The air was cold. The wind blew fiercely, and they were forced to traverse around the mountains, and sometimes over them. The soldiers, having come from the lake near the She'lak in the south, were tired from the journey and unaccustomed to the new terrain and climate. The air felt strange here, and not just in that it was thinner kept one almost constantly short of breath.

Aerelle and her mages knew why. The air was so charged with mana that even those who had no inkling as to the use of magic could feel it. The Ioun Mountains had earned their name. Aerelle was reminded of her time at the Scarlet Star; only there had she felt such a high concentration of red mana before. She was thankful she still had some of the Knights of the Scarlet Star for escort; they had proven extremely useful in scouting. The clerics, Priestess Weyo and Priest Grery leaders among them, had learned to be careful of using the mountain's mana. It's chaotic nature would add a destruction backlash to healing and calming spells.

Aerelle sighed. At least they would reach Janenn and hopefully receive asylum without having anything immediate to run from. She was thankful that her people - her, Verthandi's, and Telimorin's people, she reminded herself - had had a brief respite on the plain by the Heart, and that had provided for less tension between the men and the elves.

Mica, Avatar of the Goddess, looked over her shoulder and smiled. Demra was out with some of the elves, speaking to them almost fluently, or so it seemed. Both Demra and Daryn had made enough, but it was quite obvious that Demra wished that Daryn had stayed. He was sent as a messenger to the towns neighboring their plain to find the troops Aerelle and Mica had sent there, and return with them. As she turned back, she was surprised to find Elder Telimorin riding, albeit uncomfortably, beside her.

"Hello Elder. Is there something you need?" She was quite proud of the Elder for his quick learning of the human tongue.

"To practice, young Daryn have spent some time with Telimorin, and Telimorin have been out among your people trying to have . . . best learn . . . your language. They seem . . . discomfortable . . . around . . . me, however." Came the accented reply. Mica's face was split in two by her smile. She looked back and found Aerelle, and called her over. Aerelle came quickly with a puzzled look on her face, and her red armor reflected the bright mountain sun. Mica still could not understand how neither Aerelle nor her horse were tired by the sheer weight of the armor.

"Hello Throne Aerelle . . . " The strain in Telimorin's voice was audible, though progressively less so with every time he came to speak to them. Just at that moment, they reached the crest of a hill, which granted them a great wide view, which the Elder immediately proceeded to appreciate.

Aerelle scowled. Not only had her people been reduced to a mere five mages, she been given a token position in the triumvirate, but now she was being outdone by the elven Elder. It was bad enough being second to Verthandi in not being able to speak High Elven, but now everyone would see that Elder Telimorin cared so much that he bothered to learn the human tongue. She had had other things to do. She sighed. Making excuses and deluding herself was unnecessary. She had things to do now.

"I . . . the mana here . . . I must speak with my mages . . . " Aerelle mumbled as she slowed her horse to let the others get ahead. It was a poor excuse to escape the elf, but her statement was true nonetheless. She turned to find the mages all in a cluster, except for Khen out with the soldiers somewhere, and Demra studying with various elves. She would have to speak to Demra some other time. As Aerelle approached the mages, conversation ceased and all attention focused on her. She hated when people, especially her people, humbled themselves before her when all she had done was get most of them killed.

"Throne Aerelle," began Khen who had just joined the others as the others caught up to Aerelle, "there is much mana here. More red mana than I have ever felt before. It feels . . . strange."

"I have noticed this also, as I am sure you all have. I have experienced something similar before, "Aerelle could not stop a chagrinned smile and blush as she remembered the ceremony at the Scarlet Star. "The red mana from the mountains feels . . . different . . . from the desert mana we are accustomed to. If you must cast spells, try to remember the desert and use that mana, even if it comes slower," replied Aerelle, her smile fading at the mention of Montear. "Please refrain from probing, or even using the mana here. All of you. We don't know quite how it works, and now is not a time to be causing trouble for ourselves." Nods of agreement and words of encouragement followed. Everyone knew that the mountains had ioun stones stored within them, and that an offhand spell could spark the power of one of the stones.

Skora rode up besides Aerelle and the others. "There is a crisis," Verthandi's Hand said simply, and turned her mount around again back toward Mica, a measure or so away. It sounded urgent. Looking ahead, she saw that Mica had a man in dark armor on horseback next to her, though he looked much more comfortable than the elven Elder had been, despite the fact that he was slouching in the saddle. Aerelle pulled her horse forward. Moisture left her mouth as realization crashed through her skull: the armor wasn't black. It was the silver armor of the Janenn scouts that had been escorting them to Janenn. It was covered with dirt and blood. Aerelle pushed her horse, tired as it was, into an uphill gallop.

"What happened?!" were the first words out of her mouth. She could think of no others. She c

ould not think. Skora had used the word "crisis," and Aerelle had had her share of those.

The soldier nearly fell off his horse then, and Aerelle had to grab and steady him in his saddle, nearly losing balance herself as her horse stumbled.

Mica tried to remember what she felt when she had healed Vern, tried to recall the mana to her to heal this brave scout.

"Undead, m'lady . . ." he trailed off, gasping for breath, barely staying upright.

"Where?!" was the next of Aerelle's incredulous queries. "Out . . ." the man almost fell again, then tensed and remained motionless on his horse. "on patrol m'lady. No . . . way to avoid them . . . saw sentries on mountains. They're waiting . . . waiting for us . . . tracking . . ."

"Where are the others?" Aerelle's shock subsided and her compassion took up arms. Mica had an increasingly desperate look on her face. Skora stood silent next to her queen.

"They were all taken . . . all dead." The soldier sat up straight and his eyes widened with fear. Only two hushed words escaped his mouth: "Or . . . undead." He swayed, then fell lifeless to the ground, almost taking his fatigued horse down with him.

"Was there nothing you could have done?" Aerelle asked. The question was meant mostly for Skora. Aerelle knew Mica was not a wizard, but she did not think before she acted, and Mica took the question personally.

Mica's eyes began darting around, and her mouth worked but no sound came out. She blinked hard, to no avail.

"I . . . I tried." Mica held back tears and swallowed hard. "I'm not a spellcaster . . . I never have been. I don't know how to work mana. It was a complete accident when I healed Vern . . . I tried to remember how I did it . . . I really did."

Verthandi exploded with rage; rage at the undead, rage at life and the world for putting her in such a situation, and mostly rage at herself for not being able to get out of it. Suddenly, she was surrounded by a red glow. Then she realized what she had done. She didn't know what to do with all of the mana, she knew no spells, let alone ones that could that could possibly use up that much mana. She had to use it quickly, lest it consume her. She funneled it back into the land. The earth began to shake, and rocks tumbled all around them. Cracks formed in the ground.

Tesmar rode up to them as quickly as he was able. The troops parted as they saw him coming. They did not have to inconvenience themselves much, everyone had already stopped and was looking at the two women in amazement. He saw the dead man on the ground and recognized him as one of the Janenn scouts. A voice in the back of his mind screamed. He would have smiled, but he seemed to have forgotten how.

His plan, or rather his master's plan, was working out perfectly. The scouts were "loyal" zombies by now. All that remained now was to stage another larger encounter to increase the number of zombies even more. After that, it was just a matter of picking the right time to strike and take the entire people of this so-called Verthandi.

"What happened?!" yelled Tesmar, with a newly formed expression of shock on his face.

Mica's eyes were focused, and her jaw was set. Aerelle was the first to speak: "Undead. They are waiting for us."

"Can we not avoid them?"

"The scout told us that they have watchers on the mountains. They are tracking us."

Mica finally chimed in. "We must stop. We need to plan, and we must have all parties present before we make our decision."

Aerelle and Tesmar nodded. Camp was struck on a nearby piece of land that was nearly flat. The leaders and their respective military chiefs were present, as well as the undeniable eminence otherwise known as Stinkfeet.

"If they are tracking us, won't they know when we send troops to attack them? Would they not just ambush us here then?" Mica opened the meeting with a question.

Tesmar answered, "No, they could not do that. After what we did in Kelsan, only a very few could have escaped. Even with the numbers they gained from taking the patrol, they could not realistically attack us, especially if they hope to take out our attacking troops as well."

Krick stood. "The men can fight, I've made sure of that. Both Tesmar and I can lead."

Tesmar thought quickly. He had to make sure someone less capable was the head of the attack. He did not know General Belivor's skill, and could not risk putting the elf in command. The solution struck him. He bared his teeth in what the others interpreted as a scowl. "No, General, we can't lead. You are needed here to learn the elves' way of fighting, and maybe train them in at least some of our strategy. I can't go because there are greater dangers about us. The small group of undead can be more easily handled." His tone of voice shifted just slightly, "I will assign one of my most trusted lieutenants . . ."

"They must die! The very memory of their existence must be wiped from this world." There was a hush. It seemed that even the voice of nature paused to let the weight of the statement sink in. Vern stood. "I will lead."

There was a sense of finality in those three words that none dared challenge. The only one who could have spoken and been heard had no objections.

Their wait was rather uneventful, and Aerelle was able to spend some time with Demra, learning the elven tongue. Between meetings and discussions and strategy talks, that is. The soldiers mainly got a chance to relax, except for those placed on guard duty to avoid an ambush, however unlikely. By the end of the second day, Aerelle and Telimorin had managed, albeit awkwardly, to hold some normal discussions, each speaking in the other's language. By the end of the third day, they began to worry.

On the morning of the forth day, they found one of the soldiers, nearly dead from exhaustion, near the Castle. After consuming vast quantities of water, constantly griping about it not being wine, and several hours of sleep, the man was in good enough condition to talk about what happened.

Vern's unit reached the top of a small hill, at least in comparison to those that surrounded them, and saw a small band of zombies in the valley beneath them. With a scream of pure fury, Vern led the charge at the unfortunate cluster of undead. Unfortunately, the zombies were not so ill fated as it would seem. Just as the screaming men neared the "encampment," zombies came out from all around them. They made no sounds, did not speak, did not move their eyes. They just walked. Inexorable. With the patience of a force of nature, they engaged the humans. The only escapee, the one who now told them the tale, had been left at the very rear of the unit. Just before they were overrun, Vern had ordered him to return to the camp and report.

As the man spoke, all faces went pale. All save one, but the others were too shocked to notice. Aerelle's jaw became set and, with a grim expression on her face, she began issuing orders to strike camp. Tesmar, now appropriately subdued by the terrible news, volunteered to lead an attack on the undead.

"Vern was learning quickly," Tesmar admitted, "but he was no general to rally to in battle. The men respect me. If I were to attack the undead with my fourth . . . now third, I suppose . . . of the army, the undead will not stand a chance."

Aerelle looked around the interior of the Castle. Skora stood loyally next to Verthandi, Belivor stood next to Telimorin, General Krick stood next to Skora, and Demra sat into a hip, with her hands on her hips. She saw faces filled with grim determination, determination to destroy what little was left of Kelsan and its spawn. Aerelle nodded. Tesmar ran out of the Castle, yelling orders to his men, and elves, to get ready for battle.

A man waiting outside the Castle with a pained look in his eyes glanced up. He had very good hearing.

The place that the soldier described was a day's ride from the camp. Upon surveying the land, Tesmar found that despite signs of a battle, there were no bodies. Perfect. He led his troops down into the valley to inspect the situation. Just as he passed one of the few trees in the area, he felt something bump into him. He looked around, but could see nothing. Suddenly, the air to his left shimmered. He turned, and looked incredulously as Vern, albeit a bit battered, appeared before him.

Vern smiled. Then his smile faltered, as he realized that Tesmar was waiting for others to appear also. He extended his hand, palm up, to Tesmar. His palm was covered with a fine blue powder. "A little trinket I had left over from working for Thad," he explained, his voice shaking. "Let me turn invisible and . . . run away," his voice faltered, "to tell you. I knew you would come, now I must tell you: there is an ambush down there. Their numbers have grown, they have necromancers; there are more of them now that our dead have been raised . . ." Tesmar saw the realization in Vern's face.

Tesmar looked around quickly. All of his troops were examining the terrain around them. No one was paying any attention to the pair talking near the twisted tree. Tesmar extended his gauntleted hand to Vern, who reached for it tentatively. Suddenly, Tesmar's hand balled into a fist, and struck Vern near the right temple. Vern collapsed, and Tesmar yelled to his men to help him. A man whose eyes would have been enough to give even Tesmar pause, had he cared enough to look, was the first to come. He helped put Vern on another man's horse and sent that man, with Vern, back to the camp to report.

"Vern lives!" Yelled Tesmar to his now assembled troops. Cheers sounded from among the men. Tesmar grew quieter, and forced a sad expression onto his face. "But the others are dead. Undead." The soldiers hushed. There was no sound. "We must avenge their deaths, even if it means meeting them in combat! We must free them from their evil masters, and let their souls be at peace!" More cheers. Tesmar turned and led his horse down to the site where there was much carnage only a few days previous.

Tesmar spoke once more. "We must rest, and eat. We have an hour, then we strike! The scouts will have brought me news of where the evil," he spat, "hides from us! We will destroy them, and avenge our fallen brothers!" At the last word, he spat again.

As they set out along the path to the den of evil, a wind blew at them that carried more than a hint of carrion. A semblance of twilight crept over the mountains, and some of the men were losing their earlier enthusiasm and growing somewhat skittish.

The path, if it can be called that, that they were following, disappeared. The ground was covered with a vine-like sort of plant, and the men kept stumbling and falling. Sometimes, a soldier's fall would be followed by a wet bubbling sound, and he would not get back up. That meant only one thing: quagmire. As the troops pushed forward, only two men, at opposite ends of the column, never looked down, never lost their balance; one leaving dead and wilted plants in his wake, the other, smoldering charred footsteps.

Everyone noticed the groundcover begin to writhe. Nothing changed, except that everyone was more careful not to trip, if that was at all possible. The writhing walkway had become so common-place, they began to pay it less heed. Then, the impossible happened. The squirming vines moved away, to let the bog be visible beneath. It was all around them, except for the way whence they came.

Tesmar smiled. Perfect timing. He made a show of pulling out his sword. Then he stumbled, and dropped his sword beneath the vines. Reaching down to get his sword gave him a perfect opportunity to inspect the vine. It was absorbing the light, causing this premature darkness, so great was the amount of black mana in it. He came up with sword in hand, spun quickly and severed a man's head from his shoulders.

As if on queue, the bog spat forth a legion of undead. If nothing else, the undead could win simply by drowning the men in corpses, from both sides. After the undead were brought forth, black-clad necromancers rose out of the bog. Thirteen. They did as much damage by killing men with spells as by raising the dead to fight against their former allies.

The men all gathered together, a shrinking circle against the tide of undead. Suddenly, there was a scream. Not of fear, not of pain. It was a scream of such primal fury that it took them a moment to realize it was even human. A man, with fire in his eyes to rival even the Chamber of Verthandi, charged into a group of undead, glowing a bright red with swords of flame in either hand. He tore through them like a whirlwind, undead falling all around him. The men rallied to this godsend, and picked up his battle cry. The undead lines began to falter.

Tesmar barely caught his jaw just above his knees. That is Khen! How did he get here? This is impossible! He is not supposed to be in my unit! Aerelle did not inform me! I cannot let this man, this one man, ruin all of our plans! He must die! Tesmar pulled out his crossbow, and aimed it at the Wizard of Fire, who was now in the open. Tesmar raised his crossbow, and he felt the small voice in his mind try to rebel. He chuckled. As Tesmar loosed his bolt, that little voice exploded. Tesmar's head was bursting with pain, and his knees buckled. The bolt flew wide, missing any viable target.

The necromancers saw the traitor's trouble, and the dead no longer stirred from the ground. Suddenly, a black radiance that was so blinding even Tesmar had to look away, surrounded the necromancers, linking them to each other. A bolt of solid darkness struck Tesmar. The small voice of goodness in his head sputtered and died. He rose to his feet and smiled, then nodded to his mages to start raising the dead once again.

Khen was leading the men away from the battle, telling them to flee. Tesmar growled, loading another bolt in his crossbow. His bolt flew straight, and hit Khen in his shoulder. He stumbled and fell. His men stopped to help him, but he ordered them to flee. More than half would escape. Those that died would only serve to recruit more. That fool, thought Tesmar, He might have been saved! Now he is mine!

Pointing at the fire mage, undead lumbered toward him. Flashes of lightning struck a few skeletons, but the tide converged upon him. As some fell to Khen's assaults, others climbed over the motionless bodies. Khen fought with fists of fire and cracks of lightning. He hollered the name of his friend Gyla who had fallen in Kelsan, and fought to avenge him. The tide pulled him to the ground, and pounded him with undead hands. They cut and bruised and maimed him. One of the necromancers ordered the undead away, and two of them carried the near-lifeless body to him.

"The Master wishes him alive."

"The Master . . . ?" Tesmar mused. Was he not the master? Did he not bring these mortals to their deaths and then rebirths as undead?

"You will come with me, warrior," the necromancer commanded. "I do hope you come willingly. There is much for you to learn."

Tesmar searched the area. A few zombies and undead remained. The others were in pursuit of those that had run, and the other necromancers were busy raising La'adian and Kelsanite dead. Tesmar even noticed a few elves. It was all for the best. The necromancers, with their arrow of darkness, had brought him to complete understanding. He was destined for greatness.

Nodding, the Traitor allowed the necromancers to bring him to their Master.

Aerelle stared. There were no thoughts. She had forgotten how to think. Khen . . . Her eyes began to burn. Now there are five of us. Aerelle raged in the cage that was her mind.

Mica stared. There were no thoughts. She had forgotten how to think. Aerelle . . . Her heart began to ache. Now there are four. Aerelle will want revenge. Worse yet, Mica would be forced to deny it.

Vern stared. There were no thoughts. He had forgotten how to think. Tesmar . . . That traitor! He has betrayed his people and his goddess! Vern began to convulse in his rage.

General Krick stared. There were no thoughts. He had forgotten how to think. The soldiers . . . My army, my friends! I have failed in protecting you! Fanatical devotion filled the warrior, and strengthened his resolve to right the wrongs the Roden.

Elder Telimorin stared. The elf thought hard. The other legs of the tripod were obviously too shaken to make a rational decision. He stepped forward.

"My friends . . . Telimorin . . . I . . . know we have all been . . . shaken . . . by this traitor's actions. Betrayal not . . . taken lightly within elf people; Telimorin is sure it same with yours. However, we cannot afford to attack more. We have lose too many troops, and they have . . . gain from our losses. We must . . . make quick to reach the kingdom of Jannen . . . as quickly as possible. We will be . . . safe . . . there."

Aerelle was about to demand an attack; it was obvious by her expression.

Mica forestalled her. "He is right, Aerelle." There was a sad look in her eyes, and her voice faltered. "We must flee. I know how much you hate the idea, but it must be done."

Vern stepped in now, his head bandaged by Priest Grery and Priestess Weyo, who had been busy healing the wounded who had escaped. "I have seen their numbers, Throne Aerelle. They have only grown since this . . . betrayal." The last word was filled with such ferocity that even Aerelle was taken aback.

Finally, she nodded. It was too similar to their flight from Montear. The similarities only forced her to remember the destruction of her home. They also forced her to remember the destruction of Kelsan. She smiled, a grim rictus smirk. A tear fell from her eye as she walked out of the Castle alone, and prepared to lead their now smaller people towards the safe haven that she hoped was Janenn.