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  "Trying to volunteer for the job!" the thief griped, his hushed voice straining to control his anger. "What's with you lately?"

  "I don't understand?" countered the knight.

  The dwarf looked menacingly at the thief as Pinch sighed and continued. "Since we plundered the troll’s lair, you’ve been acting weird. You seem impulsive, jumping to the rescue, championing the downtrodden. That's not good business for a band of mercenaries like us."

  "I'm sorry," Hank offered tentatively, "I haven't been myself. You see, the umm... enchanted blade I found in the troll’s dwelling was more enchanted than we thought. It talks to me."

  "I've never heard it speak," doubted Scree, a look of disbelief on his bearded face.

  "It talks in my head. The mage we hired to detect its magic said it had something called empathy."

  "What does this all mean?" implored Pinch.

  "It means that in times of stress, it can make me do things,” Hank admitted in a low voice.

  Scree's eyes widened. "Do what?"

  "Sometimes it compels me to stop wrongs from being done."

  "Great!" exclaimed the thief, smacking the table in frustration. "That's just great! It turned you into a goodie goodie. That's why you've been playing hero. That's why we were in that bar fight yesterday," he accused, pointing at the knight.

  "The sword compelled me to help the barmaid."

  "Did the sword happen to notice the size of the barmaid?" asked Scree in a low rumble. "Looked to me like she could defend herself against a whole battalion of half-orcs."

  "Many years ago, the sword was first wielded by a powerful cavalier. The sword was impressed with this man’s beliefs, and it seems it uses the magical connection to urge the current bearer to uphold the same laws of good."

  "I say we get rid of it!" Pinch declared abruptly. "Pawn it. It's probably worth quite a bit of coin with the other enchantments on the blade."

  "It won't let me do that," admitted Hank. "I thought of that as soon as the compulsions started."

  "Throw it in a lake," Scree mused.

  "I tried leaving it in the last town, but when I looked down, it was on my hip."

  "There's gotta be something we can do. What if we just give it to someone else?" queried the thief.

  Hank merely shook his head.

  "Have the curse removed?"

  "I don't believe it is a curse. It is just the sword asserting its self in times of trouble. I don't think it is dangerous," argued the knight. "Besides, we can probably use its magic in our upcoming adventure."

  The others shook their heads and mumbled their agreement.

  "Let us just agree that our young mageling doesn't need to know about the accursed blade,” concluded the dwarf. "I would hate to see him back out of our contract. Especially as sweet as our thieving friend here has made it for us."

  Pinch leaned back from his meal and returned a thin wicked smile.

  Chapter 8

  A Camping We Go

  Den met his new companions outside the Weary Wanderer a short time later. Each was well armed and bore a backpack stuffed with provisions for the journey.

  "Where are we off to?" asked Scree, readjusting a shoulder strap that was causing some discomfort.

  "North," Den divulged, emphasizing the direction with a gesture of his head. “To a tower near the Old Elindill Mine."

  With their destination known, the tiny group set off along the packed, dirt lane in the indicated direction. As the trees passed by overhead, beams of bright sunlight alternately bathed each of the adventurers. Pinch walked beside Den, chatting, each sharing stories of their recent pasts. The young wizard kept his inexperience a secret, as did the thief of the magic sword. Den was amazed at the tales of bravery that Pinch told of each of his friends. His companions walked behind, rolling their eyes at his exaggerations. The day wore on to early evening and they moved off of the road to make camp.

  Around the fire that night, the group's camaraderie grew. They shared food and even more stories. The stars shone brightly as the sky continued to be clear.

  They slept in shifts, each taking a turn at guard duty. The cloudless sky brought a bitter chill. Den found it hard to sleep on the cold, hard ground. A rock always seemed to find a sensitive spot in the small of his back or, sometimes, in his ribs. The wind made the oddest sounds that played tricks on his tired mind.

  Branches scraped and clacked as Den strained his ears, thinking he could make out the sounds of approaching undead, but then the breeze would ease and the noise would disappear. I'm just jumping at silly phantoms, he assured

  himself. I'm in the company of great adventurers, men who have braved great peril. I have nothing to worry about. His consolation brought little relief. Unseen specters still haunted his mind. Try as he might, he was on edge until his turn for watch began.

  Scree woke him for the last shift at sentry. The dwarf had little to say before he wrapped himself in his bedroll and dropped into a deep slumber. Den didn't exactly know what to do while on watch. He added some wood to their small fire, then quietly walked around the camp.

  He felt more relaxed with his eyes open and alert. The vulnerability of sleeping was now gone, and so were the phantoms created by the sounds in the breeze. The relief made him drowsy and he fought to keep his eyes open.

  To stay awake, Den glanced over his grimoire. His mind was full of the spells he had memorized. He wanted to be sure he had them correctly committed to his memory. Each gesture and sound had to be done just right, or the spell wouldn't work; or, worse yet, the effect could backfire. Once, he had to spend two days being invisible because the spell he was casting reversed due to a slip of his tongue. Being invisible, Den remembered, was not all it was cracked up to be. He knocked things over because he couldn't see where his hands were and he was constantly being bashed into by Finnious. This happened with such frequency that his master made him go to his room to be rid of the unseen obstacle.

  As Den remembered those times, his eyes drooped lower, and soon he was fast asleep.

  ****

  "On yer feet, mage!" screamed the dwarf, waking Den with a start. "A fine mess this could have been if we were attacked while you were on guard!" Scree continued, standing over the boy with his fists firmly planted on hips while glaring at the groggy mage.

  Den slowly rose, dropping his spell book into his pocket. "I'm sorry," he stammered, eyes lowered as not to meet the dwarf’s.

  "Sorry wouldn't fix anything if we were in some hungry troll's stew pot right now,” Scree went on, foam forming in the corners of his mouth. His face took on a deep red hue.

  "And you were alert your whole turn, master dwarf?" Pinch interjected from across the breakfast fire. "It seemed to me, I heard quite a bit of snoring coming from you during your watch."

  “Wha-?!” gasped Scree, the color draining from his face. “Snorting, you must mean. I was blocked up last night. My nose was running continuously."

  "That must have been it," the wry thief grinned as he fiddled with some bacon in the skillet.

  "Don't let it happen again" he warned the mage with one cautioning eye on Pinch.

  After breakfast, the four continued on their way, keeping the sun over their right shoulder.

  "How much further?" Hank asked Den as they walked down a well-traveled dirt road.

  Den frowned in thought before he answered, "We'll be there sometime tomorrow, I should think."

  Hank was somewhat of a mystery to the young mage. The knight didn't fit in with the others. None of them seemed to match, but the knight seemed regal. His beliefs were noble. Den could sense that the others were in it more for themselves, but Hank acted out of another set of rules. He was well armed and armored and seemed ready for combat at any time. At the same time, he was extremely proper in his behavior, quite a contrast to the man who lopped off the half-orc's hand back at the tavern.

  "Then it is only a short way off," replied the cavalier, grinning from under his helm. "I am eager to see thi
s evil destroyed."

  The day seemed to pass with little talk, a stark contrast to the day before. The group could feel the nearness of their foe. This made them more alert to their surroundings and less relaxed.

  That night, they sat staring into the fire and made plans for the next day.

  "We should get there about noon," said Den to no one in particular.

  "That would be good," answered Scree, while tossing some shavings from a piece of wood he was carving onto the fire. "Most undead don't like the light of day. That might be to our advantage."

  "Most undead are slain by the light of day," corrected Pinch, tossing a twig of his own into the flames.

  "You knew what I meant, Pinch," grumbled the dwarf, clearing more of the shavings from his lap.

  The thief eyed the diminutive fighter and sighed. "I think it's time that we share what we know of our foe," he stated, turning his gaze on Den.

  "Oh," the mage stammered, pulling his gaze from the cheery blaze. He was caught in a daydream. "What were you saying?" he asked, feeling ashamed for not paying attention.

  "Tell us all you know of this necromancer we are about to confront," Pinch repeated. "What can we expect from him? What is this place like?"

  Den continued to stare at the thief, not knowing how to answer the obvious question. "I don't know,” he answered slowly.

  “What?!" roared Scree, his head snapping up from his carving and fixing a glare on the young mage. “What do you mean you don't know? Did you think we were just out a camping?"

  "I mean, I don't know much about the necromancer, himself, or his defenses," answered Den, backing away from the enraged dwarf. "His name is Marasmus and he has raised skeletons, that I know of. He will probably be using something to direct his magic, possibly a large stone of onyx. It will probably be glowing green. If we destroy that, we will rid him of most of his magic." Den strained to think of anything else Finnious had told him of the evil necromancer, but nothing more came to mind.

  "Onyx," harrumphed Scree. "That dark stone has vile powers of its own. I hate that rock." He sounded satisfied with Den's description. "My cousin, Bomphur, ran across a vein of that cursed stone, and it proved the end of his mine, as well as his life. It's a corruption of the earth, black as the eternal night in the deepest holes."

  "We truly don't know any of the obstacles in our path, then?" interjected the thief.

  The young mage shrugged his shoulders while still gazing at the dwarf. There was something more to the diminutive being. The way he strode, his bearing, something seemed out of place. Then again, everything about this group seemed out of place.

  “Then, I propose a simple plan. We walk straight in like we belong there. Basically, undead are usually programmed with simple commands, so maybe, if we don't alert them, we will be able to sneak right in without any alarm. Once, I hid an enormous ruby right under the nose of its owner." Den gave Pinch an odd look, clearly not understanding. “But, let's save that story for another time," the thief hurriedly added, regaining his nearly-blown cover. “I'm off to my bedroll. Wake me for my watch."

  Den, still confused, retired to his own blankets. His covers were itchy, made of coarse wool, but very warm. Their weight seemed comforting after not resting much the night before. He had only closed his eyes for a moment before he was fast asleep.

  Chapter 9

  A Change of Heart

  Skum walked through the silent tower in a trance, his feet dragging between his typical flapping gate. He idly traced a knuckle against the hallway's wall. The rough surface of the stone tore his skin away, revealing muscle and bone, but no blood. He didn't even feel it.

  He walked past the zombie of a human. Once, the goblin would have clung to the opposite side of the hall in disgust of the abomination. Instead of revulsion, this time he felt pity. Skum stopped and watched as the wretched creature stumbled by. Its gate marred by a missing foot, but the beast just ambled along, seemingly unaware of anything amiss.

  "I took that man from his camp," the goblin remembered. "I caught him for Marasmus. What have I done?”

  A deep sadness gripped him as he realized his part in all this business. He had been a tool in the creation of his own demise. He had unwittingly supplied a madman with the means to experiment, and eventually perfect the creation of undead.

  He watched the zombie as it disappeared around a corner, his gaze dropping to the floor in defeat.

  His body suddenly lurched around and began to walk seemingly of its own accord, continuing down the hall toward his master. Skum had no control over the commands of the lich. If he tried to deviate from those commands, his body would simply override his wishes and follow those of Marasmus. He growled in frustration and consciously obeyed the orders of the former necromancer.

  Chapter 10

  Even the Best Laid Plan...

  Den woke the others as dawn began to illuminate the sky. Hank and Scree huddled by the fire, the dwarf adding fuel to better fend off the early morning chill. Pinch, on the other hand, went straight to his pack and began rummaging through its contents. After a few minutes, the rogue neatly repacked the sack and joined his companions at the fire.

  "I'll start breakfast," volunteered Scree, boosting himself to his feet.

  "We'll eat a cold meal today and it will need to be in haste," challenged Pinch. "I want to try our luck with the undead as early as possible. The change from night to the morning’s light could be to our advantage. Besides, I want all the daylight we can get when we make our attempt at this necromancer. Some undead have adverse reactions to sunlight."

  “Then, I'll fetch some jerky and dried fruits," Scree conferred, grimacing at the thought of a cold meal on such a brisk dawn.

  The band silently crunched on the food, heads twisting violently as they struggled to break off pieces of the tough, jerked meat.

  "What is this stuff, anyway?" inquired Den after nearly losing a tooth while ripping off a bite of jerky.

  Hank looked up as if mirroring the same thought.

  "The shop owner said it was bear," answered Pinch, sounding injured. "It was a great deal."

  The cavalier shook his head. "This wouldn't be from the same vendor that you pawned all that worthless loot from the barrow mounds on, would it?"

  The thief looked indignant. "It was a great deal!"

  "Probably getting back at us," chuckled Scree. "Probably gave us orc meat."

  Den’s eyes widened.

  “Or, maybe gnoll jerky," jested Hank before attempting another bite.

  "Ow!" the dwarf exclaimed, bringing his hands sharply to his mouth.

  "What is it, Scree?" Den asked quickly, concern hastening his response.

  "I think I just broke my jaw on this piece of ogre butt!" he howled. He rolled onto his back, holding his belly as he roared in laughter.

  Hank slapped his metal-clad knee in a fit of his own as Pinch sat glowering at the two.

  Den smiled at the pair. He was starting to get to know these fellows and he liked them very much. As the two continued to poke fun at their friend, it finally began to dawn on the young mage.

  “You're a thief?" the magic-user said abruptly, quickly wishing he could grab those words right back.

  The laughter abruptly stopped and all eyes turned toward Den. He felt regret at the accusation he had just made.

  "Of course, he's a thief," answered Scree, giving the youth a strange look. "What band of adventurers could survive without one with such talents."

  "I prefer rogue," corrected Pinch, somehow making it sound a wee bit noble.

  "I guess that's better than pickpocket,” the dwarf added in another fit of laughter.

  "Please!" scolded the rogue, getting to his feet. "I have my pride. I’m not some petty street urchin. My skills are an art form."

  At that, Hank and Scree both burst into peals of laughter, the dwarf literally choking on his mirth, hacking and gasping.

  "It's true," demanded the thief, planting fists firmly on his hips. "Can
one of you argue that my special skills haven’t gotten us out of uncountable jams in the past?"

  The two fighters looked at each other soberly. “No. No, we can't," answered Hank, still looking at the dwarf. “But, I also can't tell you how many jams your talents have gotten us into, either."

  Scree burst into a new bout and Den smiled, but Pinch saw that the cavalier was not joking. Walking over to his pack, he announced that it was time to be going, and the others rose to comply. Den bit off one last piece of the strange jerky and dropped the remainder into his pocket as Scree kicked dirt over the small blaze, extinguishing the flames. Smoke rose, as if in protest to his actions.

  "We will stash our packs here," Pinch said. "The necromancer’s lair is not far. If anything goes wrong, or someone becomes separated from the rest, we will meet here. We are now due south of this den of evil so you will not be able to miss this camp."

  The others grunted their understanding and hid their unneeded gear in the surrounding brush.

  "Let's go visit this necromancer and see if we can borrow a cup of hydra snot,” cracked Pinch as he and the others returned to the marching order. No one laughed at this attempt. They all had become serious with the thought of what they would be doing in a short while.

  Pinch left to scout ahead and quickly disappeared into the woods. The remaining trio had only walked a short distance when the stealthy rogue reappeared ahead of them, gesturing for them to stop and be silent.

  As Pinch came back to the stationary group, Den noticed that the thief made no sound as he moved. "We were closer than we thought," he said in a low voice. “Up ahead is the tower. It doesn't seem like he expects company, though. I can't see guards anywhere."

  "How close did you get?" asked Scree in similarly hushed tones.

  "I made it inside,” the thief grinned. "There is a curving hall that's lit with torches."