The location in which the ritual was to be performed had to satisfy specific requirements.

  The duke regarded himself as fortunate that the site lay not far from the boundary of his own lands. But they did need to practice a modicum of discretion, as the site lay within the Barony of Dhozney, the domain of his deceased son-in-law. This, of course, was why he had to be killed. Tolthurdine couldn’t risk Harald being informed of unsanctioned activity and ongoing incursions into his territory. The dullard might have interfered with disastrous results. Tolthurdine’s great enterprise was now decidedly more secure. Still, he reminded himself to be especially circumspect when mentioning the late baron now that Lantalus was here. It would not do for the man’s son to harbor suspicions...

  The knob was devoid of vegetation except for some pale grasses and heather. Crowning it was a double ring of towering menhir: large, ancient, crudely wrought stones erected by a forgotten race in a bygone age. One smaller circle of the jagged monuments was concentrically nested inside a larger circle. When Tolthurdine first visited the site there had been the remains of a dolmen in the middle, long sundered into large chunks and collapsed by some unknown calamity. But he had paid to have it surreptitiously rebuilt. Now the megalithic structure squatted in the center of the circle, forbidding and enigmatic, keeping the secrets of its innate geomancy to itself.

  It was Ivar who had located the site for him, assuring him it would admirably serve his purposes. According to the wizard’s charts, a convergence of three ley lines occurred here. Discovering the existence of the menhir when he arrived at the sight only served to confirm it; the ancients had recourse to lore that had long been lost to time.

  Tolthurdine did not know if he imagined it or not, but as he ascended the hill the very air felt charged; there was a palpable aura of expectant power. The ground beneath his feet seemed to throb just on the edge of perception. He was treading on ground that, if not sacred, was hardly the usual inert soil and rock to which he typically gave no thought. He smiled in contentment for the first time in years; this was going to work.

  This is where it would happen. This is where his plans would finally bear fruit. He beckoned over his captain of the guard, ignoring the man’s obvious discomfort. “You remember the details of your briefing?” The officer nodded and Tolthurdine continued, “Then deploy the men as instructed and set up the specimens at Ivar’s direction.”

  Specimens. That’s what he and Ivar had been calling them. It sounded better than sacrifices, a term that had certain...religious connotations that neither the nobleman nor the mage had much use for. “Specimens” accurately conveyed purpose in a neutral way. It was nicely devoid of sentiment, which was in accordance with Tolthurdine’s prevailing outlook. His sentiment was solely reserved for his son and heir. As for Ivar, the man had thus far proved to be mercifully free from morals, which was not uncommon for someone in his profession.

  Tolthurdine did not dwell much on the lives or identities of those who would be consumed to restore his son to life and vigor. Nor was he much concerned about the consequences of the disappearance of so many young men of noble blood; he knew his agents had been geographically random in their selection of candidates and had practiced discretion. It was unlikely that the families of any of them would uncover the culprit that made their sons vanish so abruptly. And even if they did, he was secure in his power. If the improbable scenario came to pass, he was confident that he could hold off any army that could be mustered against him by vengeful aristocratic families.

  As they awaited nightfall Tolthurdine had some leisure to reflect on what would soon happen, as well as how. He could grasp it now – there was a certain undeniable balance in the entire process, an overall sense of proportion that was pleasing not merely because it was fulfilling his deepest desire but because it acknowledged profound concepts deeply ingrained within and enmeshed throughout mundane existence, concepts that underpinned the fabric of the world and reinforced and complemented each other in the only way possible to create the reality of the cosmos.

  Matter, energy, the vital essence that comprised life, all manipulated via potent exertions of eldritch power would permit a great wonder to be worked here. The potential for such a great feat had been unlocked through relentless persistence and the dogged application of his intellect. It was tantamount to a god working a miracle through sheer force of will, and a testament to the devotion he had toward his son.

  And if the usually immutable laws of the physical and spiritual worlds were to be bent and molded into more accommodating forms, then this is where it must be done. And this short span of days is when it must be done, for the geographical convergence must be coupled with a celestial convergence. It had been a long wait, a vigil of years, but in that time Tolthurdine had hardly been idle. Despite many setbacks, his preparations were now complete and the undertaking would proceed. And when it was over, his son would be restored to him. He shook himself free of his reverie.

  “You know what to do!” he shouted to his men. “Get going – all must be in readiness before midnight!”

  *   *    *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

  Terchin and the others spied on the duke’s camp from the safety of the forest at the base of the hill. Hiding behind some brush at the edge of the wood, they took turns using Bulbossa’s glass. The wagons were parked side by side in a row and their contents were being unloaded. Quartets of soldiers took out long wooden boxes and carried them up the hill, where large standing stones blocked them from sight.

  Terchin, whose eyesight was not as good as it had once been, was impatiently awaiting his turn to have another peek when Bulbossa emitted a gasp.

  “By the gods!” he exclaimed. “Those aren’t boxes – those are caskets!”

  “What?!?” Terchin demanded. “All of them?”

  “They must be,” the dark man said grimly, “this abduction of young men must be an enterprise grander in scope than we assumed. There must be a score or more of them.”

  Terchin and Bulbossa looked at each other somberly but did not give voice to the fear they shared. Caskets were meant for transporting bodies...corpses.

  “What do you think they are fixing to do up there?” Deena asked.

  Terchin shook his head. “I don’t know, but the entire setup reeks of some powerful ritual to me, and it can’t be good.”

  “It matters not,” said Bulbossa. “Whatever it is, it requires our sons, so we must retrieve them before the duke does whatever he plans to do. And even if they are dead, we must deny him their use. The blood of my blood shall not be fouled by any sacrilegious ritual.”

  “Agreed,” said Terchin. “We have to make our way up there, and soon.”

  “There’s too many men!” insisted Deena.

  “And yet, I will go all the same,” Bulbossa said through gritted teeth.

  “It may not be as bad as all that,” said Terchin. “We can attempt to approach the hill from any side we choose. If they set up a cordon around the entire perimeter, they still might leave some gaps, depending on how close they are to the summit. The lower down they are stationed, the more spread out they will be.”

  “Deena, you and Kestrom should stay here,” Bulbossa said.

  “Why should I?” Kestrom said in a surly voice. “If there is killing to be done, it’s going to be done atop that hill.”

  “Because if it comes to it, you will be able to cover us with your bow.”

  “Fat lot of good a bow will be after nightfall.”

  “If the guards are carrying torches they still will be easy marks. Anyway, we may have to get out of here in a hurry. If need be, you can pick off pursuers to cover our exit – that might give them a moment’s pause at a time when every moment is crucial. And the two of you can mind the horses and make sure they are ready to go the instant they are needed.”

  The other two grudgingly acceded to this proposal, and Terchin and Bulbossa prepared themselves to infiltrate the camp. Terchin emptied his pack of unnecessary items to lessen the weight; he didn’t need anything unduly hindering his movement. He unfastened his sword belt from around his waist and adjusted it so he could sling the weapon on his back instead. Bulbossa took out a flask and withdrew its stopper.

  “Camouflage potion,” he explained. “Should last an hour. Almost as good as invisibility.”

  “You don’t have a spare in there somewhere, do you?” asked Terchin, only half in jest.

  “Sorry, mate,” the pirate shook his head. “And this means there’s not much point in us stickin’ together. You’re not going to be able to see me – unless you have the eyes of a dwarf or elf!”

  Terchin sighed. He would have preferred a way for the group to stay together, but it looked like it just wouldn’t work out that way. Still, at least he would be scaling the slope with an ally, even if they wouldn’t be acting in concert or even be in contact with each other.

  Bulbossa imbibed the potion and as it took effect he faded from view. Where he stood there was the brown, gray, and green of the forest, complete with shadows. Then the rustling of low branches betrayed movement and Terchin spotted a faint glimmer that showed the outline of Bulbossa as he moved beyond the edge of the woods. Then once more he was obscured, seemingly swallowed up by the grasses. Bulbossa could only barely be glimpsed when he moved quickly, the camouflage pattern enveloping his person slightly lagging behind as it continually adjusted itself. Terchin could see here and there where footfalls disturbed the turf, but from a distance it would be almost impossible to notice. Terchin had his own tricks up his sleeve, but none that matched this one. Fortunately, the sun had set and darkness was now stealing over the land. Terchin knew if he circled around a bit he would be cloaked by deepening shadow. That would help compensate for the lack of cover. He just hoped that the guards hadn’t brought any dogs with them.

  He chose his avenue of approach carefully. He was out of sight from the main encampment, which had about a dozen soldiers. The remainder were posted around the hill, with a pair near the top, presumably to be on hand to render any kind of assistance that the duke might require. Terchin was somewhat gratified to see that the line of men was low on the hill, so they were spread out in a very large circle, with only one man every hundred paces or so. Once he cleared the trees he got down on his belly and began to shimmy and squirm his way up the slope in the midst of the heather and tall grasses. The stalks of the plants were fortunately soft and pliable, producing no sound as he moved among them. He was glad that his sword was now on his back instead of awkwardly scraping along the ground beside him. Nonetheless, he scowled in frustration; this was going to take a while. Hopefully he had enough time. It was doubly infuriating that he knew with the aid of his magical boots he could zip up the hill in an instant. But then he would be set upon and surrounded by a score of men as soon as he stopped. Being a thief – especially a successful one – meant that long ago he had cultivated an almost serene patience when it came to stalking and sneaking, but rarely was he so acutely aware of the need for haste.

  He kept his head down low as he moved. It was easy to stay on course; all he had to do was make sure he was always going up. As he proceeded a soft twilight muted the landscape in a hushed embrace, but did not linger. Once night arrived in earnest he cautiously raised his head to see how close he was getting to the nearest soldier. The man leaned on his polearm looking out onto the landscape, his posture indicating weary disinterest. Every once in a while he would glance back at the camp as if wistfully contemplating the fire, the company, and the drink that could be found there.

  About twenty paces away Terchin heard the man suddenly shift as he became wary. Boots made a scraping sound against the earth as they pivoted. Terchin froze as he heard the man swear. Had he given himself away somehow? Or was that Bulbossa?

  His answer came as something bounded over him. Terchin turned his head to catch a glimpse of the hindquarters of a fox, bushy tail and all. It came to a brief stop, turned back to regard him with inscrutable eyes, then bolted into the darkness. Terchin heard a derisive snort as the guard concluded he had gotten alarmed over nothing. Terchin smiled grimly. The guard would doubtless become less alert than before. He just needed to give it several more minutes.

  He considered what his next move would be. He either needed to sneak by the guard without detection or neutralize him before he could raise the alarm. The former option seemed almost impossible, no matter how inattentive the guard might be. Terchin knew if he could get sufficiently near he could take the man out in an instant. He needed to close the distance quickly. With one hand he drew his dagger from his boot while the other scooped up a clod of soil and gravel. He gave it a good toss behind him.

  Terchin was rewarded with a grunt of annoyance as the guard moved down the hill to get a closer look. He smiled. Forget running up to the guard. The guard would come to him instead. He rolled onto his side and looked up, and was rewarded with the silhouette of the head of the polearm hovering over him, the guard brandishing the long weapon before him as he moved forward. When the soldier was almost on top of him Terchin sprang up like a panther and clapped one hand over the startled man’s mouth while the other hand drove the dagger into the man’s neck. The stifled shout was instantly transformed into a gurgle as Terchin twisted the blade; then he guided the body face-first onto the ground.

  He knelt beside the corpse. He removed the helmet and placed it on his own head, then stripped off the tabard that displayed the duke’s coat of arms. He swiftly took off his pack and put on the tabard, noting with satisfaction that it was not spattered with too much blood, and slung his pack back onto his shoulders. Finally he picked up the polearm from the ground. From a distance, he would look indistinguishable from the other guards. He wouldn’t dare to mingle with the men in the camp, but at least now he could dispense with creeping along the ground like a lowly serpent. To any observer he would appear as just another soldier. Hopefully, no officer would notice and challenge him as he left the dead man’s designated post.

  After confirming that no one was approaching his location he began marching directly up the hill. At the top he could see that there were two concentric rings of menhir. Each circle had the same number of standing stones and they radially aligned in pairs. The outer circle had stones slightly taller and broader, but necessarily farther apart than those in the inner circle. Once he got to the nearest menhir he ducked around it and pressed himself up against the inner face of it.

  He was surprised to see one of the caskets laid on the ground before him. The casket was placed radially, in line with a corresponding menhir near either end. The casket had sides fashioned of wood, but the top was a glass lid mounted on hinges, and it was open.

  Terchin knelt beside it to inspect the occupant. The features were hard to discern because the full moon was casting shadows from the menhir that fell across that portion of the ground, but he could tell this was a young man. More than that he could not determine, but it definitely wasn’t Oreus. After some hesitation he sniffed multiple times but detected no hint of putrefaction. Neither did he notice any sign of decay. Terchin bent his ear to the face of the still figure. He listened for the sound of breathing. He heard nothing, but when he finally marshaled the resolve to place the back of his hand across one of the young man’s cheeks he could sense a definite warmth. This was not a corpse. This lad was still alive. Doubtless, his immobile state was due either to drugs or sorcery. When the time came he would find out which.

  He sagged in relief. He had conjectured that whatever rite the duke was performing required living subjects rather than dead bodies, but he didn’t know how much of that was merely hoping on his part, wishful thinking to stave off despair.

  He began to make his way clockwise around the circle of stones, staying in between them, taking advantage of the cover they offered. He chose this direction because it would take him further from the camp below. If luck was with him, he would come upon Oreus on the side of the hill directly opposite it.

  The next body he encountered was not Oreus; neither was the next. The fourth was that of a dark-skinned lad, rather broad of shoulder, attired in light-colored silk breeches and vest. This most likely was Bhettu, Terchin guessed. He didn’t see any sign of Bulbossa – not that he would be able to anyway, with the magical potion the man had imbibed. Still, it would be wearing off at some point, if it hadn’t already. Terchin cursed the man’s lack of cooperative spirit; they should be working together! But for now he carefully noted the location in case he needed to quickly return to it; he would assist with the rescue of Bulbossa’s son if it lay within his power. Then he resumed his inspection.

  He had almost completed half the circumference of the circle when he knelt down before yet another casket and came face to face with his son. Terchin’s heart leapt as he beheld the countenance he knew so well. Though it hadn’t been that long since his departure from the city it felt like Oreus had once again been parted from him for an interval of months. The palpable relief he felt made tears come to his eyes. Struggling to keep them at bay, he let the poleaxe he had been holding fall into the soft grass and shrugged off his pack. He was about to open it when a voice sounded from behind him.

  “You there! What do you think you’re doing?”

  Cursing, Terchin jumped to his feet and whirled about. What a stroke of misfortune that he was accosted at the very moment when he let his usual preternatural awareness lapse! He was so overcome with emotion by finding his son that someone had been able to sneak up on him. The man who had taken him unawares was young, clad in fine garments. Over his heart, his doublet was embroidered with the crest of some house – not the same one as House Stahrcote. He probably was a squire. He appeared casual as if he was engaging in idle sport, yet he brandished a longsword, its menacing tip a single pace away from Terchin’s chest.

  Seeing the fierce expression on Terchin’s face, the young man assumed a more serious demeanor. This lad of noble blood was not accustomed to commoner behavior that was anything other than servile.

  “Explain yourself,” he demanded. “Why have you left your post? You will be flogged for such disobedience.”

  Fortunately, due to his sense of aristocratic entitlement the youth arrogantly deigned to handle the situation alone. Terchin had seen his type many times, the cocksure sons and daughters of lords who blithely assumed they wielded authority they had not earned. He needed to resolve this quickly though, before there was an escalation and others were drawn to the scene.

  “Your pardon, milord,” Terchin said hastily, affecting the manner of a contrite subordinate eager to please. He gestured toward Oreus. “I saw movement and thought to check –“

  “What? A likely story!” he scoffed. But the youth nonetheless took a step forward. He brushed Terchin aside and bent down for a better look.

  That was all Terchin needed. He pulled out his dagger and with one smooth motion flipped it around and brought its pommel crashing into the back of the lordling’s head. The lad immediately collapsed onto the ground. He was out cold.

  Now he really had to work fast. Terchin opened his pack and drew out a wad of cloth. He unwrapped it and amidst a clump of wool he plucked out a small vial that he had carefully packed before leaving Eskemar. It was a potion of revivification, used to awaken those under the enchantment of a magical slumber, trance, geas or any other sorcery that impeded a subject’s will, altered their consciousness or imposed a compulsion. With one hand he pulled the lower lip of Oreus down and then he carefully doled out several drops into his mouth, gently closing it again and massaging under his jaw. Then he watched closely with bated breath.

  The eyelids of Oreus flickered a few times and then they opened. At first he appeared dazed, but then confusion and wonder overwhelmed him as he stared up at the night sky. He jolted upright and Terchin hastily clapped a hand over his mouth.

  “Shhhhhh,” Terchin whispered. “Do not fear, boy. It is I, your father. Make not a sound. We are in the midst of foes.” After waiting to see the recognition register in his son’s eyes, he cautiously withdrew his hand. The two of them stared at each other for a moment, and then Terchin could no longer restrain himself. He dispensed with the composure his expertise usually lent him and clasped his boy in an embrace.

  The bout of paternal affection was brief. “No time to explain now, boy,” Terchin instructed. “First, climb out of this wretched casket. Careful! Here, let me take your arms.” Terchin steadied his son, whose limbs had yet to regain their mobility and strength, and he helped set him on his feet and then leaned him against the nearest menhir. Then he divested himself of the uncomfortable helmet he had been wearing. Next, he manhandled the unconscious squire, dragging, lifting, and then dumping the body into the casket. He arranged the limbs so they assumed the same pose that Oreus had had.

  Once that task was complete, he took off his boots. “Put these on,” he enjoined Oreus, while he pulled from his pack a spare pair of regular boots. He had brought these with him specifically for the occasion, as he had not wanted to spend the remainder of the night going barefoot. “Listen closely, we haven’t much time.” He concisely explained the magical powers of the boots, the dangers and limitations of those powers, and how to activate them. “Peak around the corner down the hill. See those trees down and to the left? I have two associates there in the woods waiting with horses. I want you to dash down there as quickly as you can. Meet up with them and wait for me. Don’t worry about finding them; they are more than capable of finding you. However, if you are spotted and followed by guards as you go down the hill then as soon as you meet them I want you to mount a horse and ride away as fast as you can. To the west.”

  As he laboriously donned the boots Oreus spoke for the first time, his voice hoarse from long disuse. “Why...why aren’t you coming with me?”

  “There’s someone else here I swore to help rescue. But I shouldn’t be long.” Then Terchin froze. He could hear voices. He guessed people had come up from the camp and were now nearly at the crest of the hill. He placed a steadying hand on Oreus’ shoulder.

  “Go,” he hissed. “Love you, son.” And before Oreus could reply he gave him a firm push to encourage his departure. He paused to watch Oreus activate the magical boots of swiftness, and in a trice he was bounding down the hill in a blur almost too fast to follow.

  He marveled over the effect of the enchanted item. “So that’s what I look like when using them.” He permitted himself a slight smile, consisting of equal parts amusement and pride. “Rather epic, if I do say so myself.”

  It looked like his son was rolling with the punches that life had dealt him. That was probably one of the most valuable lessons one could learn, and it really only could be learned from direct experience. But then Terchin heaved a sigh. This wasn’t over, not by a long shot. He began to retrace his steps back to where he had seen Bhettu, resorting once more to stealth. He wouldn’t be able to save all of these young men, but if he could assist Bulbossa in rescuing his own son, then he would indeed regard it a good night’s work.

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  *    *   *   *   *   *   *   *

  The closer the commencement of the ritual came, the more anxiety Tolthurdine felt. He hadn’t experienced such inner turmoil in years. Trepidation, excitement, hope, and consuming nervousness threatened to upend his equanimity, unmoor him and cast him adrift in a raging ocean of emotion. He didn’t think he could endure much more. His men could sense it – their liege lord, usually so stolid and measured, was fairly bristling from the tension of the approaching culmination of his careful plans.

  Tolthurdine took a moment to summon up memories of his departed wife. Had she lived to witness it, Keriwin would have been crushed by her son’s mortal peril. But how excited would she be now, with the prospect of her only son being restored to them? How proud would she be of her husband’s unrelenting efforts to make such a miracle happen? Tolthurdine’s mouth contorted into a shadow of a wistful smile as he entertained such a daydream. She would approve, he was sure. She would have supported him in whatever he felt compelled to do without reservation, for she was a dutiful wife who knew that he acted in the best interests of the family.

  While he had conducted his research and made his preparations he had never wavered in his resolve, but had he felt doubt? Of course. He was attempting something grand and profound that was contrary to the natural order of things, diverting and redirecting the flow of powerful and mysterious energies. But was it not also contrary to the natural order that a father outlive his son? His biggest fear was that he had no backup plan if he failed tonight. He would be truly bereft and have to confront the finality of his son’s death, forced to accept the unacceptable. No. He had been too thorough for any outcome but success.

  His reverie was disrupted by a cry that pierced the night. Before he finished turning his head in an effort to locate its source it abruptly ended. Something had happened, something not according to plan.

  The duke would brook no interference. Anyone or anything that threatened his unfolding plans would be dealt with immediately and severely. Tolthurdine drew his sword. He beckoned the pair of guards nearby to accompany him but motioned for them to be silent.

  As he cut across the inner circle of the menhir he passed Ivar, who had paused in his preparations at the altar-like dolmen in the center and shot his lord a questioning look as he approached. Apparently he had been so absorbed in his sorcerous tasks that he had not detected anything amiss. In a hushed voice Tolthurdine brusquely instructed him to resume his duties.

  As the trio neared the opposite side of the inner ring of stones Tolthurdine instinctively slowed. He gestured for one of the men to pass the menhir in front of them on the left and the other on the right. Tolthurdine followed the second man but maintained a distance of several paces behind him, his sense of outrage constrained by his habitual caution.

  Tolthurdine’s mind whirred as he considered all the possibilities of what might have caused the disturbance. If one of his men had been attacked, who or what would assault a location that was obviously well-defended? Even a wandering monster would typically be given pause by a cordon of well-armed soldiers. He briefly wondered if the site had some kind of guardian that had been roused by their appearance and was now bent on punishing the trespassers. There were no local legends of such a creature or entity, but that didn’t necessarily rule out such a being if it was very ancient. He shuddered – what if there were undead here? He berated himself for neglecting to bring Vissawald – a cleric could have sensed if there were undead in the vicinity and could have assisted in purging it. But his house priest had seemed a poor choice to accompany them – he would scarcely approve of Tolthurdine’s aim or his methods in achieving it.

  There was nothing for it – he would have to face whatever threat this was himself. It was too important to merely entrust to his retainers. Tolthurdine was not afraid to get his hands dirty. Though his years of hand-to-hand combat were behind him he still knew how to handle a blade. In the past, he had displayed courage, but he also knew that the better part of valor is discretion. Needless swordplay did not appeal to him – he lacked an appetite for bloodlust.

  His own sword was a fine weapon that had been handed down from father to eldest son for five generations, back to his ancestor Thurdinor the Bull, who had successfully ennobled the family. It was an especially keen blade that bit deep and drew out an opponent’s blood like iron filings to a magnet. It had been nicknamed “Vampyre” by allies who had witnessed its weird power in battle, though he disdained the moniker.

  But though he was well-armed, Tolthurdine was acutely aware that he was lacking protection – he was attired in traveling clothes, not his suit of plate or even a brigandine. He was wearing a protective amulet and magical ring that would heal wounds (albeit slowly over several hours), but trusting his life to enchanted trinkets made him uneasy. Still, with all there was at stake, he did not have much choice. It would reassure him to have Lantalus at his side. Where had his grandson got to?

  As Tolthurdine rounded the nearest menhir he looked to his left and right. Unsure of how to proceed, the guards had also stopped. He impatiently indicated for them to hold their lit torches higher. He peered into the shadows that lay between the imposing stones. Then they heard a series of muted sounds – a slight scraping followed by a rustling. It was coming from over his right shoulder. He turned.

  Two menhir away from their position he could make out some movement. There lay one of the caskets. Its body was emerging. Though limp, it seemed to be propelled aloft by a levitating force. Something was disturbing one of the specimens!

  Tolthurdine prodded the nearest guard on his shoulder and shoved the man toward the as-yet inexplicable phenomenon. He followed directly behind, the other guard belatedly noticing and bringing up the rear. Breaking into a sprint, they jogged in a circumferential route between the stone circles.

  As they drew close the body, still suspended in mid-air, wavered as if whatever force holding it was weakening. An instant later the body of the youth was lowered almost gently back into its casket. Yet even now there appeared to be no one or nothing there. But there had been violence – a body lay prone in the grass. Tolthurdine recognized it as one of his men. No doubt he was the one who had emitted the cry that had alerted them.

  The first guard had now closed the distance. He stopped in some confusion at the casket and brandished his sword. As he felt compelled to do something, he waved it back and forth in a sideways flourish that met nothing. In confusion he turned around, maybe seeking reassurance or to ask the duke for further instruction. That is when the blood appeared.

  There was a thin gleam of steel in the torchlight, and a curved blade licked out and slid across the guard’s neck, slicing it open. The man gasped in shock and dropped his weapon, clapping the hand to his gushing throat in a futile gesture of self-preservation. As he staggered against the nearest menhir and slowly sank to the ground a tall slender figure was revealed.

  There was a slight shimmering about his outline that Tolthurdine recognized as magic fading from existence. So that was it – someone looking to take one of the specimens by stealth, using a spell or type of magic potion to enhance concealment.

  The duke didn’t hesitate, he lunged forward with his sword outstretched, hoping to skewer the interloper in one quick but lethal blow.

  He missed; the dark figure sidestepped and countered with a quick slash that Tolthurdine barely managed to divert. He felt the blade slap his shoulder as it slid past him. He recognized it as a talwar, a type of sword used on the eastern coast.

  They exchanged several blows – attack, parry, riposte. His attacker was fiercesome and sinewy, a silhouette out of a nightmare like some undead shade summoned by a necromancer for unspeakable purposes. He even grinned as he fought, a mix of pearlescent and gold teeth flashing in a taunting smile that promised death.

  The dark man’s blade snaked across Tolthurdine’s chest, but its edge was met by a pale aura, a field of resistance generated by his protective amulet. Activated by the proximity and force of the attack it expended the enchantment placed upon it, saving his life at the cost of future use.

  Then his other soldier, who had been hovering uncertainly on the edge of the fray, decided he had found an opening. He swung, missed, swung again only to have his effort blocked as the intruder pivoted to engage the new threat. As the latter did so he took a few steps back, taking him closer to a standing stone of the inner ring.

  Whether instinctive or purposeful, it was a sound decision to get his back against something solid. But Tolthurdine reasoned it also might give his foe a false sense of security, so he decided to take a gamble. Betting that his man was capable of keeping him occupied Tolthurdine ducked behind the menhir and circled about it.

  The flanking maneuver worked. As he came around the other side the duke saw his opponent’s side exposed and he immediately took advantage. He hacked at waist height in a broad arc and his sword bit deeply. The man stiffened involuntarily at the unexpected pain. He managed to turn to confront Tolthurdine but lacked the energy to do anything else. Normally such a wound, though grievous, would permit the fight to continue. But the eldritch properties of Tolthurdine’s sword were already taking their toll. The duke let his sword reside in his adversary’s flesh, making no effort to draw it out. The blade was doing its infernal work, turning deep crimson as it drank the blood of its victim, sucking ravenously in a futile attempt to quench its insatiable thirst.

  The man looked down in shock which transformed into horror as he felt the effects. Dropping his own weapon, he put his hands on the sword in his side, making as if to wrench it free.

  He never got the chance. The guard took the opportunity to strike the injured man, splitting open his shoulder near the neck. He sank to the ground, Tolthurdine’s blade finally pulling free with seeming reluctance.

  Tolthurdine stared down at his sword with fascination. It had been a long time since he had used it in battle. He made no effort to wipe it clean, as the blood of its victim was already disappearing, leaving the blade spotless as if it had just been polished. He grunted in satisfaction.

  He went over to check on the specimen to confirm all was in order. Seeing nothing to give him concern he rose to give his remaining guard a reprimand about not joining the fight sooner.

  However, before he could utter the words the man inexplicably groaned and then toppled forward, sprawling face-first on the ground. Tolthurdine whirled to catch the soft luster of a blade being withdrawn from the fallen guard’s back. It was wielded by a new stranger – another man who was interfering! In rage, the duke prepared to face off against this latest adversary and shouted to summon more of his men.

  This other attacker was on the short side, of wiry build, with a beard of the sort a ruffian who had spent weeks on the road might have. But beneath a Stahrcote tabard, Tolthurdine noticed the man was clad in leather armor of high quality and he was holding a weapon of superlative craftsmanship. The two glared at each other. Then the man charged.

  The man swung and his blow was checked. He was good, Tolthurdine quickly realized. Tolthurdine responded in kind. His attacker parried and then used a technique that dueling bravos employed to divest opponents of their swords. It was successful: Vampyre was wrenched from Tolthurdine’s grasp and it was flung into the darkness. The duke was disarmed.

  He thought about drawing his dagger but the point of the man’s blade was already arcing back towards his chest. Tolthurdine tried to evaluate other options – he could attempt to grapple with his opponent – seize his wrist. That would require perfect timing. Or he could try to dodge, and either kick the man as he exposed his side or use the brief respite to make a run for it.

  In the end, he did neither, for as his left foot took a step back it encountered the body of one of his fallen men and he tripped, reeling backward and thudding awkwardly onto the turf. He had no hope of evasion now. This man had him dead to rights.

  The man drew back his sword arm. Tolthurdine recognized the move – like the rearing head of the coiling serpent, gathering energy to strike. He would now lunge forward and plunge the tip of the sword into his torso, impaling him and pinning him to the ground.

  The duke howled defiance, vowing his last breath would be spent in resistance. Even though he knew his chances of success were slim, he readied himself to attempt to roll out of the way as soon as his attacker was committed to the blow.

  But just as the blade began its descent its progress was arrested. Tendrils of a light gray substance appeared out of nowhere and curled around the man. They latched onto his sword arm, effectively lashing it to his side, and simultaneously enveloped his other extremities, binding his legs together. They even rapidly spun around his neck like some predatory vine. Finally, strands of the silvery substance shot to the ground, effectively anchoring the man in place like stay cables.

  His would-be killer struggled and writhed against his bonds. But though he was able to wriggle back and forth and even gyrate he could no longer fight. The restraints were too strong; he was held fast.

  Behind the man, Ivar stepped forward. He extended an arm to help Tolthurdine up but the nobleman was already on his feet.

  “I heard your shout,” the mage huffed. The old man was unaccustomed to moving quickly. “It’s a web spell, your grace,” he explained, “Very effective at immobilizing.”

  “Your appearance was most timely. Thank you,” Tolthurdine said. He felt weary. As he reflexively dusted himself off three more of his men trotted over to him, surrounding the surviving attacker apprehensively. Tolthurdine briefly wondered if they were more concerned about the possibility of additional assailants or his wrath for failing to prevent infiltrators. Whatever the case, they had grounds for anxiety.

  Ivar surveyed his handiwork with smug approval. “Been a long time since I’ve done combat magic. That should hold him for a few hours, assuming you don’t want to dispatch him immediately.” Ivar paused, an idea occurring to him. “The webbing is rather combustible – I could immolate him with little effort, should you desire it.”

  “No, I will see to him. You should probably resume your preparations.”

  “Of course, my liege,” and with a bow the wizard left him to return to the center of the circle.

  Tolthurdine directed one of the men to accompany Ivar and remain near him and his son’s body. Then he turned his attention to the apprehended man. He needed to ascertain if this was the last of the troublemakers or if more were lurking out there.

  Tolthurdine had questioned many men over the years. He could employ any of several different approaches, depending on the need, the circumstances – and the man. This man had a purpose and was willing to hazard his life. He suspected he could engage him by goading him; some men were eager to talk if treated the correct way. He spared his captive a cursory, almost dismissive glance and walked over to the first man he had fought. He prodded the corpse with the toe of his boot. He regarded the dark skin and noticed the youth lying in the nearby casket shared the same skin tone.

  “One of his kin, I suppose,” the duke remarked, as if to himself.

  “His father,” the immobilized man fairly spat at him.

  “Ah. This one must have been ‘the pirate king’. He should have stayed on his boat and sired a few other whelps if he didn’t already have a passel of them.”

  So the two knew each other. Fairly obvious since they were acting in concert, but it was good to be sure. They must have been friends – an underling sailor would be unlikely to risk his life so far inland unless he was very devoted from long years of service. How many true and loyal friends does a man have like that in life? Few. Still.... He turned his attention back to the man, adopting a nonchalant air.

  “Where are the rest of you – will they be coming soon?”

  The man’s eyes narrowed, appraising him. But he said nothing.

  “You’re wearing the livery of my house. Where did you get it?” Receiving no reply, Tolthurdine stepped closer to examine the man more closely. He beckoned one of his guards over and had him hold out a lantern so he could get a better look at the captive. It was hard to see with the webbing, but near the collar was a splash of blood. It looked fresh – it lacked the tell-tale brown tinge of an old stain. This told him that rather than stealing the uniform days before one of his soldiers had been murdered this very night and stripped of his gear. There was at least one more body lying out there somewhere on the slope of the hill.

  Yes, he thought to himself, he could see how one or two daring men, employing subterfuge, could kill one of his guards and sneak through the protective cordon in the gap they had created. Taking out a single guard was more effective than trying to attack several – the infiltrators would have lost the element of surprise. So if they had any other confederates accompanying them they would have been included in a single group exploiting the gap in the line. But as no one else had showed up they were probably alone, or the others were either camped or stationed some distance away. Perhaps they had even lost heart and fled into the night.

  He nodded, satisfied for the time being. He could interrogate the man more vigorously when he was at his leisure, and punishment could be meted out later.

  As it was, he could lavish no more time on this encounter. “Cut him loose from the ground. Drag him back down to camp. Tie him to a stake in the light of the fire and watch him closely.” If any would-be rescuers were lurking out in the night they would see him clearly illuminated – and have to contend with a full squad of alert soldiers if they attempted to set him free. More importantly, it would likely remove the possibility that they would storm the crest of the hill and disrupt the ritual. Yes, it was a sound strategy: a potential diversion for a potential attack.

  Sheathing his sword he turned his attention back to the thaumaturgical undertaking about to commence. He walked over to confer with his court mage. Ivar appeared to be idle.

  “What happens now?” demanded Tolthurdine.

  “We wait, my lord,” Ivar replied. “But not much longer.” He scanned the firmament. “We should get in position.”

  Ivar stood before the central structure he was using as an altar. It was now covered with characters he had carefully drawn onto its surface with luminescent chalk made with the ground bones of a lich. After a bout of meditation to compose himself, he lit several candles that had been affixed to its corners, each composed of tallow derived from the bodies of slaughtered elves. Beneath the main slab the body of Eymund - the recipient of whatever the ritual would evoke - had been positioned. Raising his arms, the sorcerer began his chant. Tolthurdine only understood a word here and there of the initial invocation, for it was in the tongue of the Rueberions, an ancient – possibly humanoid - race long extirpated from these lands but theorized to be the ones who had erected the menhir. Ivar himself only knew a few dozen words – the ones he managed to reconstruct from the duke’s esoteric library, and he had confessed that they likely weren’t even in the proper sequence. However, he suspected that using the same language as the original builders of the site would exploit some affinity that would lend additional esoteric heft to the proceedings. The duke nodded in approval – Ivar was taking no chances.

  As Ivar’s straining tenor voice continued the incantation Tolthurdine felt his skin prickle. He could sense that power was being summoned, gathered and focused. It was easy to detect that the nexus was the center of the stone circle. The hair on the back of his neck and on his arms stood up as unseen energies flowed into the vicinity.

  Then the energies were no longer unseen. Tolthurdine had expected power to descend from the limitless expanse of the sky. It seemed fitting for the cosmos to gush forth its vitality in such a way. But the manifestation was different – inverted. Instead, a glowing field boiled upward, like vapors emanating from a crack in the ground. Ivar was also taken aback by the development. The mage staggered back several steps to avoid the roiling commotion of energy. Nonetheless, being a seasoned mage he maintained his chanting with nary a perceptible pause.

  Then the luminous vapors began to coalesce and form linear structures that floated gently above the ground. Tolthurdine could discern fine strands of light that tumbled and writhed in the air. It reminded him of a skein of woolen threads, yarn spun by a domestic goddess who was tireless and insane.

  Slowly the threads merged into thicker structures that took on a silvery sheen. Like glowing cables they straightened and radiated outward, still bobbing gently in the air, hovering over the ground like aquatic plants floating on the surface of a pond. Like a rainbow, they had no definite end but slowly faded into the dark. It was now Tolthurdine’s turn to guide the proceedings. Ivar had called the needed conduits into being, and the duke would shift and connect them to serve his purpose.

  Gathering the nearest silver cord in his hands, he loosely slid his grip along its length, pulling it taut as he walked out to the first specimen. He disregarded the slippery electric sensation that set his bones to vibrating. He uttered the words he had committed to memory, declaring his precise intention and felt the answering quiver of the cord in his fingers as it responded to the resonance of his voice. He knelt down before the still form in one of the caskets and with one hand he reached into a pouch at his side and withdrew a pinch of finely ground metallic powder that Ivar had prepared under his direction. Sprinkling the powder over the chest of the subject, he then brought down the cord with his other hand.

  The cord abruptly attached itself to the chest of the comatose youth, pulsing slightly where it entered the body. The magical link established, Tolthurdine rose and took another silver cord in hand. He proceeded to the next specimen. He carefully worked his way along the stone circle, repeating the process.

  He had almost completed his circuit, kneeling next to the penultimate body when he started. The lambent glow of the magical cable illuminated the face of the young man in the casket. The most cursory glance at the face was enough to set Tolthurdine back on his heels.

  In shock he realized that he recognized the features of his grandson, Lantalus.

  How?!? Was this some kind of trick? Had an illusion been placed on the body by one of his adversaries to make him interrupt the ritual at a crucial moment? No, this was his grandson; he was certain of it. His mind raced. He thought about who should have been lying there. He knew by heart the entire roster of youths that had been gathered and rapidly went through it in his mind. It came to him in a flash: the son of Triumvir Terchin, one of the rulers of the city of Eskemar had been lying here. He recalled that Terchin had been an adventurer of some repute as a younger man – the sort that would think nothing of carrying out such a brazen feat as attacking a peer of the realm such as he. That could only mean that the man they had taken captive was none other than Terchin himself. He must have done this – his son had been lying here, and he had somehow ambushed Lantalus and switched the bodies. Was his grandson still alive? Frantically Tolthurdine examined the teen. Yes, he was slowly breathing. He must have been knocked unconscious or drugged into a stupor.

  What was he to do now? He needed a body - this body - to successfully complete the ritual. If he stopped now everything would be ruined. All his preparations would have to be done again. It would probably take years before he could make another attempt.

  But how could he make this choice – between his grandson or his son? He almost despaired with bitterness – Lantalus wasn’t even supposed to be here! Something like this happening should have been impossible!

  What could he do? How could he deviate from his goal?

  Grimly he sprinkled the powder over Lantalus and made the magical connection. He thought he saw his eyelids flicker. What if the lad awoke and raised his head? What if he saw his grandfather and asked him for help? Tolthurdine found himself fervently wishing that he wouldn’t; he would not be able to bear the cost of what he would have to do to see this through. But Lantalus remained still.

  He must press on.

  In a daze, Tolthurdine rose and mechanically walked over to the last body. He performed the required actions then he raised his arm to signal Ivar that he had completed his part. All the specimens were tethered via their respective silver cords to the altar like spokes to the hub of a wheel.

  Ivar commenced the final part of the ritual, establishing and strengthening a gradient of vitality that would cause the animating life force to flow from the bodies in their caskets toward the center, where they would be pumped into the body of Eymund. Ivar tottered and his voice rose to a shriek, the prolonged effort taxing the elderly mage to the limits of his endurance.

  Tolthurdine disregarded the coruscating bursts of mystical energy now surging through the air. He returned to his grandson’s side and stared down at Lantalus with sick fascination.

  Every feature of his grandson’s face was highlighted by the effulgence of the forces coursing through the air above him. Then the change came – the cheeks sinking, the skin around the eyes and forehead withering, acquiring an unnatural pallor, the creases appearing around the lips. Strands of hair detached from the scalp and fell away. The vitality was being drained from him, every bit of his essence siphoned off and channeled elsewhere.

  And at the last moment the eyelids of Lantalus flew open and an expression of utter terror marred his formerly placid countenance. Then he emitted a weak gasp and his face went entirely slack. There was no doubt; Lantalus was now dead. Not a vestige of animating spirit remained.

  Tolthurdine sagged. He would have fallen over if not for a menhir lending him support. To incur such an unforeseen cost!

  Then he thought of his son once more – the goal of this entire project. Yes, that is what he must focus on. Wildly he pushed off the standing stone and forced thoughts of Lantalus away. He sprinted to the center of the circle, hope and dread vying for supremacy, waging a titanic struggle within him.

  The radiant confluence of the summoned energies had faded. There was only a shimmering above the altar created by errant motes of greenish light that swirled about until they drifted into the night and vanished, absorbed by the surroundings, once more a part of the latent reservoir of earth power.

  The return of the night after the illumination created by the ceremony was a harsh contrast. Tolthurdine stumbled and groped his way to Ivar guided by the feeble glow of the candles affixed to the altar.

  The mage was bending down over his son’s body. A new light shone out – the tip of a wand that Ivar was holding over Eymund’s head. Tolthurdine resisted the urge to shove the old man aside. He weakly braced himself against the dolmen and beheld his son.

  For a moment nothing happened. Tolthurdine thought there might be a slight flush of color in Eymund’s cheeks, but he didn’t trust his own eyes – he could be imagining it, his hope cruelly misleading him.

  Then Eymund sucked in air. There was a faint cough, then an exhalation. His eyes slowly opened. Tolthurdine leaned directly over him and stared down into his son’s face. Ivar sat back on his haunches in amazement. The duke briefly wondered if his court wizard had really believed in the prospect of success of their arcane endeavor. But his faith, or lack thereof, was irrelevant. Eymund was alive. Moreover, he seemed cognizant; his eyes darted from right to left and showed a man becoming aware of his surroundings, trying to make sense of his situation. There was confusion writ there.

  Their eyes met, and Eymund looked searchingly at him. And then came the most rewarding possible outcome of all: recognition.

  “Father,” he croaked, in a voice raspy from long disuse.

  Tolthurdine wept tears of unabashed joy. With tender hands he treated his son’s face to the lightest of caresses, marveling at the animation of Eymund’s features after being immobile for so long.

  “My boy, my boy!” he exclaimed. And carefully pulling him up upright he cradled him in his arms, rocking him gently back and forth.

  How much time elapsed Tolthurdine did not know, but it was still night when he finally rose from the side of Eymund. He felt spent. He directed his men to carefully place Eymund on a litter and convey him to his personal carriage where he would be placed under heavy guard. He would take no chances with his son’s safety ever again. The fulfillment of his hopes left him disoriented. He felt adrift. His goal had been met and he was dimly aware that hereafter the direction of his life would necessarily change. He was too exhausted to ponder what the future might hold. But the elation at his son’s restoration had been tainted by the loss of his grandson. And his daughter – what would he tell her? How should she be handled?

  Hatred bloomed in Tolthurdine’s heart. Terchin had forced him into this course of action. He would pay dearly for this. He walked up to where the man had been lashed to a stake so he could be carried by guards without touching the sticky webbing. The captive lay limply against his bonds as if he possessed neither strength nor will. Tolthurdine was not fooled by this display. When he got close enough he cracked Terchin across the face with a forceful blow. The man jerked in surprise and pain. Tolthurdine now had his undivided attention.