Back in the streets of Llewelyn, the druid rode towards the town's main gates, his thoughts on the doomed city. 'Meridien. Mercia's southern port city, destroyed in a single hour of darkness.' Arlan shivered as a cold wind brushed his skin. 'The Legends have come full circle, and Laareth means to win, this time'.

Halfway to the gates, the wind picked up speed, swirling in the streets, tugging at people's cloaks and grasping at loose items with invisible hands. Arlan heard a good amount of cursing as vendors tried to keep their wares from being whisked away into the street.

Above, the purple clouds roiled turbulently, partly covering the large, pale moon. Hounds barked and horses whickered nervously, and the townspeople hugged their cloaks closely about themselves, unable to identify or face the sudden fear that held them prey.

Arlan stopped and dismounted from his restless horse. At a Word and a touch on its flank, the stallion quieted down and stood steady. He approached the other two steeds and did the same, surrounding them in a spell of calm. Even without their bridles tied to the lead stallion, they would follow him now through frightening and dangerous terrain, for as long as his will held them.

The druid's keen senses scoured the winds, and tensed as his Sight revealed a wrongness in the Power flows, as if the energies had been pushed and wrenched violently from their origins. The skewed flows pulsed toward the town in huge concentric tidal waves, blinding and alarming to one with the Sight. A palpable field of static hung in the atmosphere, ready to explode into a terrifying electrical storm.

He traced the Power that was causing the waves of turbulent energies and encountered a faint scent of rogue magic, a strange yet familiar signature---

"Jared," he breathed, all his dread solidifying in that one instant of realization.

Arlan quickly remounted, intent on stopping the source of the coming storm that would leave Llewelyn and the Forest lands nothing but a blackened hole on Keltiad's map. But first, he wheeled his horse to hail a passing, bewildered guardsman.

"Sound the alarms or whatever it is that will send these people back to their homes. And call your mages. A Chaos storm approaches."

"And who in the seven hells are you?" The guardsman challenged him suspiciously, hand on the pommel of his sword as he glared at the mercenary.

Arlan transfixed the man with a menacing look, anger coursing along the edges of his self-control.

"I am Druid Darshiva," he said in a quietly lethal tone, so much for keeping his identity a secret. "Do as I bid you, man, or your people will suffer the consequences of your delay."

The man shrank back from the iron gaze, bowing fearfully.

"Yes, my Lord! We will raise the alarm and notify the mages at once!"

Trusting the guardsman to do as he was told, Arlan turned his horse and galloped toward the gates, the other steeds following suit behind him.

Black, heavy clouds covered the moon, throwing Keltiad in darkness. A mandrake gasped out loud, and from somewhere a shout of warning. Those amongst the town possessing the gift of Sight now saw the coming storm for what it was. Then the alarms rang out like a dirge in the night, and panicked cries filled the streets as the townspeople made haste for the safety of their homes.

Arlan rode his way through the rapidly dispersing crowd.

"The Darkness is upon us!" A woman wailed in despair, and the druid flinched, glancing at her briefly. 'No, not the Dark, this time,' he thought, 'but something equally perilous.'

He was alone by the time he arrived within sight of the gates.

Alone ... except for five shadows standing as still as statues before the portals.

Arlan knew what they once were, and what they had become, even before the lightnings flared to illuminate them. Five sets of dead eyes fixed on him hungrily, and five pale hands flashed, each holding black, venom-edged swords. A touch of those blades could kill a man in seconds.

Called Dardraath, Darkmen, or Soulless, they were human once, before their souls were given over to the Hands of Darkness.

Immune to the most powerful of human magics and wards, one is forced to face the Dardraath with the skill of the blade, and they were damnably hard to kill, short of beheading or aiming for the heart. They stalk their prey in groups of five, and at least one— or two if that prey was unlucky— were Masters of the Blade in life. Several guardsmen were sprawled on the ground by their feet, bodies contorted in grotesque forms, as if they had died in terrible agony.

Lightning struck the alley several yards behind him, and the wind stilled suddenly. Somehow, Arlan had to reach Jared in time before the storm of lightnings feasted themselves on Llewelyn. And even then, he was not entirely sure how he can stop the boy.

Arlan reined his horse calmly before the five, sword unsheathed in his hand.

"Stand aside," he growled a warning. "Or would you rather we all burn to a crisp this night?"

As if in answer, forked lightning flashed above them, ever so closely, and the Darkmen glanced at the roiling sky. Perhaps magic could not touch them, but the forces of nature can burn them like so much dry tinder.

"Our Lord wants no quarrel with you, Druid." One of the Dardraath whispered in a voice long dead, but the glassy eyes gazed at him, hungry for the spark of life inside him. "The Great Lord only wishes to know where you have kept the Child. He means to have Rhyshannon, alive and unharmed."

"Whom do you serve?" Arlan challenged, though he expected no answer.

For a moment the Dardraath stared at him, lifeless eyes considering his question, then with a hiss it spoke, reluctantly, "We serve the Lord Mergenthaal."

Arlan gripped his sword in a hand gone suddenly cold. He had expected any of the other six, but not Mergenthaal. Of the seven Hands of Darkness, he was the unknown entity. Very few, if any, writings of Ervon's history spoke of him. But all of those accounts revealed that Mergenthaal was the most devious, and probably the most powerful, of the Hands of Darkness-- and therefore, the most dangerous.

Blue light coursed down Arlan's sword from his hand as his eyes searched for an opening, a weakness in the circle before him. "Tell your Lord, thank you, but no."

The eyes of the Soulless narrowed slyly. "The Great Lord says thus: the Child will not live through the night. If you value his life—and yours for that matter—you will deliver Rhyshannon to Him, for He alone has the power to heal his affliction."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then He will wash His hands of the entire matter-- after He has slain you for your folly." The bloodless lips smiled in anticipation, but the smile did not touch the Dardraath's dead eyes. "And the boy will die, by the very forces that have felled his kind."

"How do I know your lord speaks truly? Your master has tried to kill him not once but twice. Now he wishes to save him?"

"Another Hand's concern is not necessarily His, Druid!" The Dardraath spat, though if it was angered, Arlan could not see through the mask of death that was its face. "Our Lord has given His word: He shall not harm the Child of Night, for as long as your paths—and His—coincide."

The scarred man's thoughts raced. 'So it wasn't Mergenthaal that attacked the boy. But what if he changes his mind? And what choice do I have? If he spoke the truth— or what passes for truth in a Raisch— and if Jared will not live through the dawn—'

"Tell your Master," Arlan said firmly, "He will have my answer before dawn. If he values his word, he will stay his hand before then."

The five shadows stood silently, as if listening to a voice only they could hear. Then their leader whispered, "You have only to speak His name, and He will come."

Slowly they parted before him, black blades lowered to the ground.

The druid spurred his horse through the gates, half-expecting one of those swords to thrust treacherously at his back. But the Soulless remained still.

About a hundred paces from the walls he cloaked himself and the steeds from sight. With the currently chaotic energy flows, even a Raisch would be hard-pressed to locate him now. He did not trust Mergenthaal.

Only a fool would trust a Hand of Darkness.