"You've got to be kidding," Emerson protested. The solemn trail had lead the Night's Bloom through a gauntlet of twists and turns before finally emptying out into a large clearing dominated by a single, dilapidated structure.

The wooden cabin was the size of a house... a bit larger than a hunter's cabin should have been. Most likely it once WAS a home of some kind... but not any more. Its walls bore the cracks, rotten planks, and clinging vines of several generations of neglect. A single window stared out from the heart of the clearing like the eye of some half-blind hunter still scanning the woods for prey. The brick chimney stretched skyward, looming over the slanted roof like an obscene gesture. Between the men and the cabin was a carpet of dry grass, from which thick clusters of tall, dead weeds erupted at irregular intervals.

"I must say," Yexhill Thane mused aloud. "This... is a bit less than I expected."

"You complainin' too, lad?" Hars shot Thane a stern glance.

"Yeah," said Thane. "Yeah, I am."

"Why do we have to camp so far from town?" Emerson whined.

"Because those are our orders," said Hemingway.

"Yes, but WHY!?!?"

"I've never met a grown man that complained as much as you, Emerson" said Hars.

"Never?"

"No."

Emerson extended his hand to Hars.

"Emerson Shaw, nice to meet you!"

Hemingway and Thane chuckled as they walked the last few yards to the cabin. Emerson paused to look in the window.

"Anybody home!?" he called.

"It's empty enough, lad."

"Yeah, this place is spooky enough to keep just about ANYBODY away. Anybody but us, that is."

"This was our staging area back when we ran the trade routes between Montfort and Bephal. Its out of the way, and imposing enough to keep everyone but curious fools at a distance."

By 'ran,' Hars meant 'robbed'... but that was pretty much understood by everyone.

"Who is 'we,' exactly?" asked Emerson.

"Night's Bloom," Hars said. There was a slight change in his tone... a barely notice shift toward reverence and reluctance. "Before you came along."

"Ahh, the ones who died, ya mean!"

"Aye, lad," said Hars.

"Well... given what happened to THEM, do you really think its wise for us to be following in their footsteps-"

Hemingway's elbow shout out and hit Emerson in the head.

"ouch!"

"Sorry little brother... sometimes that elbow slips. Seems to happen more often when you're talking, though..."

"Hey, all I'm saying-"

"Is something you might want to keep to yourself for now," Gallows whispered. Gallows HAD been bringing up the rear of the group, walking behind Thane. His sudden appearance startled Emerson. "Should be obvious that the man mourns for his friends."

"Yeah, well-

Hars opened the cabin door... which, surprisingly, failed to creak loudly or snap off in his hands.

"Make yourselves at home," said Hars.

"Oh, THIS I've got to see..." Emerson mumbled as he lit a torch and walked into the dark cabin. The place wasn't spacious, but it was large enough for each of them to have their own personal section of floor. There were no rooms. There was one additional window in the wall opposite the front door. Both windows had had glass at one time, but were now securable only with the thick wooden shudders which now stood open. The only furnishing in the room... if one could consider it furniture... was the oversized fireplace hearth. Some of the bricks were broken or missing, but as a whole, it looked operable. There was no mantle, however. It had either rotted away long ago... or had been ripped off the wall and used for fuel.

"LOVELY place you've found for us, Mr. Blackshear!" Emerson said sarcastically. "...I wouldn't expect a tip."

"What I expect is a fire in that fireplace," said Hars. He dropped his pack on the floor by the rear window. Then closed and latched the shutter.

"Fire?" Emerson looked around the cabin. "There's no wood-"

"Hmmmm, I see what you mean," said Hars. "Seein' as how were in the middle of a bloomin' forest, I imagine WOOD would be rather hard to come by..."

"Why don't we just burn this CABIN to the ground," Emerson mumbled as he turned back toward the door. "...It'd definitely be an improvement."

Gallows was just coming in. He passed Emerson and walked to the center of the room and looked straight down at the wooden floor.

"Interesting," he said.

Everybody stopped.

"What?" said Thane.

"What?" said Hemingway.

"What?" said Hars and Emerson at the same time.

"Nothing," said Gallows.

Everyone looked at each other, then glanced at the floor. It was a floor. It was wood. There was nothing interesting or unusual about it.

"I hate it when he does that," said Thane.

"We could always rip the floor up and burn it!"

"OR we could just chop down yonder tree," Hemingway grabbed his brother's shoulder and spun him around to face the door. He pointed. There was a large rotten oak at the edge of the clearing. Many of its branches had already broken off, but there were still plenty more. Hemingway dropped his pack and removed his throwing hammer. "I'll knock a few branches down and little-brother here can run and fetch them."

"Me!? What about Thane!?"

"I'll help," Thane sighed.

"Hey, Thane, I've got a better idea," said Emerson. "You look like a betting man..."

"Not really-"

Emerson dug in his pocket and produced a gold coin. "I'll bet ya this shiny piece of gold that I can put two daggers into whatever branch he knocks down before it hits the ground! AND... AND if I do it, YOU gather the wood. Eh? Eh? What do ya say?"

Thane looked out at the moonlit yard and considered the bet.

"Daggers thrown from where?" he said finally.

"From wherever my brother stands-"

"I wouldn't take that bet, Thane," said Hemingway. "Far too easy."

"THREE daggers!" said Emerson. "He hits it... it falls... it's got three of my blades in it before it lands. What do ya say?"

Thane and Hemingway exchanged glances. Hemingway shrugged.

"All right," said Thane.

Emerson pulled three throwing knives from his belt and lodged them between his fingers-

"Uh-uh," said Thane. "One at a time... three different throws, with one hand. The others stay in your belt. And you don't throw until the branch starts ta fall."

"Oh-Hooo!" Emerson put two of the daggers back. Thane snatched the remaining dagger from the man's hand... and replaced it with his carving knife.

"The first blade is mine."

"This!?" Emerson looked at the large, unwieldy knife that was quite suitable for everything EXCEPT throwing. "THIS!?!"

"You expect me to let you use your fancy trick knives to take my gold?!?"

"TRICK knives!?! I resent that!"

"Are we gonna have some fire in here or what?" Hars growled.

"...trick knives..." Emerson grumbled as he and Hemingway stepped out into the yard. "THAT from a man with a magic ring! Trick knives, indeed! Whenever you're ready big brother."

Hemingway began spinning his hammer by the leather strap attached to the handle. The heavy weapon became a whirling blur... and then he let it fly.

The hammer struck like thunder, splintering the base of a large branch halfway up the tree. The rotten branch dropped-

Emerson hadn't even prepared his throw yet, but as soon as the hammer struck, the small thief's arm snapped back...and then forward. Thane's knife tumbled end-over-end, losing itself in the darkness for a moment before-

THUCK!

It hit the falling branch midway along its length. The blade sank into the rotting wood and held fast. Barely an instant later-

THOCK!
THWUCK!

Two smaller daggers hit on either side of it. Then-

CRASH!

The branch hit the ground and splintered into several fireplace-sized fragments.

Emerson turned to Thane and, grinning widely, held out his hand for payment.

"I'll be damned..." Thane growled as he dropped a gold coin onto Emerson's palm.

---

"Damn you, father!" Francesca snapped. "How DARE you bring strangers into this house when Casey is-"

"You'll mind yourself now, girl!" Floyd said sternly. "You'll want to remember who's house this IS!"

"Oh, I remember! And since you've seen fit to remind me of it just now, I guess that' means you'll be fetching the linens for your guests yourSELF!"

Francesca turned and stormed down the hall toward Casey's room.

"Ehh, e-excuse me a moment," Floyd said to his guests. He rushed up the stairs after her, catching her just outside Casey's door. "Dammit, girl... do you know who that IS down there!"

"Yes, father, I know."

"That's DECEMBER! Remember, from a few years back-"

"I KNOW who it is father, and that's why I don't WANT him here! He's a murderer. He killed that girl-"

"Oh, come now... there was never any love lost between you and Julia Trisk."

"So I'm supposed to be so happy about her death that I'll host her murderer in this house!?"

"It was self-defense, Francesca. She-"

"It doesn't matter. He's a killer and I won't have him here! I won't have anything to do with him!"

"Well you'll want something to do with THIS, I reckon-" Floyd held out the diamonds. Francesca glanced at them, then looked away suddenly as if the sight of them were obscene.

"Blood money," she said.

"Blood money enough to fill out your dowry right nicely! Maybe enough to finally get you married off! Get you out of this town, to somewhere where no one knows of your shame!"

"That's all you care about, isn't it? Money. Money... and my shame. Money and getting rid of me!"

"That's not true and you know it," said Floyd. "You wound me, child."

"If you're so concerned, why don't you try to marry me off to December himself, eh? Wouldn't THAT be lovely!"

"Well, I wouldn't go that far-"

"At least you have SOME scruples left, then."

"Just fetch the damned linens girl," Floyd spat. "Make the beds and stay out of men's business."

"MOMMM!" Casey called from his room. Floyd was glad it was a regular yell... and not that damnable scream they'd been hearing all night.

"I'll do it AFTER I tend to my son," said Francesca. She opened Casey's door and went in, slamming it shut before Floyd could say or do anything.

Sighing heavily, Floyd went back down there stairs. His guests were exactly where he'd left them... standing in the exact same spots, in fact.

"You'll have to forgive Francesca," Floyd said apologetically. "She's usually not like that.... but with the boy sick-"

"Tell us about the boy," said the tall, thin man who's name Floyd couldn't remember.

"Uhh... Casey?"

"Yesss. Tell us of dis one..."

Floyd didn't care for the eagerness in the dark-skinned man's voice. Nor did he care for burdening his distinguished guests with his own problems. But...

"A fever, I think. Came on quite suddenly."

"Tonight," said N'Doki.

"Yes. Yes, it came on earlier tonight."

At this, December and N'Doki exchanged glances. Some unspoken communication passed between them.

"May we see the boy?" said December.

"Oh, I don't know about that..." Floyd stalled. After the words he'd just had with Francesca, the LAST thing he needed was to bring December and his friend into her presence. "It's uhh... I mean..."

"You wish de little one to be whole again, yes?" said N'Doki.

"Yes, of course! Are you... some kind of healer or holy man?"

"Yes," said N'Doki. "A holy man. I haf ended de pain of many who haf suffered."

N'Doki smiled.

Floyd paused. There was a glimmer in his eyes as he considered the request... along with a strong twinge of discomfort that he pretended not to notice. A holy man? Here? What if... what if...

Perhaps it wasn't such a good idea to let them stay here after all.

"Well..." said Floyd. "I-I don't know. Francesca is very protective of-"

"FAAATHERRRRRRR!" Francesca howled from upstairs. Her call consisted of the two syllables of one word... yet it seemed to stretch on into a long paragraph of fear.

All eyes turned to the stairs as the cry came again.

"FATHER, COME QUIICK!!!"

Floyd glanced at his guests, and then darted up the stairs.

"Come, come!" he huffed over his shoulder.

"Holy man?" December said when Floyd was out of earshot.

"Am I not a holy man?" N'Doki replied.

"UNholy, perhaps."

"Ahh, but one man's devil is anodder man's savior, no?"

"True," said December as they started up the stairs. "But which will you be to these people?"

"That... remains to be seen."


---


After Yexhill gathered the wood, he started a roaring fire in the fireplace with a sizeable splash of flame from his magic ring. Contrary to everyone's expectation... and hope.... the cabin's ancient walls failed to ignite and burn to the ground when the flame was lit.

"I STILL say this place is a hazard," said Emerson as he examined the length of straw he'd just drawn from Harrison's fist. He compared his straw to his brother's.

"Hey! Mine's short!" Emerson announced.

"I don't doubt it." Yexhill glanced at the thief and smiled.

"I meant the STRAW!!"

Yexhill drew his straw. Its length was midway between Emerson's and Hemingway's.

"You too, lad," Harrison turned to Gallows, who was kneeling in front of the fireplace. The assassin-mage had his assortment of bolts and arrows spread out around him. All were meticulously placed according to size and type... except for the eleven bolts resting in a jumble by his right knee. They were ammunition for the full-sized crossbow; the single bolt clutched in his hand made an even dozen. As the others watched, Gallows raised the bolt before his face and waved his hand over the sharp metal tip. Gallows pronounced a single syllable...

...and the bolt's tip glowed with a faint and eerie blue light.

Then Gallows calmly extended his hand and placed the bolt in the heat of the fire, thrusting it under the red-hot coals.

"Ha!" said Emerson. "He's burning his arrows!"

"Not burning..." said Gallows. He removed the bolt and held it up. The tip was now glowing red, just like the coals it had just touched. Yet it was not the glow of heat... but of magic. "...Baptizing." Gallows placed the bolt on the floor beside him and picked up another one. "They take on the properties of the baptism. These will make a nasty surprise for whoever is unfortunate enough to find himself in my sites." Gallows repeated the simple ceremony: activating the magic with a wave and a word, then briefly thrusting the bolt into the heat of the fireplace before returning it to the floor.

"If ye can indulge us a moment and draw your straw," Hars held out his fist. It had one straw left in it. Without taking his eyes off the flame, he reached out and plucked the shortest straw from Hars' hand.

"AHA!" said Emerson.

"I've got first and last watch," said Hars. "Gallows, you're second. Then Emerson, Thane, and Hemingway."

"Watch for WHAT!?" said Emerson.

"You don't fancy the idea of somebody sneaking up on us in the night, do you?" Yexhill replied.

"WHO!? Some toothless old prune from town? Gonna GUM us to death in our sleep, is he?"

"Stranger things have been known to happen in Bephal," said Harrison as he got up to take first watch. He walked toward the door, but Gallows' sudden call stopped him.

"Do you like surprises, Mr. Blackshear?" said the mage. Gallows turned to look at Hars.

"I can't say that I do," Harrison said slowly... clearly suspicious. "Why?"

"That creature you introduced us to in Montfort... the one you wanted me NOT to kill... is waiting outside. Hanging upside-down above the door. Listening to us."

Everyone turned to look at the door. They all saw it at once:

Nothing.

"You tellin' us you can see through walls now?" said Thane.

"No," Gallows replied. "I can't." He went back to baptizing his arrows without another word.

"Well let it in!" said Emerson. "hee, hee, hee..." He drew his knife and, instead of approaching the door... silently backed away into the far corner. Then he signaled to Harrison to open the door.

"Don't do anything stupid," said Hars. "Or ye'll answer to me." He opened the door. There was nothing outside but cold air and the bright, almost-full moon.

Then, seemingly from nowhere, J'Hasp dropped out of the darkness and touched the ground for barely an instant before bounding past Hars and springing into the cabin. The creature came to a halt in the middle of the floor, where it rested in a low crouch with its head tilting slightly to one side.

Hars glanced at Emerson... and then did a double-take. Emerson wasn't there.

The thief had silently climbed up the wall... and the instant Harrison's eyes fell on him, Emerson leapt for J'Hasp like a tiger springing for prey.

"Emerson-" Hars' order remained half-uttered.

J'Hasp's head swiveled at an odd angle, then his bony arms shot out. In a move that was at once graceful and comical, J'Hasp snatched the flying Emerson out of the air and slammed him to the floor-

WHAM!

Emerson absorbed the impact with his back and shoulders. He rolled to his feet and spun-

-only to be yanked off of his feet by J'Hasp's prehensile tail. The tail was wrapped tightly around his ankles, and Emerson was now looking into J'Hasp's eyes...hanging upside down not one foot away from the creature's face.

"GOTCHA!" said Emerson, smiling.

-click-

The sound was the latch of Gallows' crossbow as he slid a bolt into place. He held the weapon to J'Hasp's head, with less than an inch separating the creature's skull from the tip of the bolt. The metal tip was pulsing with magic...an angry shade of red.

"You'll be letting him go now," said Gallows calmly.

WHUMP!

Emerson hit the floor, head-first.

"...ouch..."

"You okay, little brother?" said Hemingway.

"Uhhh..." Emerson sat up and rubbed his bruised skull. "Ye-"

shhh-LING!

In one, fluid motion, Harrison's blades slid free of their scabbards and sliced toward Emerson... halting only when their razor-sharp edges were resting against the skin of his neck. It happened so fast that nobody except Harrison himself saw it coming.

Emerson gulped... lightly. A more involved motion would have slit his own throat against Hars' blades.

"No more stupid games, lad," said Hars. "Not tonight. Not ever. Ya hear me?"

"Y-Yes sir."

Harrison's blades didn't budge as he turned his stern frown toward Gallows.

"Put that thing away before he shoves it down your throat," Harrison growled.

Gallows lowered his weapon at took two steps back away from J'Hasp.

In another quick, fluid motion, Hars's blades were back in their scabbards. Emerson exhaled a loud sigh of relief.

"So what does he want NOW?" Harrison asked J'Hasp. "Or is he just checking to make sure we're all present and accounted for..."

J'Hasp sniffed... looked at each member of the Night's Bloom... and sniffed again.

"Just a head-count, looks like," said Yexhill Thane.

"And I almost had mine REMOVED for it!" said Emerson, to which no one was paying a bit of attention.

"We're all here," said Hars. "Any orders?"

"Make quiet," said J'Hasp. "Master call when need."

"Yeah, yeah," Harrison dismissed the creature's orders with a wave of his hand. "I know."

"Why men camp here?" J'Hasp asked.

"What?" said Thane.

"What's wrong with this place?" said Hars.

J'Hasp lowered his head and sniffed at the floor like an animal. He was sniffing the same spot that Gallows has found 'interesting' when they'd first arrived.

J'Hasp growled.

"What is it about that piece of floor?" said Hemingway.

"J'Hasp smell bad."

"Yes, you ARE rather ripe!" Emerson injected. J'Hasp hissed at him. "Oh, he understood that!"

"That thing's not as dumb as it seems..." said Hemingway. "I wonder just how smart it is... can you read, little fella?" Hemingway reached into his pack and pulled out a rather large and dusty book. He held it out to the creature. "Words? Poems?"

"POEMS!!?" said Thane.

"And what's wrong with a little literature!" Hemingway said defensively.

"J'Hasp go..." said J'Hasp. The creature slunk slowly out of the cabin, eyeing Hemingway with every step. Once outside, the creature quickly trotted toward the trees where it became lost in the night's shadows.

"Well?" said Thane, looking expectantly at Gallows.

"What... you want me to go and kill it now?" said the assassin. There was undisguised eagerness in his voice... but it hadn't quite made it to his face yet.

"The Floor!?" said Emerson.

"Oh, that," said Gallows. "Something died there."

"Ohhhh, wonderful. How many people have you beheaded here, Hars?"

"T'wasn't me, lad."

"Long time ago," said Gallows. "The traces are very old; I'm surprised the creature could still smell it."

"That's just great," said Emerson. "Not just a run-down cabin in the woods... but a HAUNTED run-down cabin in the woods!"

"Nobody said anything about ghosts," said Thane. "Right, Hars?"

"I've been comin' here for years and never felt so much as a cold spot. I'm taking watch... I suggest the rest of you get some sleep."

"Yeah," said Emerson. "We have a loooong day of SITTING HERE ON OUR ASSES tomorrow."

Harrison shook his head and walked out, slamming the door behind him.

---

Floyd burst into Casey's room... and was immediately driven back into the hall by the horrible stench that roared into his face as soon as the door opened.

"GAAGH!" Floyd covered his mouth and nose. His eyes squeezed shut against the stinging hot wind. "AAGH! FRANCESCA!"

"Father!" his daughter called from inside. Dear gods, how could she STAND it in there!? "Father, come here!"

Floyd steeled his stomach... which had been caught unawares the first time... and pushed himself forward.

The stench enveloped him like a shroud.

He breathed it... breathed it again... and found that, with concentration, he could *barely* stand it.

He entered the room, coughing and wiping the tears from his eyes.

"Good gods, Francesca," he said. "What-"

Then he saw.

Casey.

Casey's bed was empty. The sweat-soaked sheets were balled up at the foot of the bed. But Casey was not missing... no, he was right there.

Floating four feet above the mattress... slowly rotating like a chicken roasting on a spit over an open fire.

The boy was still conscious. His eyes were wide open, and he was talking... but not to Francesca or Floyd. A steady stream of words gushed from his mouth, but none of them were in any language that Floyd could understand. It all sounded like gibberish... yet it was very insistent gibberish. The boy was almost shouting.

"Father, DO something!" said Francesca. She had relegated herself to a corner of the room; her hands stretched toward her son.

Floyd just watched.

He wanted to do something. He HAD to do something. But his mind was drawing a complete blank. His jaw hung slack as he watched the boy levitate above the bed, babbling incoherently.

And then some of the words... every third or fourth or fifteenth... started to make sense. Floyd's mind picked them out of the constant stream of nonsense and put them together.

He backed away.

The words. What they were saying...

"No..." he said. "No, It can't be..."

"...father..."

"Gods, make it stop!" Floyd screamed. "MAKE IT STOP!"

Floyd nearly backed into December and N'Doki as they arrived. Both men walked into the room as if the sight it held were the most ordinary thing in the world. Floyd felt December's icy aura behind him and spun, gasping.

"Step aside," said December. "N'Doki can help."

December glanced at N'Doki. There was a hint of a frown... enough to turn December's words into an order, rather than a mere statement of fact.

N'Doki approached the child and paused a few feet away. He grasped his staff tightly in his hand, raising it and pointing it at Casey. The necromancer's eyes lost focus as he studied the empty air surrounding the boy.

"He's a holy man, Francesca!" said Floyd. "He's going to help!"

At Floyd's words, Casey's head turned face N'Doki. The string of gibberish from Casey's lips halted, replaced by a defiant roar:

"RRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-!"

"It's a demon!" Floyd screamed. "The boy is possessed!"

"YOU ARE NOT STRONGER THAN ME!!" The thing inside Casey bellowed.

"Possessed he may be," said N'Doki. "But dis is no demon. Dere are many spirits here... and one of dem is feeding off of de odders... dey make him strong. Dis strong one has seized hold of de boy's soul."

"Help him! Please!"

"N'Doki cannot act against de strong one," said the necromancer. "But if I banish de weaker spirits, den his strength will fade."

"H-his?" said Floyd. "Who-"

"BEGONE!" he shouted as he brought his staff back to the floor. There was a distant sound... not thunder, but like an ECHO of thunder. And then-

WHUMP!

Casey dropped from the air like a stone. He hit the bed hard, actually bouncing back into the air several times. Whatever had held him suspended was now gone... but it was by no means over.

The terrible stench still hugged the room, and a steady flood of gibberish still gushed from the boy's throat.

Seeing her son fall, Francesca dashed toward the bed.

"BACK" N'Doki swept his frail, almost muscle-less arm... and knocked the woman back against the wall like a rag doll. "Dis is not over! You endanger your soul AND de boy's!"

Then, N'Doki pointed at Casey and shouted-

"RISE and DEPART!"

Something dark... a shadow without a shape... peeled away from the boy's chest. Once free, it floated to a corner of the ceiling and huddled there like a frightened pup that could not obey an order it had just been given.

It was soon joined by another... and another.

Dark, ghostly shapes poured out of Casey's body like a parade

"...so many..." said Floyd... who was on the verge of collapse. His heart pounded in his chest, and it only beat harder and faster with every spirit that rose from Casey's chest. He watched them intensely... almost as if searching for something familiar...

But when the spirits left Casey's body, they did not depart. They hung about the room like black curtains draped from the ceiling. Curtains that twisted and wailed and reached out with angry hands toward the living. Francesca and Floyd ducked down... dropping to their knees to escape the spirits. December backed toward the door, which was relatively free of them.

N'Doki stood defiantly in the middle of the dark storm, still pointing at the boy.

"RISE AND DEPART!" he shouted again, this time with more force.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!" Casey screamed. He convulsed on the bed as the flow of spirits increased. Faster and faster they came... now bursting out of Casey's skin in twos and threes.

And then they stopped.

Casey's mouth hung open... no longer a conduit for the spirits' gibberish, his mouth froze into an 'O' of shock.

"Heh, heh, heh," N'Doki chuckled. "You cannot hide from me! Now, weak one... De Child of de Spirits COMMANDS you to COME OUT and BEGONE!!!"

Casey exhaled. It wasn't a scream, or even a breath... just a sigh that brought with it a dark and foul thing from the boy's lungs. The black shape ballooned out over his head and rose up to join the other, smaller shapes near the ceiling.

Then the entire room began to shake, and all of the spirits gathered into a roiling knot of darkness.

"PROTECT YOURSELVES!" N'Doki shouted.

December backed out of the room. Floyd dropped to the floor and lay flat, pulling the screaming Francesca down with him.

The spirits attacked. They surged down from the ceiling as one black mass that encircled the necromancer and snatched him off of his feet.

N'Doki hit the wall hard enough to crack the wood... or perhaps the sound was bone and not wood... N'Doki's growl of pain was lost in the roar of the spirits, but the necromancer was not to be undone so easily. He regained his balance and shouted a string of words-

"Qyyera Booquab Phevay Meonas!"

The cloud of spirits pulled away from his, as if seeking to distance themselves from the necromancer's words. They hung loosely about him for a moment... then, roaring in rage, they converged again.

"YAAA!"

N'Doki swept his staff before him. It struck the ephemeral forms as if they were physical things... knocking several of them aside.

Then one spirit... the large one, the one that had emerged last... grabbed the staff and yanked it out of N'Doki's grasp.

Both of them... the staff AND the spirit... screamed. The spirit immediately dropped the weapon, which landed near Francesca and Floyd. Francesca reached for it, but Floyd grabbed her arm and pulled it away before she could touch it.

"No, you fool!" Floyd hissed. "It has power!"

"BAH!!" N'Doki roared. "NOW you anger me!"

N'Doki raised his hand before him... and for the briefest instant, his body seemed to flicker. He became transparent, revealing another form beneath.... the form of something with claws and sharp teeth... the emaciated image of something that belonged in a grave. The flickering halted, and when he returned to 'normal,' the necromancer's hand was glowing with an angry, crackling light. He reached out and grabbed one of the swirling spirits.

"AAAAIIIIEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeee...."

The shadowy thing howled in unholy agony at the necromancer's touch. Its 'body' convulsed and swelled... then shriveled away to nothingness, leaving only dust in N'Doki's palm.

N'Doki had destroyed it.

The other spirits immediately halted their attack.

N'Doki had actually DESTROYED one of them.

And when the spirits saw that being dead was no protection...

...when they saw that THIS one could do more than shout words of banishment, that he could actually HURT them... could KILL them, despite the fact that they were already dead...

They fled.

The spirits scattered to the four corners of the room and kept going... passing through the walls and out of the house, vanishing into the night that had spawned them.

"Is it... is it over?" Francesca squeaked tentatively as she rose from the floor. Her son, Casey, was sleeping peacefully on the bed... as if the preceding events had never happened.

"De living fear de dead," said the necromancer. "And de dead fear... N'Doki. Dis child is cleansed... for now."

"Wh-what do you mean 'for now'?" said Floyd.

"Dese spirits came here for a reason," N'Doki replied. "Dat reason drew dem here once... and it will do so again."

"But... but you can protect us... right?"

N'Doki frowned.

"Perhaps. Dese should not have had de power to do as dey did. Dere are strange forces at work here."

"Yes, but now we have forces of our own!" Floyd said, smiling. He grasped N'Doki's hands and shook them vigorously. "Thank you! Thank you very much!"

December appeared behind N'Doki and rested his hand on the necromancer's shoulder.

"We will have words now," he said calmly.

N'Doki nodded to Floyd and followed December out into the hall.

"What forces are we dealing with?" December demanded.

"De spirits came for de child. Dey will come again. Perhaps not tonight... but soon."

"What do they want with him?"

"I do not know. But de answers are here... in dis house. Dere are secrets here..."

"Could this be the reason we came?"

"No," said N'Doki. "Dis... is just a symptom of someting ELSE. Someting dat is larger dan dese spirit, dis house, and dis child."

"Symptom. And the disease?"

"We shall see soon enough, I tink." N'Doki smiled. "Soon enough..."

---

In Hemingway Shaw's dream, he was being slowly choked to death by something unpleasant... something what would have been unpleasant even if it weren't for the fact that it was trying to kill him. Trying... and having a great deal of success at the moment-

He opened his eyes and saw nothing...

He opened them AGAIN and saw the ceiling of the cabin. He stared up at the ancient wooden beams slowly yielding to rot and decay. He could almost hear them struggling to hold up the roof... groaning and shuddering under their increasingly futile task...

No. That was Emerson.

"Quiet, little brother." Hemingway nudged Emerson several times in rapid succession, having to nearly break the man's ribs to keep him from snoring. By that time, Hemingway was wide awake. He sat up and glanced at the others.

Gallows was gone, but that didn't surprise Hemingway at all. He would have been very surprised if the enigmatic mage was present.

Thane was gone as well. He was on watch. Hemingway had been dosing only lightly when Thane went outside to take his turn guarding the cabin against... whatever. He had no idea how long ago that was, but since his watch was next it didn't make much sense to try and go back to sleep. Instead, Hemingway opened his pack and pulled out a large, leather-bound book. He sat crosslegged on the floor with the tome in his lap. The remains of the fire cast just enough light to make reading ALMOST possible. Hemingway took a miniature oil lamp from his pack and sat it beside him. Then-

"Light that lamp and I'll throttle ya where ya sit," came Emerson's voice. He sounded only half asleep. "Hard enough to sleep out here without you lighting the place up like a circus tent."

"You've slept in plenty of circus tents, little brother," Hemingway retorted. "And you didn't seem to have any problem sleeping a second ago."

"Both of you be quiet." Harrison growled from across the room.

"Oh. Sorry." Hemingway put the book and the lamp back in his pack. He stared at the fire for a few moments, then got up and pulled on his clothes. Since he was awake, he may as well relieve Thane early. Hemingway grabbed his hammer and slipped outside.

The moon cast almost as much light into the clearing as the fire did in the cabin. He spotted Thane immediately. The man stood near the trees, and had assumed an odd and uncomfortable-looking position with both hands and one leg extended so as to resemble a crippled bird. Despite the difficulty of keeping balance in such a stance, Thane was as still as a statue. Then... he moved. With a slow and deliberate motion, he swept his arms together while lowering his leg... his entire body flowing like smoke from one stance to another.

Hemingway shut the door quietly behind him and watched. Thane flowed through several positions... some of which resembled traditional fighting stances, while others were bizarre challenges to balance and flexibility. Thane seemed to pass each challenge almost flawlessly-

Whap!
Whap!
Whap!

Hemingway's eyes widened at the suddenness of Thane's fists. Three punches in such rapid succession that the sleeves of his shirt snapped loudly against his forearms. A kick followed them... and then more punches as Thane spared with an invisible opponent. Or several opponents. Thane's fists, fingers, and feet struck with such precision that Hemingway could almost SEE the imaginary enemies. Thane blocked their attacks and returned with his own... doing so with speed, power and grace that was almost beautiful.

In the end, when Thane had mowed down at least six or seven imaginary attackers, the warrior clasped his hands together before him and bowed deeply... in six different directions... showing respect to the foes he'd just defeated.

It was only then that Hemingway noticed that Thane's eyes had been closed the entire time.

"Bravo!" Hemingway clapped loudly as he stepped out into the clearing. "Very well done!"

Thane looked up suddenly. There was a hint of fear... then guilt... both of which quickly faded into Thane's usual look of boredom laced with anxiety.

"You shouldn't sneak up on people," said Thane.

"Didn't realize I WAS sneaking," said Hemingway. "...although, I'm sure Blackshear would be quite interested in how you kept watch with your eyes closed."

"There's nothing out here to watch. I figured I may as well practice."

"You're quite good," said Hemingway.

"I know."

"Most people ignore the word 'art' in 'martial arts.' You aren't one of them. With a little polish, you could even be a performer."

"I 'perform' every time I fight."

Hemingway nodded, considering Thane's words. He stepped away from the door and joined Thane in the clearing.

"Just meeting you... seeing you practice just now... I never would have figured you for the killing type," said Hemingway. "You don't have that predatory air about you like Blackshear or Gallows or Emerson."

"You either," Thane replied as Hemingway approached.

"Man's got to make a living. I'm here to make sure my brother's living doesn't get him killed. And perhaps pick up a few spare coins myself in the process."

"Didn't see you doing much to protect your brother's head when Hars was about to sever it from his neck," said Thane.

"Emerson needed a lesson. He came close to learning it, I think. Maybe. His head is rather hard at times."

"Lesson almost got him killed," said Thane.

"No, I don't think so. I trust Blackshear."

"I don't," said Thane. "Him OR that creature we're taking orders from now. Best not to trust anyone in this line of work." Thane assumed a relaxed ready-stance... a precursor to more imaginary combat.

"And what line of work would that be?" said Hemingway. "I don't think its the same one as the rest of us."

Thane looked away from Hemingway, fixing his eyes on a spot directly in front of him. His hands clenched into fists... his stance became less relaxed.

"I'm here for the gold, just like everyone else."

"That's the funny thing about this group," said Hemingway. "We all say we're in it for the money, but none of us really are... are we."

"Your brother's greedy enough for all of us combined thrice over."

"Aye, you've got a point there."

Thane glanced at Hemingway, who was standing just a few feet away.

"Are you going to stand back or do you want to get hit?"

Hemingway nodded and took a step back. Thane watched him... then abandoned his ready-stance and turned toward Hemingway.

"How would you like to do me a favor?" said Thane.

"And what favor do you trust me enough to perform for you?"

"A simple one. Hit me with that hammer you're holding."

Hemingway gave him a quizzical look.

"Go ahead," said Thane... returning to his ready-stance, this time facing Hemingway. "If you can."

"It's YOUR head," said Hemingway, smiling. He drew his weapon and... when any other man would have spent a second to adjust his grip or map out a strategy... Hemingway simply swung the heavy hammer in a downward arc toward Thane's head.

Grinning, Yexhill Thane side-stepped the swing and leapt over Hemingway's leg, which had shot out to trip him. Yexhill struck at Hemingway's exposed side... but the large man was just out of range of Thane's fist. Thane followed with an axe-kick to Hemingway's head. Hemingway blocked the supposedly surprise move and swung the hammer again... not in a single strike this time, but a barrage of powerful swings that wove the deadly implement back and forth in the air like a needle threading a design into cloth.

Thane backed away... not a clumsy retreat, but with quick, measured steps that kept him out of the hammer's path, yet close enough to strike when the moment presented itself.

The moment came.

Thane's left arm intercepted Hemingway's in the middle of a downward swing.... while his right fist jabbed for Hemingway's gut. Hemingway's large body twisted away from the blow while his left foot hooked around Thane's ankle, sweeping the man off of his feet. Thane didn't just fall... he THREW himself to the ground, performing a backward-roll and coming up-

WHOOOSH!

-just an instant too quick for Hemingway's hammer to connect. Thane drove one fist into Hemingway's side, actually landing the punch this time. Hemingway felt the blow despite the thick layer of muscle. He'd have a nasty bruise there the next day, but for NOW it made little difference. Still, Hemingway backed away... and Thane came after him with a series of punches and kicks... obviously thinking that he had Hemingway on the run. But they had merely traded places; this time it was Hemingway who was biding his time, looking for an opening.

When no opening came by the time Thane had backed him up almost to the trees... Hemingway created his own. He turned his left shoulder toward Thane and charged... shrugging off two punches and ducking under a kick just to get close enough. The hammer came at an upward angle, straight for Thane's jaw. The fighter easily blocked the strike-

But Hemingway's charge continued unabated. His massive shoulder caught Thane in the face, knocking him back. But what started as a stumbling step became a front-snap kick that tagged Hemingway in the chin. Thane followed the kick with another... and another, forcing Hemingway back yet again. Thane moved in closer, switching to combinations of kicks and punches... exactly as Hemingway figured he would.

The hammer came up suddenly. Thane prepared to block and counterattack in one fluid motion. The hammer suddenly changed direction. Thane's block hit nothing, and his counter-attack... a hard backfist strike... struck the flat side of Thane's hammer.

Thane winced as his bare knuckles hit the cold iron, leaving a small bloody streak on the surface.

Meanwhile, Hemingway's fist pounded into the fighter's gut, just below the chest. The air flew from Thane's lungs as the punch literally threw him back.

He landed, and immediately flipped to his feet... already kicking. The side-kick caught Hemingway in the stomach. There was very little pain or damage from THAT kick, but the string of kicks that followed it traced a successively more painful trail up his torso, until finally Thane's boot found Hemingway's chin again.

-CRACK!-

Stunned, Hemingway staggered back. Instinctively he swung his hammer before him. Thane ducked under the weapon... perhaps allowing it to get closer than he realized.... and continued his attack. He drove his uninjured fist into Hemingway's solar plexus while tripping him. Hemingway grabbed Thane as he fell, but instead of pulling the man down with him, he only succeeded in ripping Thane's shirt off.

Hemingway landed on his back.... holding his hammer in one hand and Thane's shirt in the other.

Thane's fist followed him down. A powerful downward-punch aimed at Hemingway's throat.

The punch halted a half-inch away from Hemingway's adam's apple. The blow would have killed him if it had landed.

Hemingway looked up into Thane's face... and didn't like what he saw. He saw a man who didn't really care for the idea of pulling punches. A man who would rather this fight have ended with one of them dead... and it really didn't matter WHICH one.

"Thane?" said Hemingway. "What are you doing?"

"Huh?" Thane jerked, as if snapping out of a trance. He unclenched his fist and held it out to help Hemingway up. "Just working off some energy."

"You were doing a fine enough job of that before I came along," said Hemingway. He let Thane help him up.

"A man gets tired of imaginary opponents," Thane replied. "Needs the real thing every once in a while."

"Not TOO real," said Hemingway.

Thane smiled. It was a fake smile.... the kind of smile one uses to hide the deepest of painful scowls.

"Well fought," Thane said after a pause.

"Now THAT'S interesting," said Hemingway, pointing to the large black mark on Thane's shoulder. It was covered by his shirt, but now that said shirt was in Hemingway's hand, it was plainly visible. Hemingway leaned in to get a closer look, and saw that the 'mark' was actually part of a tattooed design that stretched down Thane's spine. The design almost looked like a-

"Never mind that." Thane snapped, snatching his shirt back and twisting away from Hemingway's glance.

"No, no, I think I've seen something like that before-"

"I doubt it," said Thane. He slipped his shirt back on. The garment was torn, but it still covered what Thane obviously felt needed covering: his back and shoulders.

"You'd be surprised," said Hemingway. "We circus-folk tend to get around a fair bit. You wouldn't BELIEVE the things I've seen."

"Well you haven't seen THAT." said Thane in his most obvious 'drop the subject' tone. "It's personal."

"Ah," Hemingway shrugged.

"So I'm guessing the reason you came out here it to relieve me?"

"Aye. Good luck sleeping in there. Between the nightmares and the snoring..." Hemingway shook his head.

"Snoring doesn't bother me," said Thane as he walked toward the cabin. "And nightmares... I've had so many that they're like old friends now."

"Really?" Hemingway said softly... with Thane out of earshot. "Somehow... I believe that."

Thane entered the cabin, leaving Hemingway to his own thoughts and suspicious... of which there were many.

And above him, perched on the edge of the cabin's rooftop, Gallows looked down on him with the same studied glare with which he'd watched Thane. Gallows' crossbow...loaded and ready... rested lightly in his gloved hands.

"Hmph..." Gallows sniffed. "Amateurs."

---

Spencer looked out at the tombstones and frowned.

He hated cemeteries.

That made his choice of occupation all the more ironic. Still, as caretaker, he at least had the opportunity to make the place seem a bit less repulsive. He kept the grounds tended and the weeds at bay as much as he could... and in a way, the place seemed more like a big garden than a cemetery.

A garden of stones. Tombstones.

But there wasn't much he could do about THAT. Tombstones had to be there, or else nobody would know which graves were which.

Although, he supposed that the dead knew where they were... and that was good enough for them.

"Heh!" Spencer chuckled at his own thoughts as he walked out among the stones. The darkness didn't really bother Spencer all that much. The moon was up and he had his lamp... and the general creepiness of the place tended to fade after the first few hours of night.

What DID bother him was grave-robbers.

There hadn't been much of that going on lately, which meant that maybe he was about due. He'd heard the noises earlier... a thumping, rustling, bumping sound. He took his time finding his shoes, lamp, and sword. Spencer was no swordsman and he didn't fancy dying on the sharp end of some depraved rogue's blade this night. So, once the sounds had halted for a good, long time, he had gone out to take a look.

He knew about where it was... in the fresh section, near where he'd dug Mrs. Pendleton's plot earlier.

SURELY some idiot wasn't trying to rob a grave before there was even a BODY in it!? Spencer didn't put anything past people these days.

He found the empty plot much as he'd left it. Nothing had been disturbed that he could tell, and there weren't any footprints or signs of tampering.

"Maybe I imagined it," Spencer said with a shrug. He often talked to himself. Mostly because he was usually the only other person around. "Oh, well..."

Between the time Spencer turned around and when he'd taken his first step... it happened.

He didn't know where it came from, but there it was.. strong as ever in the dead-center front of his mind.

Check the grave.

Check the empty grave.

"Uhhhh... hmmm..."

Spencer walked over to the rectangular hole and looked down.

"Well, now..." he said. "That's a deep one. Certainly don't remember it being that deep when I dug it."

Spencer leaned forward and held his lamp over the hole. He SHOULD have been able to see the bottom... but all he saw was darkness. The sides of the grave went on and on and on... straight down... until he couldn't see anything any more. Getting down on his knees didn't help any. Neither did leaning WAAAAY over and turning the lamp's light up as far as it would go.

Nothing.

It was as if the bottom had dropped out of the grave, leaving a rectangular hole that went all the way to... to HELL, as far as he knew.

"Well," said Spencer. "THIS looks like something I'd better take a closer look at.... in the morning."

Spencer stood up, and in the process of doing so he caught a glimpse of something in the hole. A movement.

"Huh?"

Spencer leaned over the hole, squinting into the darkness.

He saw it again. In fact, he got a good, CLEAR view of it as the thing shot up out of the dark toward him.

"AAAAAA!!"

Spencer turned. Spencer ran. But, despite the terror in his stride... he was nowhere NEAR fast enough...

---

Rooftop to rooftop, shadow to shadow, J'Hasp moved like a dream of quicksilver through the town, keeping his eyes open and his nose in the wind. There were many things to see hear and smell in the town of Bephal... but most of them were of no interest. He had been here before, after all... although his rudimentary grasp of 'time' wouldn't allow him to know how long ago. Two years was very much like yesterday to J'Hasp.

Some things had changed in that indeterminate time since his last prowl through Bephal. There was less fear. Fear was a scent, and that scent was noticeably weaker now. But then, MOST human scents were weaker. There weren't as many people here. And those few that remained gave off a collective scent not of fear... but of age, ruin, and despair.

Quiet Hopelessness.

Hopelessness was a scent, too... and it had replaced fear as the dominant scent of Bephal. J'Hasp had no idea why that would be... nor had he the words to explain or describe it. It was simply another semi-tangible trait of the atmosphere that he inhaled and exhaled with each breath.

The buildings in Bephal were mostly the same. More of them were empty now. Just crouching on a rooftop for a second was more than enough to detect the sharp, dusty smell of abandonment. J'Hasp would remember which buildings were empty... just as he remembered that many of these same structures were inhabited last time. He recalled the place that had always smelled of spiced apples before... and was saddened when he found it empty as well. J'Hasp was unusually fond of spiced apples. He paused for a moment to inhale the lingering remnants of scents from long ago... and then leapt to the next rooftop.

The roof creaked noisily when he landed, but by the time the old man came out to investigate, J'Hasp was three buildings away... turning back briefly to look at the man (familiar, but not important) and then darting down into the shadows.

It was there, crouching in the darkness between an empty building and an occupied house... that he heard the sound.

Someone screaming. A man. East. Pain. Fear.

J'Hasp scurried around the back of the house and darted through the half-empty neighborhood toward the old cemetery.

Bephal had lots of cemeteries.

So many that the scent of them... cemeteries had a distinctive scent... had bled over into the rest of the town. That effect was more marked now, for some reason. As if the cemeteries were like living things that had grown too large for their walls and were now spilling out into the streets.

The scream came again. Louder. It ended suddenly, in that odd, final way that usually meant that the screamer had been violently deprived of its ability to continue screaming.

J'Hasp paused. Continue and investigate? Yes. He continued, veering toward a building and scrambling up to the roof, where he could perch and examine the space between him and the cemetery walls. Nothing there. No sights. No sounds. No scents.

J'Hasp leapt to the next rooftop and checked again.

There.

He smelled something.

Faint traces of scents from the cemetery. J'Hasp's primal mind sorted and identified them with mechanical precision: Human, male, unbathed and afraid. Human, blood, fresh. Human, death... recent?

And there was another not so easily identified. Something mingled with the decaying smell of the cemetery... almost as if the scent itself was HIDING, using the other smells around it as cover.

It smelled... wrong.

MASTER would want to know about it.

J'Hasp leapt from the rooftop and soared through the air toward the cemetery. Even his powerful limbs weren't enough to propel him the entire distance, but that wasn't necessary. He landed two yards away from the crumbling stone wall. By the time the dirt kicked up by his landing began to settle, J'Hasp was up and over the boundary, crouching just inside the cemetery grounds and peering out at the rows of headstones.

Like a prism splitting light, J'Hasp's nose split the strange smell into several distinct scents... only some of which were identifiable. One of them was most certainly magic.

Magic had a smell. Every type of magic had its own scent... and every spellcaster's workings had subtle, unique variations of that scent. What J'Hasp smelled now was familiar. It reminded him of N'Doki's magic: reeking of electricity, sulphur and rotting flesh. It was not N'Doki's doing, but it was something... similar?

J'Hasp darted between the headstones, winding his way closer to the source of the scent. The closer he got, the stronger and more repulsive it became...

...yet it was still not strong enough for a human nose to even detect a whiff.

J'Hasp waited to see what other things he could identify. When no further answers swam up from his animal mind, he continued. His senses told him that there was nothing around to see him, yet he remained hidden anyway. If anyone WERE there, they would only have caught flashes of his pale body among the headstones as he wove his way among them... inching ever-closer to.... to whatever it was.

Halt.

Another scent leapt out of the darkness.

Strange... what would rotting plants be doing here? Sometimes humans left dead plants on the graves, but this was not that smell. This was something else. Very strange.

Continue.

Finally, J'Hasp got as close as he could. He leaned out from behind a large, crumbling monument and peered across the dark, flat ground. J'Hasp's eyes gleamed in the moonlight...

There was a hole.

A fresh grave yawned open not ten yards away... and it reeked of scents that did not belong in a cemetery. Not in a NORMAL cemetery. But something had obviously made its home here. The magic was strong... as was the smell of fresh human death.

The scream had come from here.

Even without the blood on the ground, J'Hasp would have known. There was no body, but there were several narrow grooves in the fresh dirt, all in a line that lead into the grave. There were ten of them.

Ten fingers clawing at the soil as something dragged their owner down...

J'Hasp sprinted to the next tombstone. He didn't get any closer to the grave, but he did get another angle... and another.... and another...

He completely circled the foul hole, pausing at every opportunity to test the sights, sounds, and scents surrounding him. Nothing changed. Nothing moved.

Only then did J'Hasp dare approach it in the open.

The hole was deep... much deeper than a grave should be. The moonlight shone directly into it, yet it did not reveal the bottom. And if J'Hasp's sharp eyes could not see it, then the hole must have been very deep indeed.

J'Hasp crouched on the edge and stuck his nose into the column of scents rising out of the monstrous pit. Aside from magic and death, nothing he smelled was remotely familiar.

The rest of J'Hasp's senses were equally alert... eyes and ears... even his feet.

His feet told him it was coming.

They felt the vibration of something large moving deep under the ground. Moving quickly, yet silently, as if sneaking into position....

That was the warning.

The sudden explosion of movement came an instant later, but J'Hasp had already leapt backward away from the hole.

Unfortunately, he underestimated the thing. The tentacle that emerged was faster than he was, and, despite the fact that it had no eyes, it knew exactly where J'Hasp was at the instant that it struck. The foot-thick coil of muscle lashed out like a whip, wrapping around J'Hasp while he was still airborne from his leap.

Then, with a tremendous YANK, it sucked the creature straight down into the hole.

Three seconds later, J'Hasp exploded out of the open grave with teeth and claws bared. His claws trailed strings of shredded flesh as they sought purchase in the loose soil. They found it...

...and it found him.

The tentacle came again, encircling J'Hasp like the coils of a snake. The thing's muscles contracted-

but instead of the crackle of breaking bones, J'Hasp merely squealed in anger. J'Hasp's bones were made to bend, not break. And with a series of jerks, J'Hasp dislocated several of his major joints, allowing enough motion for his upper body to slip free of the creature's grasp.

His legs were still trapped. Not for long.

J'Hasp's claws carved furrows down the side of the convulsing tentacle. More strips of flesh peeled away, and the wounds spurted a thick substance that was not blood. The tentacle shuddered, but did not release him.

It was pulling him back toward the grave.

The claws dug deeper... not slicing, but anchoring themselves in the monster's muscle. J'Hasp applied a strength that belied his small, flimsy frame. He pulled... his legs and tail came free.

The tentacle uncoiled and lifted high into the air... then came down like a giant arm-

WHAM!

It hit the ground where J'Hasp's running form had been an instant ago. Several of the tombstones fell over... knocked loose by the thunderous impact. J'Hasp sprang over the tentacle, but the tip of it curled up ward and sliced across his path unexpectedly-

SNAP!

The blow knocked J'Hasp backward... but it cost the creature more flesh as J'Hasp claws took another chunk out of the wildly flailing appendage. J'Hasp darted in another direction. The tentacle swung after him, but it was too slow...

The ground shuddered and heaved upward in front of J'Hasp. He veered away as more tentacles exploded from the soil before him. These new tendrils were smaller and quicker. There were dozens of them, and they reached out like a net, ensnaring J'Hasp before he could get away.

Clawed hands and feet tore through the 'net' like razors... sending chunks of gore flying in all directions as...

...as another tendril slowly rose up from the grave. This one was smaller than the first, but larger than the others. And it ended in a long, needle-like tip that dripped a clear fluid as it descended toward the struggling J'Hasp.

J'Hasp's tail wiggled out of the nest of tentacles and caught the latest arrival before it could strike. The two appendages wrestled in the air like snakes, but the creature had the advantages of size, strength and leverage. It forced its way through J'Hasp's tail and darted downward. J'Hasp twisted away-

-the needle-like tip sank into the dirt. J'Hasp's claws immediately ripped into the tentacle, shredding whatever portion of it was within reach.

Then the FIRST tentacle... all but forgotten in struggle... slammed into him-

WHUMP!

It was a blow that should have shattered bones and ended the fight... but all it did was knock the wind out of J'Hasp's lungs, stunning him.

It was enough.

The needle pulled out of the soil and, before J'Hasp could regain his breath, it stabbed him in the chest... piercing his flesh and pricking his heart with the slightest scratch.

The poison took effect instantly. J'Hasp's heart relaxed... simply refusing to beat as hard or as fast as it had been an instant before. The poison quickly spread... radiating outward from his thin chest, robbing J'Hasp of all motion, but not his senses. He felt the tendrils wrap around him and pull him slowly... almost lazily... toward the open grave. When he reached the edge, he fell in and vanished...

...and suddenly everything smelled like spiced apples.

[To Be Continued]