbled out into the cold morning air. Outside, in the courtyard of the guard station, an elderly man stood, his eyes darting left and right nervously. The captain stepped up to the man, his eyes betraying his weariness. “This had better be important!”

The man jumped at the captain's harsh tone, but spoke quietly. “I assure you it is, most gracious sir,” he whined in a pitifully obedient voice. “There has been a murder, sir. A murder most heinous and evil.” He paused to look around the courtyard yet again. “A man has come to Spindrift, and has brought with him a demon!”

“A demon, eh?” The captain started to turn away.

“Please, sir!” the man pleaded, “You must believe me.” With another quick glance around, he began to speak more rapidly, “I have risked a great deal to tell you this. His name is Brother William. He is staying at the Beltine inn in the western district. He keeps his demon in the sewers. He rides alone, and has killed many. You must stop him. He'll kill again unless you stop him.”

“Now, old man,” the guard began to respond, his voice more than a little patronizing. “Are you sure you haven't been seeing…” Just then, a shadowy figure, his features undetectable in the morning's dim light, emerged on a rooftop behind the old man, in plain view of the captain. The figure pulled a short bow out and, before the captain could call a warning, fired a single shot and dove back out of sight.

The arrow flew a true course and struck the old man firmly in the back. He cried out in pain and crumpled forward to the ground as the captain tried to grab him. “It's … too late … for me,” the old man gasped, “but you must … get William. His magics are … terrible. He must be stopped.” The man's limbs slumped to the ground as a bright glow surrounded his body. Still apparently alive, the man began to scream as his body quivered and shook, his flesh and clothing starting to disintegrate. Within a few seconds, before the horrified gaze of the captain, the man's entire body, clothing and all, had bubbled away into nothing.

The captain staggered back horrified and barked out an order to a pair of nearby guards to search the grounds for intruders. Then, returning to the empty spot where the old man lay, he whispered to himself, “I'll get this William for you, old man. You have my solemn vow on that. I'll see him hanged for this!”

Around a corner, Wizard smiled smugly to himself. He gestured silently and the glow between and around his fingers subsided as did his spell of illusion. “Thank you 'old man' for your gracious assistance,” he said quietly to himself as he adjusted the pack on his waiting horse and climbed up. “Well, William, you're on your own now.” Laughing out loud, he spurred his horse to a gallop and rode toward the city's eastern gate.

Sardul paced silently near the cliff edge, the cold wind upsetting his curly, red hair only slightly. His open shirt flapped in the breeze as he thought how impressive a full robe would have looked with the storm around him. 'But, alas,' he thought, 'pointed hats and wizard's robes had been out of style for over a thousand years.'

In the distance, a castle rested precariously on a bluff, surrounded by fields of sunlit grass and a flowing stream. Where Sardul stood, though, unnatural clouds obscured the sun and a bitter wind kept the temperature down. Winter was approaching and time was running out for Sardul's plan.

Next to him stood a large half-orc swordsman. The man stood a full foot taller than the average orc, and at six and a half feet, he towered over most humans. Below the two, a host of orcs had assembled, their tents and campsites littered across the hills for two miles, and more came to the site by the hour. Sardul walked back from the cliff edge to the half-orc.

“Congal, the time is near at hand. When will your armies be ready?”

The warrior raised his mailed fist to his chest in a salute. “Soon, father. The last of the twelve tribes have consented and are preparing their move as we speak. By sunset tomorrow, the others will be ready.”

“And how long until this last tribe joins our force?”

“I estimate no more than a week,” Congal answered hesitantly.

“A week.” Sardul was surprised, but apparently not annoyed. After a moment of thought, he continued. “And how large of a force are they?”

“They are the third largest of the twelve Border Mountain tribes, father. With their numbers, our force will exceed ten thousand.”

Sardul smiled. He had always liked numbers, and his son knew it well. “Ten thousand,” he repeated, marvelling in the incredible task he was so close to completing. “We will wait,” he added after a short pause. “Tell the eleven chiefs that we will ride out in two weeks.”

“Two weeks, father? But the twelfth will definitely be here by then and the orcs we have now will certainly become restless in such a long time.” “Do as I say, Congal. Your obedience is crucial to your restoration as a human.”

“There is no question of obedience, father. I merely meant that our forces will be decidedly weaker after two weeks. There has been a significant amount of in- fighting amongst the tribes and any further delay will only aggravate that situation.”

“But surely it will not reduce the whole by the size of the last tribe?” Sardul argued.

“No, it will not,” Congal agreed reluctantly. “I will tell the chiefs immediately.” With that, the man turned and walked away from Sardul and the cliff, to a pathway leading down.

After a long, reflective pause in which Sardul scanned the hosts below him, he too turned and walked to the path down. Stopping for a final look at the orc, he spoke quietly to himself. “Edric, this time you will suffer for your crimes against me. Then when your precious kingdom is before you in ruins, you will die!”

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