Chapter 8

As expected, none were willing to join in the journey to the graveyard, the lair of the ghuls. The lust to fight had literally drained away from them. Some dug ditches for the dead, others, great pits for the smoking remains of the ghuls. Still others were busy tearing down the walls and platforms, and repairing the burnt rooftops and cottages that had been affected by the melee. None had wish for further bloodshed, and their faces grew weak and weary at the suggestion.

Trunkhoel, back to his gregarious self, argued fiercely with Welda, demanding assistance as a result of the loss of some of his men and the efforts they had put forth up to this point. Qualtan and Glaive had joined him. Some of the town members that surrounded them looked downwards, unwilling to meet the eyes of those that had defended them.

“You wish us to finish this; you drag a lot of your weak-kneed scrummers with us or sit here by yourselves when the ghuls return to wreak revenge!” he shouted. “I’ve lost three men here and I mean to close this out but I won’t do it alone for you!”

“These people are fragile and have been shattered by the foul work of the night! They need time to heal in both body and spirit! I cannot force…”

“Hang your people! I’ll come back with more men and shake them out of their beds, if I have to!”

Welda crossed her arms. “You speak rashly now, out of fear.”

Trunkhoel’s face was red with rage. His worded threats were repeated. He pointed at her face and made fists with his hands, yet Welda did not shy away.

“I will not force any to join you, and you may leave now if you wish. Our thanks will go with you,” she said, resolute.

“Mistress Welda, he is right. You brought us here for this, and we must see this through together,” Qualtan said.

“It is for them to decide. They are afraid! I will not push the matter upon my children,” she said.

Qualtan breathed heavily, frustrated with her position. He turned and marched into the crowd, pointing furiously. “Will any of you join us?” he asked, looking to the crowd of men and women who stood in silent observation. “Do not think if we leave now your problems will go away. They will return, or whoever brought them to you will. This night will return again and again. Will you let those that have died to have done so in vain?”

“Bah!” Glaive cried out. “I’ve had enough of this. Look, now!” he called to the onlookers. “You cannot avoid this responsibility. This is for your town, your people. If you thought you could stand by and let us do the dirty work, you were wrong. You were eager for revenge and displayed it last night, yet now you wish to hide your heads in your tomatoes. Didn’t like it, did you? The killing, the slaying? You look at your hands and see what you have done, and that frightens you, doesn’t it? Even though you killed those that do not live, you feel dirtied, eh? Well, good for you. Go ahead and feel dirty! Feel a taste of what you have tried to avoid. Do you know what that feeling is called? It’s called living, and defending your own. They will come back and keep coming back until all of you are gone. All of your children, gone. If that’s what you want then say it now and be done with us!”

He looked at Qualtan who smiled back in surprise.

“Well?!” Glaive persisted.

A few faces peered at one another. One man raised his hand, and shuffled forward. Another followed. Frederick, Rudolpho, and Mikas, the three that had first brought Qualtan and Glaive to Cuthbert, lifted their chins defiantly and stepped towards them. Rudolpho, however, was pulled back by his wife. He looked to her, her eyes imploring as she clutched at their youngest child wrapped in blankets in her other arm. He then directed his gaze to Qualtan and sadly bowed, turning away. Qualtan understood and felt no anger towards him. Soon a line of volunteers had formed looking at Glaive nervously.

“We shall continue to fight,” one of them said.

Qualtan and Trunkhoel looked at one another, impressed by the half-orcne’s words, and then to Welda. She shrugged. “Come, all of you! I will lead us in prayer.” She walked away, and as one, the crowd followed.

Glaive walked past Qualtan, who beamed proudly at him. “Don’t say it.”

Qualtan laughed.

A large procession of horses waited. Trunkhoel, his men, Glaive, and the town volunteers slowly saddled their steeds for the final march, twenty-four in all. Qualtan spoke to Deliah in soft whispers under the disapproving glare of Welda.

“That is enough,” she said at last, pulling Deliah away from him. “Focus on the task appointed, and may Cuthbert bless you all. I prayed throughout the night for your good fortune. Your cause is just, and he will see you through it.”

The party soon left the outskirts of Cuthbert. The volunteers looked back worriedly, already doubting their decision. Trunkhoel’s men, so wild and free when they first arrived, were now quiet, pondering what lay ahead.

“How far to the cemetery?” Qualtan asked Frederick, who now led their way.

“A day’s travel at full speed. Two days at our present gait.”

“Then let’s move on, then!” Trunkhoel cried, nudging his horse to a gallop. The others did the same. After hours of riding, the men stopped to break. The ground was hot and arid winds blew. They huddled in groups, enduring the dry heat as rations were shared.

“It’s like we stepped into a different country from Cuthbert to out here!” yelled Glaive over the howling winds.

Qualtan sat by Frederick and Mikas and said, “I thank you two for joining us.”

“We felt we had to—you are our responsibility, after all. We brought you to this. The courage you have shown is greater than ours, but we do what we can,” Mikas said.

“Rudolpho would have joined us as well, but his wife, his children…” Frederick said. “Please do not judge him too harshly.”

Qualtan smiled softly. “Not at all! He fought the ghuls as you two did. I understand.”

“My wife couldn’t wait for me to go. ‘As their sponsor it is your duty,’ she said. And a stout push out the door was the last of her decision,” Mikas said to the laughter of all.

Patting Mikas’ leg, Qualtan rose and moved away. He observed Trunkhoel standing alone, rubbing his horse, and made his way to him.

“How do you fare?” Qualtan asked.

Trunkhoel smirked. “As well as any other, I’d imagine. And you?”

“Fine. I wonder what we will encounter out there.”

“Whoever is responsible, of course,” Trunkhoel said. He pulled a beaded necklace adorned with symbols of the High Lord and started to place it over his head. Noticing Qualtan was watching, he shyly paused, then continued to place the necklace.

“I’m not a religious man, wizards and priests and all of that. Still, in this case…”

“Aye. In this case,” Qualtan agreed.

Trunkhoel sighed, returning to his garrulous self. “Think you can recommend us for any jobs from your new master King when you and your pet orc land in Tringolm?” he said, keeping his back to Qualtan as he rifled through saddle bags.

Qualtan put a hand to his shoulder and spun him around. Trunkhoel’s hand went to his sword but Qualtan grabbed hold of his wrist.

“I’ve had enough of your mouth,” he said angrily.

“Have you now?” laughed Trunkhoel. His thick eyebrows nearly became one as he frowned.

“Think on this. If I was a fraudulent skelder such as yourself, I would snap you in two.”

“Hah! A knight-to-be killing an unarmed man, is it? The orc makes you fine company then!”

“It all comes to that, doesn’t it, for you? It is that which offends you.”

“Release me!” Trunkhoel said, his eyes bulging out even more than usual with rage.

“I’ve done nothing to you.”

“I’ll run you through if you don’t release me! My men…”

“The title of knight should not threaten you.”

“Hah! Titles and oaths and codes of honor! Trying to separate yourselves from the rest of us, as if your stink was somehow better! A half-orc in a nobles’ court! Hah! You and all your rich lords and jeweled ladies, pompous fools, while we honest folk scrape to make a livin’! You didn’t come here to help these fools, but to pat yourself on the back!”

“That is where you are off the mark. Whether I was a knight or not, I would have helped these people, because that is what my father did, and that is what my uncle did, and that is how I was brought up to view the world. The gifts given to me were for a purpose, and I use them to that effect.”

“Noble speeches…” Trunkhoel moaned, his round cheeks inflating as he puffed out air.

“I don’t deny there are those that you speak of. People who feel their station or name or rank makes them better.”

“Dogs, all of them!”

“But I am not one of them! Your envy…”

“I am not envious of pigs!”

Qualtan’s strong chin stood out with indignation. “Yes, you are, and in doing so, make all others your enemy. You already place yourself above the people of this town we now protect, and look down your nose at them. You are the same as those you hate!”

“Release me, or else…”

Eyes narrowing coolly, Qualtan shoved him to the ground.

“No one lays hands on me! No one!” Trunkhoel yelled, whipping free his sword, and attacking Qualtan. They dipped and parried, swords clashing. Others took notice, and quickly rose from their restful stupors to view the conflict.

Trunkhoel was a fair swordsman, but could not compete with Qualtan’s skill. The young knight-to-be easily blocked and deflected Trunkhoel’s blows, frustrating the mercenary further. His anger made him careless and as a circle of men surrounded them, Qualtan quickly slapped Trunkhoel’s sword out of his hand. The mercenary was twisted out of balance from the power behind the blow, and with a swift kick from Qualtan, was thrown to the ground. Qualtan stood over him, his sword resting on Trunkhoel’s chest. Looking about at his own followers, Trunkhoel yelled out angrily.

“Don’t just stand there, you dolts! Take him!” The men took a step or two forward but paused, unsure. “Take him! Orthello, use your axe, damn you!”

Orthello’s face was a contortion of confusion. “But he saved my life!” he said.

“What’s the bloody matter with all of you?! I’ll be chucking you in pieces to the ghuls myself if you don’t clear out your ears and take him!”

“He saved Orthello. I will not fight him,” said one man.

“He saved Dornat from the ghuls in the fire trap,” another man said, pointing to the mercenary, who agreed.

“You do as I say!” Trunkhoel said. The men began to move away.

“Would your men give such respect to a pompous pig, as you suggest I am? I am not your enemy,” Qualtan said, withdrawing his sword and walking away.

Spitting, Trunkhoel grabbed hold of a dagger from his belt and rose up to strike Qualtan from behind.

“Trunkhoel!” Orthello yelled. He held a makeshift bow, its loaded arrow pointing at Trunkhoel.

Qualtan turned around briefly.

“You lower that or I will cast you out!” Trunkhoel demanded.

“Then cast out, I am. Drop your dagger or my arrow finds a nice hole in your belly.”

Trunkhoel stared back at his man in astonishment. Roaring loudly, he hurled his dagger violently to the ground and marched away.

The party settled in for the night. Winds moaned, whipping at their makeshift settlement, while men clustered in the cold, a stark contrast from the blazing heat of day. At daybreak they moved again, Trunkhoel keeping fair distance this time from Qualtan and Glaive. None spoke of the previous matter between them, although it was easy to see the mercenary leader had lost some of his credibility. Despite the many threats to silence his men, they continued to laugh and make mirth, keeping their courage as best as they could. The volunteers from Cuthbert were another matter. They sifted in their seats uneasily, and their eyes darted to every shadow or movement. Frederick and Mikas, having gained confidence after the fiery struggle with the ghuls, moved their horses up and down the line of men, offering encouragement.

At last, they reached a mighty obelisk of red stone, heralding the nearby cemetery. Carved by the elves that survived it, the stone detailed in honor the failed battle that saw so many of their kin perish, before the remnants of their Kind had fled to parts unknown. Qualtan could read some Elvish and detailed to the others the listing of elven names that represented those that had fallen, nearly thirty years ago. Trunkhoel stopped him midway through his readings.

“Names of the dead will do little to help the living. Enough of this!” he said, moving forward, with his men who followed somewhat reluctantly.

Beyond was a great wall of crumbling stone. An immense gate, turned red from rust, lay twisted in ruin, looking like disfigured, bloodied fingers pointing to the sky. A fell wind blew, causing some of the horses to panic. Three of the volunteers cried out in fear, turning their horses around.

“Stop! What are you doing?!” cried Mikas. Terror-filled eyes gave their answer.

“Do not curse us, brother! We can go no further! This is evil land, and we will not die upon it! We will beg Mistress Welda for mercy!” The three kicked at the sides of their horses, returning back the way they had come, despite the pleas from their fellow townsmen.

“Spineless dogs!” cried out Trunkhoel. “Is anyone else ready to leave? Go now if you can, and be a feast for any ghuls on your return journey!” None of the others dared to flee.

The claw prints of the ghuls were everywhere. Toppled markers and gravestones bore testament to their savage handiwork.

“By the High Lord! The graves have been desecrated! Save us!” cried one volunteer as the onlookers paused before the scene. Row upon row of once filled, earthen mounds that held the bodies of the Elf-Kind had been torn asunder, their owners stolen. Great piles of soil and clod were amassed by the dug out plots, causing a trickling of fear down each man’s back.

“Harvest for the making of ghuls. You were partly right,” Qualtan said to Frederick and Mikas as they made fierce, protective symbols with their trembling hands.

Men began to groan and whine as the sight of empty earth sockets grew in number.

“Easy! Hold fast!” Qualtan said, seeing the fear that was taking hold. Although inexperienced in the ways of a leader, he tried to hold their courage. “You stood tall against the ghuls under fire and sword! Let that carry your strength here!”

“There must be a tunnel or burrow here somewhere! We must find it and quickly before the sun goes down!” Glaive said.

Cautiously, the men spread out, looking for signs of hidden entry into the ground below. “The ghuls have made it easy enough for us: empty beds of earth for us to sleep in!” Orthello grumbled, poking and prodding the ground with the tip of his large axe.

Eventually, the group led by Glaive called out. The rest of the invaders quickly massed around him as he stood by a large semi-circle outlined within a small mound. Cluttered around the mound was a ring of rock and dirt. “A trap door,” Glaive said. With Qualtan’s help, they pried the door open. A great wail of pent up air gusted free, with a stench so foul it caused many to pull back. When the winds abated, the portal loomed, dark and sinister.

“We … we cannot take horses within,” one of Trunkhoel’s men exclaimed.

“Smart lad, is it? Of course we can’t! We will need to keep them posted out here with guards,” Trunkhoel snapped back.

“Outside of the graveyard would be best. No need to stay close if the ghuls come out,” Glaive said. “Take the horses beyond the elvish stone outside the gate. Keep a firm watch, with fires all around for protection! Who will remain?”

Instantly, men fought over volunteering to stay. Eventually four men, made up of three villagers and one of Trunkhoel’s men to lead them, began taking the unmanned horses back outside the cemetery. Only three villagers, including Frederick and Mikas, remained.

“That leaves us at seventeen: us two, twelve with Trunkhoel, three of the village folk,” Glaive surmised.

“Another unlucky number?” Qualtan jested.

Pausing briefly at the tunnel’s mouth, Qualtan and Glaive moved forward, and Qualtan said, “Glaive’s eyes are better than any man’s for viewing the dark. He will lead the way.”

“And what will you do?” Trunkhoel asked sharply.

Qualtan smiled, and unleashing his sword, concentrated briefly. His sword suddenly began to glow, emitting a willowy light that seemed to shift and flow. Its brightness was more felt than seen; an illumination of pure Good to pit against the darkness before them.

“Enough, then. You two lead the way,” Trunkhoel retorted, as if it was he alone that had decided upon their course.

Ignoring him, Qualtan and Glaive moved in, followed by Frederick and Mikas. Trunkhoel went behind them, flanked by two of his men with the rest in the rear. The way was deep and the air grew cool. The sides of upturned coffins lay imbedded in the walls. Rotted vestiges of clothes and armor littered the path. A sour stench increased as they descended, causing some of the men to gag.

“Steady now,” Qualtan said softly.

“Agh! The stench is enough to sour mead!” complained Mikas, coughing into his hand. The corridor widened. Pieces of bone cracked underneath their steps. Feeding insects stuck to their boots. The foul smell grew more vile.

“This is hell itself!” growled one of Trunkhoel’s men.

“Surely, ghuls could not dig such a hole!” Glaive said.

“They did not! The elves, although folk of the trees and forests, made large caverns underground to worship at the very roots of the trees, from which they believed living spirits of the forest resided,” explained Frederick.

For hours it seemed they trudged forward. The tunnels grew smaller, forcing the men to bend over in order to crawl through. Moisture dripped from the top of the tunnels, licking over vestiges of once great woody plants that had lushly draped over the now arid ground above. They hacked and tore through the dead, rooty structures as anxieties heightened. Glaive stopped the party with a quick raise of his hand. He bent over to inspect something in the ground.

“What is it?” Trunkhoel demanded, pushing his way up to the front.

“Here, catch!” Glaive responded. Hurling the object he had found, Trunkhoel caught it. It was a moldy skull caked in debris. Trunkhoel yelped, tossing it to one side. The others laughed, grateful for the release. Even Qualtan smiled at the diversion.

“Accursed orc!” Trunkhoel complained, moving back into his assigned spot. “I’ll take care of you both!” he warned.

Outside, the sun had already fallen asleep. The four guards sat fitfully amongst their protected charges, torches around them. The wind had picked up again, and the horses whinnied fearfully.

“We should have gone with the others. We are fair game out here!” said one of the guarding villagers.

“Aye? To slink about in a ghul’s tunnel and think you would be safe? Think again!” said Trunkhoel’s man. His name was Sidlin and he had been a follower in Trunkhoel’s gang for a number of years. A sailor by trade, Sidlin had been paid off by Trunkhoel to allow his men to sneak in and steal the cargo of a ship he had guarded. They had been found out, and had become involved in a wild skirmish before Sidlin was forced to flee with Trunkhoel’s men lest he be hung as a traitor. Sidlin smiled inwardly, thinking of that day. For the most part, his choice had proven fruitful. Through their smuggling, robbing, and mercenary exploits, his pickings had grown enough to keep his three wives happy enough. Still, things had slowed down in the last few years and it was time, he thought, to leave Trunkhoel’s band and retire. He would have already if not for the many children he had fathered with each of his illicit wives. This last act, however, had been a mistake, he thought. Trunkhoel had assured them they would find more of value at the peasant town to take back with them beyond their measly payment of coppers, but that didn’t seem the case. Still, the alternate plan was to force a higher payment on the fools and demand what they could, but the inclusion of the knight and his half-orc immediately put a halt to that proposition. The knight himself was a deadly enough opponent; he was obviously enchanted with wizard’s blood. They would have to remove him first in order to bully the townsfolk into accepting their terms. But many of the men had taken a liking to him, especially after he’d saved their own. Odds were they would leave this town the same way they came into it, which angered Sidlin. Trunkhoel was a cowardly idiot, who thought himself a much greater fool than he already was, but he shone at times, and he was cunning and crafty. Sidlin respected that. Still, his efforts had begun to fail in recent times. Perhaps Sidlin should remove him and take over. Yes, he thought, patting his balding head. That sounded better than going back to one of his three households filled with screaming children.

As Sidlin mused over his own plans, he failed to notice the low, crouching bodies that had circled their camp. The horses sensed the intruders and they began to neigh loudly. The villagers stood about, staring into the dark with growing fear. They called out to Sidlin who motioned them to silence.

“There is nothing out there, you blubbers! The horses merely fear the wind!” he yelled back to them. Sidlin quickly went back to his thoughts. Perhaps another alternative to their plans would be to leave and then return after the knight and the half-orc were gone. Then they could easily take over the town. Better yet, they could then get rid of Trunkhoel and keep the town for themselves. Especially that Welda’s oldest daughter, Sidlin mused. She would make an able fourth wife. He chuckled to himself. Yes, that would be the best way to go about doing it, and end up making some decent profit from this trip after all.

Sidlin was so impressed with his own ideas he paid little heed to the growing concerns of the villagers who fought to keep the horses under their control. The ghuls slowly crept closer, dragging their bellies flat against the ground. The winds blew out some of the torches, and when one of the villagers looked down to see the pipe thin arms and eager face that followed them, it was too late. The ghuls converged upon the guarding men, leaping into view. Sidlin was immediately pulled free from his dreams, made fully aware he would not realize them. His sword struck down two ghuls, and then three, before he was overrun by a deluge of teeth and claws.

“Steady now,” Qualtan said. The entourage paused at the mouth of a great cave. There were four shimmering, fountained pools that gave an iridescent sparkle. Toppled elven statues littered the floor.

“This must be the elvish temple where they worshipped the roots of the trees. Surely they didn’t dig out ALL of these tunnels!” Qualtan whispered. The men stretched out, grateful to be free of the tapering tunnels that left them feeling vulnerable in their bent over state.

“The rest must have been made by the ghuls. Elves don’t dig deep, nor burrow. They leave that to the dwarves,” Glaive said.

The fountains still worked, despite having been clawed and raked by ghuls. Headless statues of elves rose from the pools, water spitting out from the mouths of carved fish that leapt beside them. The ceiling was a blanket of blackened and pitted old roots, testament to the mighty trees that once had lived above.

The others inspected the wreckage. “What do these words mean?” Mikas asked as he viewed a broken stone tablet. Qualtan looked at the elvish symbols. “Words of praise to their forefathers. Blessings to the spirits of the trees and forests,” he said.

“A shame their blessings won’t protect us now,” grumbled one of Trunkhoel’s men, to the nervous laughter of the rest.

“The water is still fresh!” said another, tasting from one of the pools. Another of the group joined him, and began filling a leathery bag with the cool liquid.

“We can rest here for a moment,” Trunkhoel said.

“We need to get our bearings, or we can become lost down here,” Qualtan said. “Who knows how many tunnels the ghuls have made?”

“It can’t be that many. Ghuls don’t use tools,” Trunkhoel said pointedly.

“Maybe their masters did,” Glaive said. “We still don’t know…”

Suddenly, one of the men looming over a pool cried out as he was pulled in. The man beside him jumped back in surprise. The others quickly rose and ran towards the pool. “It was Mallat!” cried the man. Trunkhoel shoved him to one side and peered into the dark, watery depths.

“Mallat!!” he screamed and leaned over the pool’s side. Qualtan placed an arm to his back to support him, but Trunkhoel angrily pushed it aside. The water began to rumble and ripple, giving the onlookers pause.

“Step back!” Qualtan yelled.

Immediately, a horde of ghuls leapt free from the pool. Having no need to breathe, they had lain in wait under the waters until they had felt ready to attack. As the men battled the undead creatures, other ghuls emerged from the other three pools. The cave was filled with the echo of their buzzing. The enchanted light from Qualtan’s sword made the ghuls wince in pain, forcing them to cover their faces, leaving them easy targets for the mercenaries to strike. But the ghuls learned quickly, and two snuck up behind Qualtan, toppling him to the ground. They were battered by his strength and stung by his sword. The battle was quickly won, leaving another two of Trunkhoel’s men dead, including the poor Mallat.

Trunkhoel knelt over his other man, his throat torn through by the ghuls, as he closed the mercenary’s still open eyes.

A low buzzing began to emanate from the corridors.

“Blast it! The dinner bell’s been rung!” said Glaive.

The drone increased.

“We have to go! Now!” yelled Qualtan, motioning for the others to follow him. The men quickly rushed after him, although Orthello paused to wait for Trunkhoel.

“Trunkhoel! They are coming! Hurry!” Orthello cried, running after the others.

“We are all dead men,” Trunkhoel intoned softly with resignation, rising with a sigh to follow.

They increased their speed as the sounds of pursuit grew near. In the fading light from the pool-lit chamber, they could see shadows of scampering forms against the walls. Qualtan’s sword brightly lit their path, as they shoved through crumbling earth and pushed against obstacles of rock. The corridor widened as men running backwards to maintain vigilance over their pursuers fell and recovered.

“Look! They come!” yelled one of the men in near panic. The group paused as behind them an undeniable surge of movement took form, filling the walls. They renewed their efforts, grateful for the added space in the tunnel, unsure of where it led.

The ghuls climbed on the walls and ceilings, gaining on their prey. Three men shot arrows lit from their torches, revealing a veritable legion of ghuls on the roof of the corridor, pulling closer.

“They climb! They climb upon the ceiling!” one man cried out in despair.

The invaders burst upon a large chamber, too dark to detail its perimeter. They formed a tight circle as Qualtan increased the illumination from his sword. They could see the hunched, white bodies crawling out of the tunnel’s ceiling onto the walls around them, like so many ants. They clung to the walls as more of them erupted from the tunnel.

“They are numerous. More than we expected,” Qualtan gasped, as the ghuls began crowding the ceiling with their hungry forms.

“We are undone!” yelled one man, mad with fear. He broke their ranks, charging into the unliving wall of ghuls before him. His comrades beseeched him to stop but he paid them no mind. He hacked through one ghul, and then another before the creatures enveloped him, and his body disappeared from sight.

The legion of undead slowly crept closer, keeping a distance from the aura of Qualtan’s glowing sword. They hissed and growled, covering their unseeing eyes.

Frederick and Mikas clutched at Qualtan’s arms, mumbling unintelligibly with fear. Some of the ghuls above them hopped down to join their fellow undead in an ever tightening squeeze.

“It was nice knowing you,” Glaive said, his thin lips pushed back to reveal a sardonic, toothy smile.

“There is a corridor to one side! Let us take it!” Qualtan said, pointing with his still blazing sword at a dark maw dug into the chamber’s side.

“The ghuls stand before it!” Trunkhoel said.

“Then they will move,” Qualtan said. He switched position and, focusing on his blade, began to walk toward the writhing mass. He concentrated, keeping his sword afire with magicked light, until the glow began to grow stronger, blinding even the men behind him with its radiance. The ghuls shrieked in rage, opening a path through them as they retreated from the light. The men held fast to one another, lost now in the burgeoning luminosity that filled the entire cave. Claws reached out for them but quickly recoiled as if physically harmed by the protective sphere of light.

“I cannot maintain this for much longer! The power begins to wane! We need to move quickly!” Qualtan said, his eyes flaring red with exertion. With the remaining torches guarding their tail, the others quickly entered the new corridor. A bubble of light in the distance urged them on. The ghuls behind them followed, biting and clawing at themselves in anger and hate as they jostled for position. Picking up his pace, Qualtan had to cry out as he reached the end of the tunnel-way. The corridor opened into yet another area, but a grisly one at that. Qualtan stood upon a ledge that circled a large pit filled up to their feet with a collection of rotting bones. He held fast as the rest of the men crashed into one another, unprepared for the sudden halt in their movement. Across the chamber was a large, curtained entryway, at least three times the height of a man. At various intervals across the pit were additional openings of lesser stature. Torches the size of a full grown man were stuck to the walls around the pit. The men slowly spread themselves about the rim, observing the grim scene before them.

“The bones of the buried dead!” exclaimed one man.

Qualtan kneeled to one side, gasping. The aura around his sword slowly faded into a barely noticeable sheen. Glaive stood over him. “I could not keep the light,” Qualtan said.

“You did fine enough,” Glaive said, patting him on the back. “The hundreds that were buried here long ago … the bodies missing from the burial grounds above us … they are all here.”

Two men guarded the corridor, torches facing into the passageway. The stonework above them began to rumble. They stood their ground, unsure of what to do.

Trunkhoel’s eyes swelled with the realization of what was about to occur. A huge stone stood poised above the mouth of the tunnel. “Move now! Move now!” he yelled, pointing above them. Qualtan, Glaive, and the rest turned as they realized what was happening. The stone was too quick. It came roaring down, sealing the corridor with a loud crash, knocking some of the men off their feet.

“Damn and blast it all!” Trunkhoel yelled, hitting the stone slab with the butt of his sword. Two of his men were caught on its opposite side. “Groelin! Philip!” he cried out helplessly. A loud buzzing soon overwhelmed their voices. The sounds of battle beyond the slab ensued. Briefly came the sudden screams of the two men trapped beyond it, and then there was silence.

In mad fury, Trunkhoel attacked the stone, sparks resonating from the futile strikes of his blade.

“We are trapped,” Orthello said, looking about sadly.

A large thump made itself heard from beyond the ragged curtain. The men turned as one to face it as they heard another loud impact.

“Something approaches,” Glaive said, pulling Qualtan to his feet. Frederick and Mikas fell to their knees, wildly making symbols of protection and calling out for the mercy of Father Cuthbert.

Another footfall.

Trunkhoel viciously kicked Frederick to one side, grabbed Mikas, and dragged him to his feet.

“Enough with your prayers! We die for you now! You will stand your ground and fight, damn you!” he yelled.

Qualtan was about to intervene when the next footfall thudded close. The great curtain was pulled to one side.

The creature that stood before them was nearly fourteen feet in height. Its skin was purplish black with a glistening, slimy sheath. Layers of rough plating protected the skin, like the outer skeleton of some great insect. The arms were thin, long, and ended in large, spiked talons with ribbed yellowish claws that extended nearly a foot in length. It was female, as it displayed trailing breasts that dragged nearly to its knees. A rough, dirty loincloth was secured around its mid-waist. Feet that were clawed and ponderous slammed beneath its form, shaking the chamber further. Its immense yellow eyes scanned the intruders and narrowed with interest. Its hair was a tangle of red-black wire with great horns that curled back against the sides of its head. Its cheeks were hairy and mottled with warts, as was its great, hooked nose. A mouth of red-yellow teeth was slit across the face and its body made strange cracking noises as the plates of its skin rattled against each other.

She took in deep, wheezing breaths, and raised a thorny finger. Additional blocks of stone came smashing down upon the other remaining portals, shutting each one with a horrible roar of angry rock.

Her evil face cocked to one side with a satisfied grin.

“A haegtes! By the gods, we are doomed!” yelled one of Trunkhoel’s men, throwing himself against a wall in panic.

Qualtan took in his words and looked to Glaive. A haegtes was a terrifying monster, a creature of the night. A sisterhood of giant beings, they worked deadly magic to injure and kill. They could take the form of small animals when on the hunt, filling their ravenous hunger with any living being they could find, children being most preferred, or so the legends said.

Trunkhoel grabbed the panic stricken man, but he ripped free, running to and fro, hitting the walls in a vain attempt to escape. The creature observed the man, a low rumbling of laughter emanating from her split lips.

“My dinner has come to me this night,” she said, her voice deep and husky. She opened a hand, and the man suddenly flew into the air, pulled by unseen powers, to land directly in her clawed talon. The men looked on, huddling pitifully, struck with numbed despair. She looked at her prey as if considering a flavorful biscuit, and despite his pleas for mercy, took him into both her hands, snapping him in two. The haegtes greedily devoured his form in grotesque, noisome gulps. She chewed and chewed, spitting out pieces of his armor, wiping his blood on an extended bony arm.

Angered at the sight, Qualtan stepped forward. The creature picked at her long tusks with a huge claw, eyeing his movement.

His heart pounded, for this beast seemed far deadlier than even the evil druid he had so recently encountered. Never had he dreamed he would come up against such a thing. But he refused to give way. The spirit of the others had been lost and he knew he was now responsible for their escape, and he alone, if escape they could. His readings of tales that spoke of creatures such as she always reflected upon their supreme haughtiness and arrogant superciliousness. Fearful he was, but he knew he dare not show it.

“Mighty haegtes!” he cried out. “You are behind the ghuls and their attack on Cuthbert, are you not?!”

The great beast burped loudly. She stooped forward towards the human who dared stand before her.

“There is enchantment about you,” she growled suspiciously.

“Answer my question!” Qualtan insisted.

She frowned, her face scrunching in anger. She took in another great breath, wheezing in the exertion, and let loose a thunderous roar. The walls trembled, the men quaked, but Qualtan stood his ground, wincing at the sharpened edge of the great cry.

She stared at Qualtan, clicking her teeth. “You do not fear as these others do. Why are you here?”

“I will answer that when you have answered me.”

“Take care, little human. My power is wielded fully here. You do not ask of a haegtes. You beg.”

“I do not beg.”

She roared in anger. At her command, the slabs that blocked the doorways rose up and then smashed back down, rattling the chamber, sending clouds of rock and stone in all directions. The others grabbed hold of their ears, rocking in fear. She smiled at the show of her power, quickening the tremendous pounding, until with one final effort the carved blocks rose in unison and fell down again, their clangor echoing painfully in the ears of the men.

“Do you fear me now, human?” she asked Qualtan.

“I acknowledge your great power, but do not fear,” he replied.

“You lie,” she said, as if reading his mind. “But you show respect, at least. I am mighty, am I not?”

“You are mighty,” Qualtan agreed.

“My power is terrifying. I am also very pretty.”

“You are,” Qualtan said.

She laughed loudly, enjoying the game. “I may keep you for myself, alive, I think. I think I would enjoy that, after removing the enchantments that now protect you. Bow low before me and ask me again,” she insisted.

Qualtan did as she asked. “Great haegtes! Did you create the ghuls to attack Cuthbert?”

She clapped her mighty taloned hands, a large slap echoing in the cave. “That is better. I did.”

“Why?”

“You carry a magicked blade. I sense that. Drop your sword and I will tell you.”

Qualtan paused briefly before unbuckling his sword belt.

“Qualtan! Don’t do it!” Glaive cried out.

The haegtes snarled at his words. She gave a gesture, and a multitude of bones rose from the pit, swirling together, flying past Qualtan as they levitated towards Glaive and the others. The bones locked together, forming a macabre cage that imprisoned them.

She refocused on Qualtan. He looked at the captured party and sighed. He lowered his belt, gambling his other abilities would see him through, abilities that the hag hopefully was not fully aware of.

She smiled, satisfied. With another movement of her gnarled claws, Qualtan suddenly felt his feet leave the ground as he floated into her grasp.

Snorting, she re-entered through the curtain into the recesses of her abode. With a nod, a great stone slid from one side, closing off the exit.

“You are mine now,” she said.

Walking through a brief corridor, Qualtan held secure in her grip, they entered a small room. The smell was horrible. He could see the stench stemming from a great iron pot, big enough to contain several full grown men. It dangled from a long, metal arm above a smoking, circular recess in the ground. From the pot’s rim bubbled viscous liquids and colored smoke. A rough table and stool sat to one side, a crude cot carved from the wall itself to the other. Various oversized cutting implements lay thrown against a corner. Arcane symbols were drawn from chalk upon the floor and walls.

Grunting, she dropped Qualtan to one side. She sat before him, studying him eagerly. The haegtes made foul noises as she licked her chops, a black tongue playing upon her animal-like teeth.

Keeping to his composure, Qualtan rose from the floor. “I have done as you asked. Will you please now answer my question?”

“You will make a pretty plaything … for awhile,” she chuckled.

“My question,” Qualtan insisted.

The creature giggled evilly. She scampered towards the glowing pot. From a pile of bones that lay beneath it, she plucked a femur, holding it gently above the aperture.

“You will now see a sight few have beheld. The creation of a ghul.” She dropped the bone into the seething mass. Keeping her eyes squarely on her captive, she uttered strange words and incanted with her claws outstretched. The mire began to change colors, going from blood red to vile green.

“The bones of the dead are seeds for my harvest.”

A cry answered her voice. From the vessel crawled forth a ghul, slimed with ichor. It struggled, pulling itself to one side, and then falling over onto the floor, collapsing as it moaned pitifully.

“My powers create the ghul with a base spirit called forth to animate it. Any piece of tissue or bone from one who is dead makes an ample house to fill.”

Qualtan observed with distaste as the ghul began to fumble about, testing its new form. It looked upon him and hissed, stretching forth its arms. It coiled as if to strike, but the massive hand of the haegtes clamped down on the ghul. She lifted the undead creature by its head.

“The base spirit placed in the body is not happy to be called down. It rages to kill, to seek revenge.”

With calm ease, her hold tightened and with one quick pull of her wrist she twisted, tearing free the ghul’s head. She dropped it into the pot, casually plucking off an arm, and then a leg as she continued to speak.

“Your question,” she replied, as Qualtan attempted to hide his disgust at the horrid scene. “There is power in the village you speak of. Power not for mortal use. I claim it.” She shook the now limbless and headless torso that still twitched with infernal life, and then tossed it in as well. The ghul returned no more.

“What? The power to grow overly large melons? Of what use is that to one of your might, mistress?” Qualtan asked.

She sneered. “You sense what the others do not. I sensed it as well. It called to me, and I came here for it. The idol will be mine.”

“What idol? From whence does it come?”

“I have already answered your question.”

“Please answer my second.”

“I will not.” She laughed aloud. Her nails made sounds like sharpened blades as she wrung her hands together. “Oh, but I will enjoy you, my little slave. I will enjoy you to the fullest! I will play with you and then I shall eat you.”

“I offer you one chance of escape,” said Qualtan. “Release my friends and call back your ghuls.” The haegtes cackled, moving closer to him.

“You amuse me, little slave. I have you and your friends. I will have my prize. You are helpless. You can do nothing but hope for my mercy. I may give it if you behave.”

Qualtan looked around the room for any weapon that could be used. He sighed, looking down. “I can do nothing, beautiful mistress,” he said at last.

She giggled, gesticulating with her hands. “Yes. I am beautiful!”

A large hand wrapped around Qualtan, pulling him up to her for closer scrutiny.

“I will remove your armor and enjoy your taste!” she cooed lustfully. The smell from her mouth made Qualtan grit his teeth, but he remained unmoving. She petted him with her other hand.

“Enjoy this instead!” Springing to life, Qualtan took hold of one of her spear-like nails, using his strength to break it free with a loud snap. He instantly lunged towards her face, impaling the sharp extension into her right eye. She howled in pain as Qualtan jumped to the ground.

She cursed and swore, keeping one hand upon her injured face while swatting at Qualtan with the other. He rushed forward to attack her again but she stretched out her hand and eldritch forces hurled him back to slam against a wall. The hag directed another gesture towards the pile of tools sitting idly by. At once they stiffened and following her direction, hurtled towards the stunned warrior, a cloud of giant butcher knives and forks. He dodged to one side as they splintered against the wall. Qualtan moved to attack, but again, the hag took hold of him with her unseen magicks and batted him from one side of the cave to the other. In the midst of the assault he grabbed hold of one side of the cave into which she had pounded him, and hurled a chunk of stone and shelf towards her. She reacted quickly, deflecting the barrage before it could strike her. However, in doing so she lost her hold on Qualtan, and at last he was able to reach her, hammering down on her spiked legs. She flipped over, moaning in rage. He landed one mighty fist on her face, rolling her over with its thrust. She responded with a raking slash of her free hand, knocking him away. Stunned, Qualtan paused as the hag took the offensive. She made a closed fist, and at once Qualtan was tossed yet again into a wall, blood flowing freely now from his brown locks. Instantly, chains that hung from a wall peg took life, and wrapped themselves around his legs and arms, holding him tight.

The hag was beside herself with pain and rage. Black ooze dripped from the hand guarding her face. Roaring, she lurched towards her pot. With her mighty limbs she ripped the holding bar free, knocking the pot to the ground with a loud clang. She hurled it towards Qualtan, who at the final moment broke free of the animated chains, barely dodging the giant spear that tore into the cave where he had stood moments before.

The haegtes doubled over in pain, pawing at her useless eye. Her powers hurled a table towards Qualtan but he smashed through. Next, her stool went flying towards his head. He snaked out of its path. A sheet from her cot enveloped him from behind. Surprised, he paused to free himself, but the delay gave the hag an opportunity. Bellowing, she punched him solidly, tearing him free from the clinging tarp to crash into her pot, spilling its contents onto the floor. He lay unmoving as she cursed and spat at him.

“I will eat you alive, piece by piece! You will pay for ruining my face! Oh, how you will pay!” She clomped heavily towards him. As she neared him, Qualtan’s eyes opened. He gripped the pot’s overarching handle and with one swift movement swung it onto the hag, bowling her over with its great weight. He struck her a second time, the pot ringing like a great tower bell as it made contact. She rose yet again, but he smacked her a final time, hitting her evenly on the chin. The blow was so violent he lost his grip upon the pot’s handle, but it stunned the haegtes. Qualtan grabbed hold of her arm.

“I will break you!” she threatened dully.

“Go back to the hell that you came from and return nevermore!” Qualtan yelled. He twisted her arm and threw her off her feet towards the metal pot hanger that lay impaled upon the wall. The hag crashed onto it, impaling herself through the chest.

Her good eye rolled wildly as she let out a deep moan. She struggled, attempting to extricate herself. Grabbing hold of the iron rod, she slid herself free, collapsing to the floor in a pool of her own blood.

“You are undone, hag!” Qualtan gasped, observing her weakening state. “You pay now for your evil!”

The haegtes dragged herself to a sitting position to stare at Qualtan. Surprisingly, she began to laugh, a foul, dribbling laugh as blood spurted from her mouth.

“Foolish human. Enjoy your little victory. Go back to your pathetic village,” she coughed, spitting up a globule of foul excrescence. “Become a knight if you can. We haegtes have the gift of future sight. This I say to you, you will not long enjoy it.” She gestured feebly and from the liquids that had spilled from her pot, a misty image formed.

“You will not be a knight for long. Your magic sword will be shattered and useless, its energies exhausted. You will be shriveled and weak, your might having abandoned you. You will no longer be a knight. You will be hunted, a traitor to your King, your honor in tatters. Hah!” she cried out. As Qualtan looked on, an image formed in the mist. A man appeared, gasping for breath, his armor ragged and in tatters. He stumbled about in what appeared to be a swamp or forest, falling, rising, and falling again. He was emaciated, pathetic, his skin grey, his eyes ashen, fearful. His cheeks were sunken, and his hair was clumped in mud. He was dirty and grimy. It was him.

“You lie, evil witch!” Qualtan replied, horrified at the image, unwilling to accept it.

“You will be alone, and lost. Those you had befriended will now be your enemies, chasing you down. You will not escape. You will have fallen to evil, and you will pay for your choice.”

“No,” Qualtan growled in increasing rage. “You dare to trick me now?”

The hag laughed despite her dying state. “You will be nothing. You will be honor-less. They will track you down. You will not die like your father did, with great honor in battle, one lone man against many. You will die a coward in abject misery, an embarrassment to all. You will die!”

“No!” Qualtan cried out, his eyes glowing red. It was impossible for such a fate to befall him. To lose all that he had gained, to become a betrayer of Turinthia, his uncle, his own knightly beliefs? It had to be a trick. It could not be truth! Yet she spoke correctly of his father. How could she know that? Could it be true?

The image showed him splashing through mud, crying out for help in pathetic fashion as shadows and voices seemed to surround him. The image disappeared but Qualtan’s anger remained.

“You will die, useless knight!” the haegtes droned on, laughing as Qualtan growled back. He took hold of one of the hag’s knives and stalked towards her. She pointed and continued to cackle. “Useless knight!” she echoed as with a final cry of panting rage, Qualtan struck with the blade, beheading her.

Outside of her private lair, the captured men had attempted to break free of their skeletal prison walls but to no avail. Magicked as the bones were, they held as if made from the strongest steel.

“Damn it all!” Trunkhoel exclaimed as his sword snapped into two from his latest attempt to shatter the bones. “He left us here to rot!”

“He had no choice! Do you not have eyes? Didn’t you see?” Glaive exclaimed.

Trunkhoel wiped the sweat from his forehead. “I saw. I saw a so-called knight relinquish his sword without so much as an attempt to fight! A coward is what I saw!”

“So first you despise him, and then acknowledge only he could have saved you,” Glaive said, standing besides him. His worry for Qualtan had turned to anguish and then hopelessness as the hours had progressed and no sight or sound of him had returned. He feared the worst for his newfound friend.

“I acknowledge nothing, save he was a coward and now we shall suffer his same fate!”

Glaive grabbed hold of Trunkhoel and they began to scuffle. The other men attempted to pull them apart but in so doing fell back with Glaive and crashed through a now fragile wall of skeletal arms and legs. The men stood in confused awe, unsure of what had just happened.

“The walls are no longer bewitched,” one of the men said, lying beneath Glaive who had toppled over him.

Mikas turned to look at a leering skull. He slammed his fist upon it, and it crumbled, taking a section of the imprisonment with it.

“We are free! The spell is gone!” Trunkhoel said, as they broke through the remaining frame.

A sudden grating sound gave them pause. “The hag returns! She must have sensed her spell had faded! Quickly, take positions!” Trunkhoel commanded.

“Take what positions? What can we do?” one of his men said, despair returning. Trunkhoel grabbed him by the collar. “Listen to me! We will fight this witch and will die with swords in our hands if we must! We will not die the coward!” he said, shoving the frightened man away.

Footsteps echoed from the hag’s tunnel. “She cannot enchant us all at the same time! Move out!” Trunkhoel yelled as they clambered through the pit of bones towards the gently swaying curtain.

A shadow appeared. Men circled around to either side of the tunnel’s maw, hoping to surprise her. Swords were raised. Suddenly, a massive form shot through, rolling past the men as they yelped in panic. The form slowed its motion and they could see now what it was: a large swollen head. One eye stared blindly, while the other had been put out.

“She’s dead!” one of the men said.

“She is at that,” Qualtan responded, exiting the curtain. The men turned to face him in surprised joy. They grabbed him, patting his shoulders as he weakly fell into their arms.

Glaive pushed through the men, reaching Qualtan. With hands on each cheek, he lifted his face. Glaive’s worried expression left him as Qualtan smiled back tiredly.

“By Urgsh’s jewel-pierced snout, you have more lives than you deserve!” Glaive said, smiling with relief. He gently lowered Qualtan to the floor to rest.

Trunkhoel merely puffed his chest, standing before him. “Good work, Qualtan,” he grumbled.

“I will take that as a compliment,” Qualtan responded dully.

“You aren’t finished yet. You have one more task to do, and quickly!”

Qualtan looked up, incredulously, but upon seeing Trunkhoel’s barely hidden smile he returned it in kind. His eyes beaming amber in the darkened chamber, Qualtan strained to the utmost to lift the mighty slab that the hag had dropped to prevent their escape. He had already pulled free the block the hag had used as a door to her lair, and now, weak though he was from his exertions, he did not shirk from this new duty. With a moan he hoisted the slab free, lifting it upwards. The men quickly rushed past him, as straining, he released it with a heavy thud.

“What of the ghuls? You are no match for them now,” Glaive said.

Taking deep gulps of air, Qualtan replied. “With the haegtes gone, her hold on them has been broken. They cannot function without her.”

“Did you learn how she made them?” Glaive inquired.

“Aye. That and … more,” Qualtan said, his face becoming stolid.

As the party retraced their steps back to the upper surface, Qualtan’s words were proven true. Powdery remains of skeletal forms and ashen outlines decorated the tunnels, the ghuls having been reduced to the ash and bone they had been spawned from.

With the fear of attack gone, they went easily, reaching the graveyard at last. The moon was still in the sky, white and bulbous. It wasn’t long before they came across the remains of their counterparts who had volunteered to guard their horses. The carnage was grisly to behold, for both human and horse had met their end. Still, some horses had survived, and their distant cries brought the men to them. Trunkhoel immediately took hold of one of the steeds, citing the exhaustion his leadership had caused him.

“A man’s brain can only take so much directing of you dolts before his body fails beneath it,” he said, to the moaning of his mercenary band.

Glaive pressed Qualtan to take a horse, but he resisted, saying others who had been injured deserved it.

“So with the hag’s feast over with, it’s time to collect our due!” Trunkhoel said proudly.

“It was no feast. My doubts were proven rightly. She told me why she came here.”

The men grew silent.

“Why, then?” Trunkhoel asked.

“You will all see shortly,” Qualtan said grimly.

“Qual?” Glaive had noticed a slight change in his demeanor since their escape. He seemed burdened by something. Doubtless he was tired from his exertions, but there was something more, something Glaive could not place.

Qualtan ignored Glaive, and stepped ahead of him, pondering his own secret thoughts.

As the sun rose, the farmers of Cuthbert had already started their work, backs bending as they harvested, plotted, tended, and planted. Many had stood watch at the entrance to their village, hoping for signs of the party’s return. Hope had welled, and despite the horror of their last stand, many had refused to discontinue their daily tasks and routines, to give in to fear. As an elder sat on a rocking chair, snoring softly, his companion suddenly rose from his seat beside him. Blocking the sun’s rays with his hand, he heard the ruffling of horses, and the treading of heavy feet. Eyebrows rising in excited shock, he nudged his companion, who continued to snore. A final nudge, nearly pushing the elder off his chair, stirred him and he took in the sight that welled up before him. The cry was given, and soon villagers young and old rushed to the tired returnees, clapping and cheering. Trunkhoel raised his arms, devouring the attention, as Qualtan forced a smile. Above them on still standing barriers, the younger residents of Cuthbert waved at them. Once word reached Mistress Welda, she ran out to greet them, Deliah and her two sisters in pursuit.

Before Welda’s tower, the group stopped. Amidst the applause, Qualtan motioned, and two men began to unwrap the large package that had been dragged on a hastily made sled.

“The others?” she asked expectantly.

Qualtan shook his head sadly. Tears welled up briefly in Welda’s eyes, but placing hands on her hips, she refused them. “Is the threat ended? Did you uncover its source?” she asked.

“We did,” Qualtan said. “The ghuls are no more!” The two men rolled out the parcel. At the sight of the haegtes’ head, many of the villagers cried out, looking away.

Welda made quick symbols of protection before her chest. Deliah screamed and hid behind her mother, pulling her younger sisters away from the lolling tongue and protruding fangs.

“May Cuthbert protect us,” Welda said.

Qualtan stared at her critically. “Is that all you can say?” he asked.

Deliah smiled, wanting to go towards him but Welda held her back.

“Deliah, you stay here with your sisters,” she said.

“You disapprove?” Qualtan said. He was sure Welda was aware of their dalliance. It was obvious from the way she acted every time Deliah was near him. Qualtan had felt slightly guilty at first under her steady stare, but now, he was filled with anger at her sight.

“Your business was to help us purge this plague from our lands. That is the only business to concern yourself with here, the ONLY business. My people!” Welda cried out, looking away from him. “Our prayers have at last been answered! Cuthbert himself sent us our protectors who have done his work and freed his children!” The crowd roared in approval.

Qualtan however, stood still, a growing fury overtaking his bronzed face. Glaive observed him curiously.

“What is it?”

Welda continued her praise. “We will have feasting and revelry! The names of these heroes will become part of Cuthbert’s lore for generation upon generation! We will never forget…”

“Where is the idol?” Qualtan demanded.

Welda stopped in mid-sentence, taken aback by his request. Confused, she paused, fumbling over her words. “W … what? What did you say?”

“The idol. Where do you hide it?”

A sudden realization overtook her. She gasped as her eyes widened in fear. Deliah took notice, tugging at her mother’s arm, inquiring what was wrong. Welda ignored her, her attention fixed upon Qualtan.

Qualtan began to walk towards her, and then past her with purpose. She cried out, rushing after him.

“Stop!” she demanded. The villagers became quiet, unsure what was transpiring. Trunkhoel and his men stood by, confused over this turn of events.

“What in the nine hells is he doing?” Trunkhoel asked Glaive.

“I don’t know. Guard the head,” Glaive said, rushing after Qualtan.

“I don’t take orders from orcs,” Trunkhoel stated flatly.

“You do now,” Glaive replied as he left.

Trunkhoel looked down at the haegtes’ remains, a cloud of flies already forming over it. He grimaced in disgust.

“Stop! I command you to stop!” Welda yelled, grabbing at Qualtan who ignored her.

“Qualtan what is wrong? What is happening?” Deliah cried, running to keep up with them both.

“Stay back with your sisters! Stay back!” Welda demanded. Deliah stopped.

“Mother, what is wrong?” She grabbed at Welda’s arm. Welda snapped it away from her with frightening intensity.

“You do as I say! You stay here!” she said, her face in total rage.

Qualtan pushed at the tower’s door with Welda in hot pursuit.

“You don’t know what you are doing! May Cuthbert curse you! Stop!” Welda insisted. She grabbed an unlit torch from the front doorway and struck Qualtan from behind with it. He paused and taking hold of her, casually shoved her away. She fell to the floor, eliciting gasps from the crowd of villagers that had followed. He pressed against the door, breaking it free from its hinges. Glaive came up and helped her to rise, but she pushed aside his ministrations.

“Release me! Release me!” she said as he held her fast.

“What is happening here? Tell me!” Glaive insisted.

“My people! Stop them!” she petitioned. Faces that were so recently happy now turned hateful. They moved in, but Glaive quickly pulled out a sword and pointed it at Welda’s neck.

“Not so fast! Stand back, all of you if you want your precious mayor to live!” The crowd paused. Trunkhoel, still on horseback, made his way through them.

“What are you fools up to?” he demanded.

“Glaive! Release our mistress! Have you both gone mad?!” yelled Frederick.

“I will let you know once I find out!” Glaive said and walked backwards into the tower, dragging Welda with him, and then shut the broken door. The crowd was confused and turned to face Trunkhoel and his men.

“Easy now!” he said, unsheathing his sword. His followers did the same, surrounded as they were.

Glaive released Welda in order to buttress the damaged entryway. As he did she ran towards the door that led to her prayer chamber. It had been forced open. She was about to enter it when Glaive took hold of her again.

“Curse your soul! May Cuthbert take you! Unhand me now!” She slapped Glaive fiercely but he merely smiled, taking hold of both her hands.

“You are not being so pious now, lady! What say we both go through that doorway together?”

The tunnel was cool as Qualtan followed it. It twisted and turned, going deeper beneath Welda’s tower. It seems to make sense, he thought. If the hag’s words were true, the answer had to be down here, in the prayer room that none but Welda could enter. It was dark, but lanterns left by Welda lit the way. There were mystic symbols drawn into the walls, symbols that made Qualtan’s blood freeze, for they were similar to those that decorated the haegtes’ lair. An icy breeze began to blow from below, wafting upwards.

He reached a second door, also tightly secured. With a look of impatience he breached it, shoving it to one side. Within was a small chamber, sparsely furnished. Candles were lit on stands around the room, their wax streaming down in rivulets onto the floor. A mat lay before a black-cushioned prayer post. A large circle was inscribed on the whole of the floor. As Qualtan stepped over it, he felt a new rush of cold air, which made the hair on his arms tingle and rise. It came from what lay before him.

On a pedestal sat a small, squatting statute. Blackened wood, it was contorted in shape, a ghastly mixture of writhing, worm-like things that burrowed in and out of faces etched in pain. It seemed to give off a faint glimmer, for though dark, its etchings were quite clear. Qualtan circled it warily. He heard in his mind more so than his ears an evil sigh that came from the wicked thing, and he remembered the dull voice that called to him when he had held the prison containment of Thorngagg, He Who Stands in Shadow, years past.

The sighing grew louder, and now he could plainly hear its mournful wail. The sigh became a scream, a howling by many wicked voices. Qualtan raised his hands to his ears to drown out the baleful sounds, his face contorted in pain. In the tunnel behind him, the cries reached Glaive and Welda as they slowly entered. She twisted and fought vainly to escape from Glaive’s grasp, cursing him and demanding release.

“He will ruin everything, all of it! Stop him!” she said.

The statue began to pulse as if alive. The tentacles carved upon it seemed to quiver and shake. Qualtan looked on in horrid fascination as liquid began to ooze from its form, spotting the floor.

“You are somehow alive, aren’t you? Enchanted. An evil thing, possessed by spirits,” Qualtan said. Abruptly, a funnel of light rose up from the painted circle in which he stood, trapping him with the idol. He tested the magic barrier but could not move past it. He looked back to the statue, as tendrils began to unwrap from its body. Qualtan lifted his sword in defense. “You are afraid. You know what is to come! The haegtes was right; you are not for mortal use!” Immediately the tentacles expanded and burst towards him. Qualtan shone bright the enchanted light of his blade, and the writhing mass stopped, swaying and twisting around him. The idol cried out, exploding outwards with a shrill wail. Qualtan screamed at its intensity. Outside the tower, villagers stepped back, hearing the demonic cries. Trunkhoel had to reign in his horse as it nearly bolted from the scene.

“That’s it!” he said, jumping off his steed and marching towards the tower. “Join me, lads!” he said to his men, but none of them moved. After their experience with the ghuls and their master, their souls were weary and they wished no further conflict with evil. Trunkhoel appraised them scathingly.

“I’ll get rid of the lot of you, you useless dogs!” he threatened as he entered the tower. The cries emanating from within gave him pause, however, and he did not go further.

The tentacles continued to swell, growing in size and length. Their tips began growing appendages; pincered claws, sharp teeth, and deadly stingers dripping with venom. One thundered down upon the floor, causing Qualtan to shift unsteadily. Another, a large flap of bristling thorns, swept towards him, but he was ready, catching the sight of it and hewing it with his sword. Yet another thickened tendril struck out, a large, needled instrument moving to impale him. He called forth his magic shield and it bounced off against it. Qualtan released the shield and once more emitted the enchanted light that had caused so much fear in the ghuls that had stood against it. The tentacles recoiled. As he advanced they retracted back into the statue. He kicked the pedestal over and the statue fell. Wincing from the pain of its wail, Qualtan raised his sword to destroy it.

“Vile thing!” he yelled, as he prepared the blow.

“No!” Welda appeared at the entrance with Glaive who finally had to release her, the resounding cries from the statue overwhelming his orcish ears.

At her appearance, the statue’s shouts died down. “Please, I beg you; you know not what you do!” she pleaded.

“This is evil! Don’t you understand?” Qualtan said, pausing his blow.

“I do understand! Hear me out, please!” she said. She intoned a spell and the ring of energy that had enclosed Qualtan vanished.

“The marks of protection on Deliah and her sisters, they protect you from this thing!” he said.

Welda nodded, gently moving forward, fearful of Qualtan’s intent. “Yes, yes! The marks keep us safe. They allow me to use the idol without harm, and my daughters as well, in time.”

“Harm? You use this to enchant your gardens. This is how you survive in this zone of death, isn’t it?!” he demanded.

Welda agreed. “Yes, you are correct. That statue gives life to our village, water to our well, bounty to our gardens. Without it, the gardens would wither away. The well would dry out, and there would be nothing but sand and dust. How did you know of it?”

“The haegtes told me of it. This … thing … is what she had been seeking and why the ghuls had been sent to your village! To find it! It attracts evil! The martichoras, the men of ill-repute that attacked your homes before, it brings a curse to your people and will continue doing so unless I destroy it!”

“You cannot! Without it Cuthbert would be as nothing!”

“It is evil! How dare you use it as you have? You place all of your people and your daughters in jeopardy!”

“I do not. I control it! It was given to me by my father! Please, hear me out.”

Qualtan lowered his blade, but remained by the statue, prepared to strike at a moment’s notice.

“Your father was a sham. He had no powers to bless or protect,” Qualtan said.

Welda looked away, tears in her eyes. “He was a good man, a follower of the High Lord. Yet try as he might he could not call down powers to aid in his calling. He was refused. He grew to resent those of special learning, mages, high priests, dabblers in minor wizardry, for he could not emulate them. He then turned to looking for the power he was denied. He found it, this statue, held by an evil cult in the Woodworm Ports. Through his efforts, he gained the assistance of one of the Port’s petty noblemen to whom he paid rent for his lodgings and prayer rooms. With promises of gold, the nobleman agreed to storm the cult’s place of worship. The nobleman’s soldiers routed them all, greedily taking a trove of hoarded monies from their membership and ended their presence. My father took the statue for himself, saying nothing of its hidden value. He studied it, and worshipped it. Soon, it began to lend him its powers. He was able to heal and cure.

“His flock began to grow rapidly, as word of his miracles spread. He saw no wrong in what he had done; he had turned an evil force into a servant of good. When the so-called nobleman saw Cuthbert’s fortunes and wealth grow, he demanded a greater share of it, seeing himself as his sponsor. My father realized then that he had to flee, before the source of his power was found out. He took his followers and left one night, through the dangerous lands outside of the Ports. The statue protected them, and they came to this spot where he established the town under his name. When the orcs came, the statue guided Cuthbert to lead his people to safety. It protected them while the elves were cruelly brought down. It brought life back to the land after the Evil Ones had poisoned it. Cuthbert taught me in its use, and although I cannot wield its powers as greatly as he had, for I am not as worthy, I maintain the blessings of our land. That is why you cannot destroy it!”

“You are mad. Did you not hear my words? It doesn’t protect you. It gives a scent of evil that others of similar type can follow, like a lure of watered sugar to hungry bees! It brings evil onto itself.”

“You lie.”

“The cult that held it was destroyed by your father’s weakness. Now others come for it, following the same path. You know that! Is it worth it?”

“Others may be drawn to it as you say, but we will defend it as we defend our homes. We will hire men, just as we hired you.”

“For how long? How long before you face a foe you cannot defend yourself from? How long before the next attack and the attack after that wear down your people? You must be rid of it, before it’s too late!”

“Who are you to say how we must live? By what right do you dictate that what we do is wrong?”

“The attack of the ghuls, the martichoras! People, YOUR people have died without even knowing the true reason why!” Qualtan said.

“You do not live here. You are an outsider, and have no say in these matters. It is our lives, not yours. To force your judgment upon us now makes you as evil as those that wish to take our town from us.”

“But this thing is evil!”

“Evil as you say, but only if used in such a way! Is your sword evil when you kill a man? If defending yourself or defending others, you would say no. Yet it can be used for such things. Such is my use of that statue. We use it for no wrong. As you can see, my people remain. Despite the attacks you say, they do not leave here.”

“They are poor and cannot! They are trapped here!” Qualtan insisted.

“They are happy here. We bow down to no lord or nobleman here. We live our lives as we see fit. Where will they go if you destroy it? The fields will be gone and they will have nothing, truly nothing! Where will they go—back into the wilderness to die out there? Will your mighty Turinthia come here and give them homes and new fields to plant? You have no right to take our lives from us! You have no right to decide for us!”

“Then tell your people and let them decide! They think it is you and your bloodline that maintains this place. Show them the truth! If I have no right to decide their fates then neither do you. Or is that why you have not told them? For fear you would lose your so-called people and your hold upon them? Lose your station, your power, and be seen for what you truly are—a fraud!”

“I am no fraud. Through my use of that statue, I have maintained their lives. There is nothing to tell.”

“Oh? Then we shall see! Bring her, Glaive!” Qualtan said, storming out of the room.

Outside, Trunkhoel’s men kept their weapons raised as the townsfolk would not allow them to leave. A wall of villagers surrounded Trunkhoel, who smiled viciously at them.

“Why do you stand about? My men have died for you! I have spilt my blood for you! If you are so eager to turn on us now, come taste my sword!” He flashed his blade towards the villagers. They stepped back but did not flee.

Suddenly, Mistress Welda appeared, Glaive at her back, while Qualtan followed. She stood in the midst of the crowd, eyeing all. She turned to Qualtan.

“Well? Go ahead then! Tell them! My people! This outsider who has saved our village has something to say.”

Undaunted, Qualtan stepped forward. “You have been living a lie! The power that sustains this place does not come from Welda or her family but from a cursed idol stolen from a cult of evil worshippers by Cuthbert long years ago! It is her wielding of this demonic power that keeps your gardens plenty and your well full, but it is evil! The martichoras sensed it, though they probably did not know what it was. The ghuls were sent here to retrieve it. Others will come for it! You will never be safe or at peace as long as you have it! She has lied to you all these years for all her false prayers and devotions, as had Cuthbert before her! You must destroy it and save yourselves before it’s too late!”

The townsfolk looked to one another, confused over his words.

“An evil statue?” one said.

“Demonic powers?” said another.

Rudolpho, his wife and children in tow, appeared before them. “Mistress Welda, is this true?”

“What does he mean?” asked Mikas.

“He does not lie. And neither have I. The statue is a blessing that was granted to Cuthbert to find. Through the High Lord he tempered it, and mastered it to our use. Its power now serves Good, as the High Lord commands all evil to. Yes, we are plagued but not because it is evil. We are plagued by those who wish to take our bounty from us for themselves, and to return us to the servitude of the past!”

“She lies! This is no bounty but a curse! Look, you have already lost loved ones to the ghuls and to other invaders! Do you wish to continue losing more?” Qualtan implored.

“Lives will always be lost in protecting your home from thieves and invaders. It is to honor them for their sacrifice that we maintain the lives they valued,” said Welda.

“It is no honor but a travesty! Destroy this idol and leave this place! Do not risk further horrors upon you!”

The townsfolk mumbled amongst themselves, looking to Qualtan and then to Welda.

“Why? Why do you not listen?” Qualtan asked.

“We listen. If we leave we have nowhere to go to,” one villager said.

“This is our home. We are happy here,” another said.

“Listen to me! I travel to Turinthia. There I can find help for you! A place to go to!” Qualtan exclaimed.

“We do not wish to live under some King or lord. That is why we came here. For freedom,” Mikas said.

“You would have freedom! Turinthia is not the Woodworm Ports! It is the most noble of nations, the leader of the Alliance! They will surely…”

“Cuthbert took care of us, and Mistress Welda has as well. She is our shepherd,” a woman stated.

“You will all die if you remain here. Don’t you understand that?” Glaive added. “Some foe will come that will bury you all! You cannot hope that men such as us will always be readied for you! Use your brains!”

“It matters not. Mistress Welda maintains the power and our homes,” another villager said.

“It is not her but the idol!”

“And I will maintain it when my time comes,” Deliah said, speaking out from the crowd.

“Deliah! No. Please listen. You can come with me, all of you,” Qualtan begged, taking her hand.

“We have listened. There is no safety no matter where you go. This is our home. We will protect it as we have always done, and we will not be forced to leave,” she said.

“Your grandfather stole that object for himself!”

“He was led to it by the High Lord, to take what was evil and use it for good. It was his calling and he followed it.”

“You twist words!”

“I will stay,” Deliah said, pulling free from him, a look of disappointment on her face.

“As I shall as well,” said Mikas, walking up to stand beside Welda. Others did the same, filling her with pride. She looked to Qualtan, Glaive, and the mercenaries, a look of victory in her eyes.

“It is our choice, not yours. If you are truly a knight, you will respect that. You cannot decide how the world lives,” she said.

“Is this claptrap all true? Is it?” Trunkhoel asked Glaive.

“It is,” he said.

Trunkhoel thought for a moment. He had been sure of some hidden wealth here, sure of it! And if not, well then, the prospect of taking over the town for his own use had been a better option to consider. But now, having heard this tale, there was nothing left to stay for, especially in a cursed town. It was all for nothing. Angrily slapping his legs, he motioned for his men to follow. “Well then, we are finished here,” he said, stomping back to his horse and pulling himself atop it.

“You do not need to leave. You are all welcome here. You have saved us,” Welda said.

“Not from yourselves,” he said.

“We still owe you payment,” she added.

“Keep your payment,” he said. “My belly is full enough. We’ve wasted our time here, all of it. Let’s go, lads.”

Orthello walked over to Qualtan, grabbing his forearm and then Glaive’s. The rest of the men did the same, one by one. Trunkhoel sighed impatiently at the scene, wishing to leave now as quickly as possible.

“I owe you a life debt. We will meet again,” Orthello said.

“Why not join us on our way to Turinthia?” Qualtan asked.

“Aye, it has to be better than following that lout,” Glaive said, motioning towards Trunkhoel.

Orthello shrugged. “He’s a good enough man. We’ve been through it together, many a time. We stay with him. Besides, who says I will be following?” He smiled a knowing smile, as Qualtan and Glaive laughed. Hugging both, he took his place with his comrades, some on horseback, the rest on foot.

Trunkhoel looked at Qualtan and Glaive.

“I thought we had unfinished business,” Glaive asked.

Trunkhoel scowled. “Another time.” He turned his horse around.

“Is that it?” Qualtan said after him.

Trunkhoel paused, looking back one final time.

“Good luck to you both. Especially to you, Sir Knight. Do my men and I proud, eh? I suffer to say it, but you may change my mind about your stinking kind. You just may.” With that, he urged his horse away from Cuthbert.

Qualtan smiled, waving as they left.

“Sir Knight? You may have just turned him,” Glaive said.

“Just may,” Qualtan replied, imitating Trunkhoel’s final words.

Qualtan turned back to face Welda as she moved towards him. Her people called out cheers to Trunkhoel and his men as Qualtan’s face immediately grew dark.

“Though we disagree, I still thank you both,” she said. “You have done much for us. Your names will be kept in high honor here.”

“You are wrong and you know it. You condemn your own people. I pray your conscience can carry your guilt!” Qualtan said, brushing past her. Glaive did the same, taking one final parting shot. “You are all dead. You just don’t know it yet.” She smiled as he walked past, deflecting the words as if she had been scolded by a child.

Qualtan was met by Rudolpho, Frederick and Mikas.

“Do not be angry with us. It is our home,” Rudolpho said.

Qualtan put an arm to his shoulder. “Please. If you love your families, leave this place as quickly as you can.”

The three bowed. “Thank you again, noble knight, for your protection. You will always have a place here.”

Shuddering, Qualtan left them, as Glaive went to secure their belongings. Qualtan saw Deliah talking in a crowd and she paused when she saw him. She looked at him sadly, shaking her head. He took a step forward but she waved him off angrily, turning away from him and losing herself in the milling crowd. Qualtan stood alone as the villagers went on with their preparations to celebrate, while others returned to their work.

As Qualtan and Glaive rode out from Cuthbert, Glaive gave a final look back.

“They are all mad. When a dragon comes to eat their town, they’ll remember this day,” he said.

Qualtan said nothing, lost in his thoughts.

“I wanted to ask you something, Qual,” Glaive said.

“Hmm? Yes?” Qualtan replied.

“Ever since we escaped from the hag’s cave, you have seemed distracted. Concerned is a better word for it, I guess. For awhile when this whole mystery came out I thought that was it, but now that it’s all been said and done, you haven’t changed.”

Qualtan said nothing.

“Is there something else troubling you? Something that happened?”

Qualtan at last looked to his companion. He smiled, appreciating Glaive’s interest. “You’ve grown soft,” he jested.

“With you, probably! Lucky for you, we got out alive from all of this. You avoid my question.”

“Everything is fine, Glaive. I worry for Deliah and the others, that we could experience such horror, and yet truly not end its source. I just don’t understand. It troubles me. I guess being a knight is more complicated than I thought. Perhaps I am naïve about the way of things yet.”

Glaive laughed, patting Qualtan’s arm. “Realizing you can’t save the world, or make others do what is always right? Welcome to it, then,” he said.

Qualtan laughed. They continued to converse as they went. Inside his mind, though, Qualtan thought about the lie he had told Glaive. Certainly he was angered and confused over Cuthbert, the blindness of the townsfolk, their acceptance of the evil artifact, and what that would cost them someday. He was also definitely saddened by the change in Deliah’s demeanor towards him. But his deepest worry he kept to himself. The fear of what the haegtes had prophesized, where his journeys would eventually lead him, and the possibility that she had shown him the truth. The image of himself gaunt, weak, devoid of his strength and sword, no longer a knight but some sort of hunted criminal, haunted his thoughts and shook his very being. He worried for what lay ahead.