The Price of Victory

Her thoughts drifted to the past when one named "The Shadowed" had been her pursuer. Tel'Halda had become an ally in the end. He had warned her of the coming evil and had provided vital information. As a result Regeas had struck him down as well. Few had noticed among the turmoil that had been surrounding the Glade.

Her thoughts turned now to Khalin. Something in the events of last night had caused his old cursed wound to re-open. Yet another worry for her in what seemed like an unending assault. Still the worst threat to her was passed and gone.

She said a short prayer to the goddess Dana to watch over and protect all the friends that had come to her side at her time of need. That done she rolled over in her bed and dreamed peacefully. The nightmares were over.

He tried to ease his leg back into the position it had been in before he startled, but doing so only caused more pain. The blood had saturated the bandages and tourniquet and had formed a growing pool of blood beneath him. He carefully pulled off the crimson bandage, wincing as it slowly tore from the wound.

The drow thought back to the day near the Moonglow cemetery — back to the day when he received the wound. He hadn't been able to recall the face of his attacker for some time after that. But now he was certain that it was the same inhuman murderer from his nightmares. The nightmares themselves had a certain quality about them that made him sure that they were not just the stuff of mad dreams... there was something tangible and horrifying about them. And the normally stoic drow held a quiet terror at the thought.

Khalin Wael shifted uncomfortably. He had done what he could to prevent the bleeding from his leg, but the hardwood floor had already begun to drink up the blood — there would probably be a permanent stain. He double-checked the tourniquet to make sure that it was tight. The bleeding had not totally stopped, but it would have to do. He leaned back on the wall behind him, hoping to drift back to sleep despite the stabbing sensation he still felt in his leg. And he prayed that he would not dream... but inevitably, he knew he would. And as he finally succumbed to exhaustion, his thoughts turned back to the events in the crypts...

His eyes continued to scan the floor and became transfixed on the red-robed corpse at the edge of the circle. Walking over to it, he drew the blade at his side. He stabbed tentatively at the body, the bone-hewn sword piercing fabric and skin easily. Using the flat of the blade he manipulated the chin, turning the head and opening the mouth to get a good look. He stared for a moment at the rotted teeth, recognizing them instantly. So, Maletite, you've finally met your end. Without emotion, the man knelt down in front of the corpse, examining it more closely.

The edge of the blade traced the gaping wound across Regeas Maletite's midsection. The man reached up at the cowl over his face and pulled it back. He shook his head, freeing his long red hair and leaning in on the corpse. He ran a hand across his thick beard and narrowed his eyes. This should not have killed him. Unless...

The bone blade went back into its scabbard. The man stretched his hands out, palms down, suspended over the corpse. He closed his eyes and began to recite his ancient ritual. The corpse quivered for just a moment under the power of his spell, and then the man opened his eyes. He looked down at the corpse, unimpressed. Nothing. He retains none of the ancient power. He stood up, taking one last glance at the remains of Regeas. You always were the upstart, Maletite. Never able to comprehend the lessons the rest of us learned long before you were created. Clinging to your old druidic ways, when you should have been focusing on what had been given you. Now you've paid the price for your single-mindedness.

Then, without warning, a phantasm appeared. The man glared at it, a sinister grin coming to his face. The spirit wailed out a torturous cry, and the man recognized it instantly.

"No, Regeas... you've forged your own fate. There is no redemption for you here. No release." The man caught a flicker of motion in the corner of his eye. There, in the corner of the room, a translucent horror was manifesting. He scanned the darkened crypt more carefully. He thought he saw more flickers of movement.

The spirit of Regeas continued its wailing, its noise grating against even the callous ears of the man. But the man was concentrating on other things. He reached into a pouch on his side, and pulled out the skull of an imp. Uttering words of power, the man held the artifact up while the eye sockets of the skull cast an eerie greenish glow that filled the room. And with the illumination, came the true sight.

The room was filled with forms — malevolent, spectral forms. The man scanned the room; there were ten of them lurking. They are all here for this occasion. A macabre reunion.

One of the forms moved toward the man, and for a brief instant, the two recognized one another. Then it spoke in a repulsive, unnatural voice. "Baal’morda has forsaken him. He is ours now." The question left no opportunity for debate... not that the man cared at all for the soul of the druid.

The man turned to the spirit of Regeas Maletite and addressed it for the final time. "The pact was broken druid. You are one of us no longer. Your soul now belongs to the Seekers."

He watched the Seekers move quietly toward the spirit for just an instant before the imp's skull was placed back into the pouch at his side. As their images faded, he watched them draw their blades — spectral blades as dark as pitch — and close in on the druid. The sinister presence backed out of the room and made his way out of the Yew Crypts. He could hear the soul of Regeas Maletite screaming the entire way.