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trapped among lost spirits.
His sword still drawn, Siggard backed down one of the paths, finally turning once the
gibbet had vanished in the mist. The ethereal fog curled around him as he walked,
Siggard mouthing a silent prayer with every step.
The path twisted and turned among the trees, and the dirt crunched under Siggard’s
boots. For a moment he wondered if he wasn’t in some endless forest of the damned,
forced to wander a haunted woodland for all eternity. He shook his head; if he was to find
his way out, he would have to stop thinking like that.
Faint shapes appeared in the mist ahead of him, and for a moment Siggard could make
out a horse and rider, standing under a large oak tree. He blinked hard, but the figure
remained. He pursed his lips; whatever it was, it wasn’t a figment of his imagination,
though it did seem ghostly.
As he walked forward, he saw another figure appear in the mist. The newcomer drew a
blade and, before Siggard had a chance to shout a warning, plunged it into the rider.
Siggard rushed forward, his sword at the ready, praying he would not have to fight, yet as
he ran the two figures faded into the swirling fog. Finally, he stood under the oak, but not
even a footprint suggested that anybody else had been there that night.
“If this keeps up much longer, I’ll go mad,” Siggard muttered. “I might even start talking
to myself.”
He moved away until he had a respectful distance between himself and the oak, and then
began to gather deadwood. After a bit of work, he reclined under an ancient elm,
watching the flames dance on his small fire until he drifted to sleep.
Siggard stood in the shield wall at Blackmarch, watching the horizon. Earl Edgewulf
walked from man to man, complimenting each on their standing and promising glory
ahead. For his part, Siggard just wanted to see his family again. But he knew that the
bloodshed was necessary; if they weren’t stopped here, the enemy would be able to roam
freely in Entsteig, spreading terror and destruction.
He closed his eyes for a moment, visualizing Emilye and his newborn child. His wife’s
golden hair had glittered in the sunlight when they had last spoken, and her crystal eyes
had been unable to contain the tears she had been trying to hide. He had told her that it
would be fine, that he would be back soon.
Thunderclouds scudded above, lightning arcing between them, followed by blasts of
thunder. “It looks like it’s going to rain,” old Banagar muttered. Siggard grimaced at the
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elder man, running his eyes over the gray stubble surrounding a faint mustache on the
wrinkled face. Siggard mouthed a silent prayer that the rain wouldn’t turn the ground
into a slick wasteland.
He stood on the bare hill, an army around him, like something out of a legend of the
Mage Clan Wars, with every soldier clad in a shining coat of mail. They had taken the
high ground, and had cleared some of the trees from the bottom of the hill. When the
enemy charged, they would be completely exposed.
“Here they come!” one of the lookouts shouted. Siggard squinted and watched the
treeline, looking for any sign of the enemy. Even after Earl Edgewulf had put them into
formation, he still didn’t know what enemies he would be facing. From the corner of his
eye he thought he could see glowing eyes staring out from the shadowy woods, but when
he looked directly at them, all he saw was darkness.
Then the woods began to boil, the trees themselves twisting and turning in torment.
Siggard inhaled sharply as the enemy burst out from the tortured woodland with a shrill
screaming, his gut churning in terror.
None of them were even remotely human.
Some were small and doglike, carrying bloodstained axes and hatchets. Others stood
tall, their muscular bodies capped with the head of a goat, what little skin showing
painted with demonic symbols. And in the background there were shadowy THINGS,
defying any description.
Something shook him, and a voice said, “Would you mind if I share your fire?”
Siggard sat up, finding himself back beside the forest path. A cloaked figure stood above
him, and Siggard could make out a sharp, but strangely kind visage in the shadows of the
cowl. The fire crackled beside the man, and in the flickering glow of the flames and the
waning moonlight, Siggard noticed that the man seemed to be clad entirely in gray.
“Help yourself,” Siggard said. “I’m afraid I have no food to offer.”
“That is not an issue,” the man said, sitting down by the fire. “I have already eaten.
Perhaps I can offer you something?”
Siggard shook his head. “I’m not hungry.”
“There are many restless spirits out tonight,” the stranger said. “As I walked, I saw
several ghosts.”
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“I noticed that too,” Siggard stated, scratching his beard. “For a while, I wondered if I
had gone to Hell.”
The man chuckled. “I can assure you, this is neither Heaven nor Hell. However, it is the
Night of Souls, when it is said that in some places the restless dead will return.”
“And what do they come back for?” Siggard asked.
“Some come for vengeance. Some come to see their loved ones again. And for some,
they just cannot rest. Sometimes it is the earth itself that brings them back, remembering
the life force that once was.”
Siggard shuddered. “It is unnatural.”
The man laughed, his voice strangely musical. “On the contrary, it is entirely natural!
Life does not simply give in to death, and the soul is more than some abstract idea. These
spirits merely walk their own path, most unaware of any others around them. But there
are some, particularly in the forces of Hell, who would raise the dead, animating them so
that they do not hold a spirit, but are merely an automaton. I think that is what you speak
of.”
Siggard shook his head. “I do not know if I should be terrified or awed by what you
say.”
The stranger lowered his hood, revealing eyes sparkling with life and a long mane of
blond hair. “I think both would be appropriate. There are more things in Heaven and Hell
than any mortal man could dream.”
“And how would you know all of this?” Siggard asked.
The man shrugged. “I am a wanderer; I have seen more than most would ever imagine.
That is merely my nature.”
“Will you give me your name?” Siggard said.
The stranger nodded. “My name is Tyrael. May I ask your name?”
“Siggard.”
Tyrael smiled. “Your trust does you credit, but be careful with whom you place it. I am
safe, a traveler sworn to the light. But there are others who are sworn to darkness, and
they do not reveal themselves unless they are forced to.”
Tyrael leaned forward. “Tell me, friend Siggard, what brings you onto this road on this
of all nights?”
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Siggard shrugged. “I wish I knew.”
Tyrael raised an eyebrow. “I don’t understand.”
“The last thing I remember is the battle at Blackmarch. If this is the Night of Souls, then
that would be two days ago. I can’t remember anything between lining up in the shield
wall and awakening earlier this evening on the ground.”
Tyrael nodded sagely. “Sometimes one will see something so horrifying that the mind
will block it out, as though the soul itself cannot bear to remember it.”
Siggard suddenly recalled the strange shadows behind the treeline at Blackmarch, and
found himself nodding in agreement. “I guess I just want to find out what happened at
Blackmarch and see my wife and child again.”
Tyrael pursed his lips. “I have heard fell things about Blackmarch. I would not go there
if I were you.”
“I have to know what happened.”
Tyrael shook his head, and for a moment Siggard thought he could see a great sadness in
the man’s eyes. “If you must go, then you must go. You are ten leagues south of
Blackmarch as the crow flies. You can reach it in a couple of days by following the road
north.” He pointed back in the direction that Siggard had originally come. “If I were you,
however, I would go south for one more league, and then take the fork west. It will take
you back into Entsteig.”
Siggard nodded. “I will consider your advice.”
Tyrael smiled kindly. “That is all one could ask.”
Siggard watched as the waning moon finally slid down under the treeline and the eastern
sky began to brighten. “It will be dawn soon.”
“It seems that the Night of Souls has come to an end at last,” Tyrael mused. “All of the
restless dead now return to their graves in the hopes of peace.”
Siggard turned and stretched, wincing for a moment as his back ached. “I should begin
my journey; I have a long walk ahead of me.”
“May your feet be swift and take you into places far from harm,” Tyrael said, still sitting
by the dancing flames.
Siggard turned and looked at the road. “You have the tongue of a poet, my friend. I
thank you for your good wishes.”
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But when he turned, he stood alone by the fire.
The mist was gone by the morning, burnt away by the autumn sun. Siggard carefully
smothered the fire, trying to ensure that no billowing smoke revealed where he was. He
still remembered the sights of the previous night with fear and awe, and wanted to ensure
that he did not run into any restless spirits who did not respect the dawn.
Thinking back on the evening, he still wondered at some of what he had seen. He had
never been a superstitious man, but the memories of the hanging corpse and the ghosts in
the mist seemed too real to have been a vivid dream. And then there was Tyrael.
Was the stranger a ghost, come back for a friendly chat? Or was he something else? A
figment from a dream, perhaps?
Siggard shook his head; at this point in time, it was useless speculation. Aside from
which, he still had to find out what had happened at Blackmarch.
He checked that his sword was securely fastened to his belt, and began the journey north.
2
ENCOUNTERS
Alas, mourn for the open road!
For where there was once wonder and mystery,
Now there is mistrust and death.
—Jiltarian of Khanduras, Lamentations
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After only a couple of hours of walking, Siggard found himself once again facing the
fork and gibbet. In the light of day, the hanged man was little more than a desiccated
corpse, barely any flesh left on the pearly bones. The eyes that had seemed to stare so
dangerously at him were reduced to empty sockets.
Siggard shook his head. It was amazing how easily the terrors of the night vanished once
the sun rose. He was still left with the crossroads, however, one path leading back
northeast and the other leading westwards. Either path could twist and turn, appearing to
go one way when in reality it did the opposite.
Such is life, Siggard mused. Regardless, he had no time, and needed to get to
Blackmarch. Scratching his beard, he finally chose the northeastern path, and began to
walk.
As he traveled, the forest seemed to stretch on into eternity. At least the path seemed to
be consistently taking him northwards; Siggard checked the position of the sun at what he
thought was every hour, and everything seemed to be as it should. The path did weave,
however, and when the sun finally sank into the west Siggard estimated that he had only
traveled about five leagues.
Once again, he built a fire off to the side of the road. As he watched the flickering
flames, giving the light mist around him an eerie glow, he suddenly realized that he
wasn’t very hungry at all.
Siggard blinked. Perhaps it was the concern he had for his friends in the army, he
thought. Regardless, with virtually no food and nothing to hunt with, it was a blessing.
Still, in some ways the hunger pangs would have been a blessing; the roads were known
to be dangerous, and he could use the edge in staying alert.
Even as he watched the dancing flames, trying to remain awake, sleep claimed him at
last.
Siggard broke into a cold sweat when he saw the demonic army approaching the shield
wall. They literally boiled out of the trees, like some horrifying infestation. As if on cue, a
bolt of lightning struck the forest, the crashing thunder deafening him.
For a moment, Siggard saw a small pheasant walking on the ground, oblivious to the
men on the hill and the monsters approaching. It pecked at the ground, snatching at a
worm. Then, prize caught in its beak, the bird took flight.
We are the interlopers, Siggard thought. All of us. And nature simply doesn’t care.
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“Barrage!” the lookout shouted.
Several rocks smashed into the ranks, flattening entire sections of the shield wall.
Siggard watched in horror as one man tried to free himself from under a boulder, his
entire lower body crushed into a bloody pulp.
But when he looked back at the demons, they hadn’t moved. Strange shadows flickered
just beyond the trees, and the creatures reared up, calling out with earsplitting screams.
As Siggard offered yet another silent prayer to see his family just once more, it began to
rain, a drizzle at first, and then a downpour. After only a couple of minutes he felt as
though he was soaked to the bone, despite the heavy leather and coat of mail. And, for
some strange reason, he could smell a fire smoldering.
Siggard opened his eyes to find a cold autumn rain falling upon him. His fire lay
smoldering, the last flames put out by the downpour. He shivered, wishing that he had a
cloak to wrap around himself. He had owned one, he remembered, but where it had gone
was yet another thing he could not account for.
At least there was no lightning, he reflected. That meant he could safely seek shelter in
the forest.
But even as he forced himself to rise, the rain slackened and ceased. The soft light of
dawn peeked through the clouds, and a bird sang in the distance.
Siggard was not at ease, however. In all of his experience a forest should smell fresh and
magical after a rainfall, but the woods reeked of decay instead. For a moment he
remembered all of the times he had gone hunting mushrooms with his wife during the
early spring, just before the planting. They would venture into the forest, seeking their
bounty and watching as the hares and squirrels went about their daily business. Once,
they had even seen a great deer, but only briefly.
He shook his head. He still had several leagues to travel, and only the gods knew what
had happened to the army. He began to walk, following the path even farther north, trying
to concentrate on the task at hand.
As he walked, the forest became strangely silent. Other than the birdsong right after the
rain, the only sound he heard was the crunching of his own boots in the earthen road.
“I’m going to have to get out of here,” Siggard muttered uneasily, picking up the pace.
As before, the path twisted and turned as he walked, but always bore northwards.
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Finally, the sun began to set once again, and Siggard retired to the side of the road. He
began to gather firewood, hoping that this time the flames wouldn’t be smothered by rain.
“Excuse me, my dear sir!” called a voice. Siggard turned to see a tall, dark-skinned man
with a bushy goatee regarding him. The stranger wore long light red robes, and carried a
traveler’s pack on his back. “Would you mind if I joined you? I would be happy to help
in any way I could.”
“How do you know I’m not a bandit?” Siggard asked.
“If you were a bandit, you wouldn’t have asked that question,” the stranger replied.
“Besides, you have an honest face. Shall we trade names?”
“Siggard of Entsteig,” Siggard said carefully. “And you are?”
The stranger bowed, his hands held together. “I am Sarnakyle of Kehjistan, a great land
far to the east. I am one of the Vizjerei.”
“A wizard?” Siggard asked.
Sarnakyle grinned. “Definitely not a shoemaker.”
Siggard finished building his fire-pit and picked up a couple of dried sticks.
Unceremoniously, he dropped them into the pit. “What brings you out on this road?”
Sarnakyle held up a hand. “Please, let me help you with that.” He gestured quickly, and a
spark leapt from his hand into the wood, lighting the fire. The wizard sat down, warming
his hands. “I am a wanderer, friend Siggard. I have recently seen some . . . disturbing
things, and I am trying to sort them out. And you?”
“I am trying to make my way to Blackmarch,” Siggard stated.
“I do not believe I have been there,” Sarnakyle said. “I have heard some terrible things
about it, but I have not seen it. I think I will go, if you will have my company.”
“Just so long as you don’t slow me down,” Siggard said.
“I can walk quite quickly,” Sarnakyle said, still smiling. “Besides, you could probably
use my help.”
Siggard raised an eyebrow.
“No offense, my good sir, but with the exception of your sword you do not appear to be
attired for battle. I am an experienced wizard.”
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Siggard grunted. “We will see.”
Sarnakyle reached into his pack and pulled out some rations. Silently, he offered a bit of
dried beef to Siggard.
“Thank you,” Siggard said, taking the offering. When he bit into it, however, he found
that he still had very little appetite. He ate half of the ration, and then wrapped the rest up
in a leaf and put it in his belt.
“By the looks of it, you are not nearly as rested as I,” Sarnakyle said. “Please, allow me
to take first watch.”
Siggard was about to object, but then thought better of it. After all, he only actually had a
battered sword and a piece of dried meat to his name right now; nothing worth stealing at
all.
For the first time in two days, Siggard didn’t dream of battle. He was shaken awake by
Sarnakyle, who told him that nothing had happened. He watched the wizard make some
gestures at the ground, and then settle down to sleep.
He’d have to ask him what those were in the morning, Siggard thought. He watched the
forest, his mind slowly wandering back to his farm, village, and family. Soon, he
promised himself, soon he would see them again.
As his mind wandered, the eastern sky began to lighten, and finally the sun rose in all of
its glory. Sarnakyle stretched and yawned beside him, and finally rose, scratching his
goatee.
“That was a good night,” the wizard said.
“You did something with your hands,” Siggard said. “It was just before you went to
sleep. What was that?”
Sarnakyle smiled. “A bit of extra protection. I set some magical wards earlier, and I just
made certain they were still strong.”
“If you can set magic wards, why did you need me to keep watch?”
“Magic is not as . . . powerful as many think,” Sarnakyle said, and for a moment Siggard
thought he could see a sadness in the wizard’s eyes. “Sometimes a good sword arm can
be as valuable as a hundred spells.”
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Siggard unwrapped the ration from last night and took a couple of bites. Somehow, he
still wasn’t terribly hungry. It could be simple concern; in less than three days, he had
heard two people talk about Blackmarch as a dire place, and he was beginning to fear the
worst for the army.
He wrapped the ration up again and looked over at Sarnakyle. The wizard sat on a rock,
eagerly eating his breakfast. Well, Siggard reflected, at least this visitor hadn’t vanished
with the dawn.
“We should be going soon,” Siggard said. “I want to be at Blackmarch as soon as
possible.”
“You should relax,” Sarnakyle mumbled in between bites. “Blackmarch is a place; it
won’t go anywhere if we take an extra couple of hours.”
“It is very important that I get there,” Siggard insisted. “I am a soldier of the army of
Entsteig, and I have to rejoin my companions.”
Sarnakyle blinked and stopped chewing. He swallowed hard and stared at Siggard. “My
friend,” he began, “you are on a fool’s errand. The army of Entsteig was annihilated at
Blackmarch by a demonic force. It is said that fewer than ten men survived the battle.”
Siggard found himself swimming in fear. If the army had been defeated, then the enemy
could rampage amongst the countryside. And that meant that his family . . .
Siggard bolted upright, gathering his meager belongings and buckling his sword to his
waist. “My family is in danger,” he said. “I have to go.”
“That army of demons was heading towards Entsteig, wasn’t it?” Sarnakyle mused. “I’d
better come with you.”
“It could be very dangerous,” Siggard warned.
Sarnakyle pulled his pack onto his back and smoothed out his robes. “I have more
experience with demons than I would care to have, my dear warrior. Trust me, you are
better off with me at your side.”
“What is the fastest road west?” Siggard asked.
“A bit to the north there is a crossroads,” Sarnakyle stated. “The western path will take
us out of the forest and into Entsteig.”
Siggard nodded. “It’s about time we got out of this twice-damned forest.”
As they set off, Siggard wished that he had the wings of angels, for every minute that
they traveled brought the demons closer to Emilye and his child.
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