Prologue
Jallel knocked his boots together to clear off the snow that had coated them while he conducted his survey of the northwest turret, in vain hopes that he could restore a little circulation to his frozen toes. The wall surrounding Chasel was by no means as grand as the defenses of Belisaere, but its stalwart contingent of guards kept watch over their village just as zealously. Nothing moved in the night that should not have, though Jallel highly doubted that he would find anything from the western side of the town, what with the river and all. Not, of course, that there had been any attacks from the Dead in these parts for a good century.
The snow continued to fall.
Creaking down the narrow tower stair, Jallel enjoyed the all-too-brief respite from the biting cold, only to gasp as a blast of crosswind whipped the air out of his lungs when he exited onto the main rampart.
"Aye, can't handle a little wind, lad?" It was Nestor, Jallel's commander. The young scout promptly snapped to attention.
"Sir."
"Ha, at ease, lad, at ease. Care for some?" the corporal asked, waving a small bottle of inviting amber drink, "And don't give me any of that official-duty hogwash! Just a little drink between good friends, no?"
Jallel smiled, and adjusted his sword-belt as he leaned up against the wall. Nestor had trained Jallel while the young man was a lowly cadet in the small force at Chasel. The somewhat heavyset man in his 50's had faded a bit from his days as a mentor, but was still a capable officer. Then, and now, Nestor never let rank get in the way of his friendship with Jallel. Again, the corporal beckoned with the bottle, which glinted in the light from a nearby torch.
"There's a good boy," said Nestor as the scout accepted the bottle and took a swig, "Much too cold up here for me, old boy, much less a mere mortal as yourself!" The corporal's famed (and oft-impersonated in the barracks) belly laugh sounded out from the wall, to be quickly muffled by the fierce and thick snowfall.
"Now, sir, don't tell me you've gotten too soft to handle a little snowfall?"
"Snowfall! Ha! No one ever mentioned anything like a blizzard when I signed up! I'm expecting a fat bonus from that old fart Nostrod at the end of the year for some of the things I put up with on this post."
"Respectfully, sir, do you think this is the king's High Guard at the capital?"
"Don't give me your 'Respectfully, sir!' Jallel!" Nestor let out another guffaw. He snatched back the bottle and took another swig. The two stood up on the ramparts in silence, enjoying the company if not the climate. Jallel got up from his position, about to start his patrol again when Nestor started. The old man swiftly capped the bottle, and motioned silently for the scout to come closer. They leaned over the ramparts, not looking to the river, but instead into the town, where they had a clear view of the central square. The shops had closed many hours ago, and so there were no lights on to illuminate the town fountain and Charter Stone. Only the smallest glint of reflected moonlight reached up to the wall, but Jallel could still just make out the shape of the fountain's large bowl.
"Did you see that? There's someone out in the square."
"Are you sure?"
"Quiet, boy! Watch the fountain…" Nestor fell silent, and Jallel felt his heart flip as he saw not one but two, then three shadows pass over and obscure the faint glitter of water. But the corporal was already in motion, loosing his sword in its sheath, and taking up the torch from its bracket. Nestor moved to the door of the turret and began to make his way down the tower stairs to street level. Jallel would have been surprised at his old mentor's speed, given the man's size, had he not seen the corporal before in true form. The man, though older than many on the force, was an absolute lion when the time was right. He hurried to keep up.
No sooner had the two left the tower and trudged out onto the street when the torch went out. The flame whipped up as if caught in a sudden draft, and then was smothered as if by an invisible hand. Jallel stared, then started back into the tower to get another light.
"No!" hissed Nestor. Instead, the corporal drew his sword in one hand, and lifted his other one as if grasping a ball. The man blew into it, and a globe of light formed, with tiny Charter-sparks falling to the ground as flakes hit the golden blaze. Jallel quickly drew his own weapon, and they set off down the street toward the square. They approached the nearest corner, hugging close to the wall. Nestor motioned to wait, and then stepped out into the small plaza.
"Town watch! Declare yourself? Who's out there?" Jallel heard the guard walk slowly towards the central fountain and Charter Stone, calling out once again. The soft clunk of metal-tipped boots on flagstones accompanied the corporal, but no voices returned the challenge. For a time, all was silent. Then a shout ripped the air.
Jallel did not hesitate, whipping out from the corner with sword drawn and his own Charter-light held high. But he stopped just as suddenly, for a moment unable to comprehend what he saw. There was Nestor, floating over the Charter Stone. And over him, an impossibly skinny and tall figure, made visible only because he was blacker than the night behind him. Next to that shape was the misshapen body of a Dead Hand.
Charter marks for burning, rending, and blasting formed in the Jallel's mind. Before he could shout them out, a hand clamped down over his mouth with inhuman force. The stench of rotting flesh coupled with the unmistakable tang of free magic invaded his nostrils, and Jallel's eyes widened as he saw the black figure raise a horribly serrated knife high into the air. It was about to come crashing down onto Nestor when the Dead hands clasping Jallel whipped his head backwards with a snap.