Chapter 4: Old Magic

The prismatic hues wove gently in between shafts of bright white light; bubbles, of various shapes and sizes dotted the atmosphere. Wisps of solemn whispers beckoned from anywhere and everywhere—from whence, exactly, none knew.

She could feel the short blades of grass beneath her unshod feet as she ran, her arms flailing wildly about her. Her hair fell loose about her waist in light, airy curls. The wispy material weaving about her mobile legs told her conscious mind that she wore a gown.

How was that possible?

She had not been garbed in gown since the early days of her magi training. Whilst other women of her age, the seers, talked of silk and brocade, she'd dressed herself only in dark robes, as befitted the mages of her clan. The magi wore clothes suited to the harshness of their training—long gone were her days of all-seeing crystal orbs and flowing dresses.

It was simply not possible.

Try as she might, she found that she could not stop running—her legs seemed to move on their own accord. The landscape; a bright blur of colours, seemed all but repeated to her. There was no telling the direction in which she moved.

No! She had a conscious mind—it had told her as much as she knew of her surroundings. It occurred to her that her conscious mind would be that which saved her from this realm of the unknown. She shivered slightly at the thought; her breath was beginning to quicken, though her pace, and the swiftness of her run was no slower.

What am I doing? Where am I?

It took several long minutes for her to fully comprehend the vagueness of her surroundings. Never before had she witnessed such a bizarre array of colours that, even now, surrounded her. Sure, she could feel the grass beneath her feet, but what mist there was enshrouded this grass in its murky depths—and she could see naught, save for the colours.

Surely she was dreaming.

She felt as if she'd run a thousand miles, aging with every step she took. It seemed so very long ago since she'd trekked the fields with him.

Even whilst she ran, she felt herself stiffen ever so slightly. Here, now, was a touch of recognition; a memory of her not-so-distant past. A memory of her reality. She smiled vaguely, though she did not know it. She remembered him now—they were travel companions.

Saul.

She did not realise it when her footsteps began to fade; slower, slower came the thuds of her feet upon the ground, until she came to a slow, silent halt. Only when her heart ceased to thunder against her chest did she understand—her dream was near an end. Gradually, the mist began to fade; the ground slipped away, and she was falling, falling..

"Cordelia!"

She gasped at the sound, bolting upright—one hand flew to shield her chest, the other flailed outwards in a feeble attempt to assault the speaker. Her eyes flew rapidly open, the pallid blues watering slightly, adjusting to the light.

"Whoa, Cordy! Calm down, you crazy woman. It's me."

She stared towards him, eyes widened, arms akimbo. "Saul?"

He smirked, crossing his arms. "Glad you recognise me. I was half afraid you'd send one of those fireballs at me."

It took her several long minutes to fully discern her surroundings—the rogues' sleeping tent within the encampment. She'd been placed upon a bunk bed facing the entrance, shafts of bright sunlight piercing the cover of her sheets. Someone had removed her armor—she now wore loose, flowing robes, for which she was grateful. Her back was somehow aching.

"How did we get back here?" She mumbled. Her voice was groggy, and, already, her head was beginning to hurt.

The druid studied her silently for a brief second, then answered, simply. "The waypoint."

Cordelia frowned, leaning back and clasping a hand over her eyes. It almost seemed, to her, that the druid wished to further irritate her with his nonchalance. "How did we get to the waypoint?"

"I walked." He said, lightly. Even with her eyes closed, she could sense his amusement, feel the cheek of his smile.

Her frown deepened. She was in no mood to jest. "I feel as if my skull has hacked into two, Saul. Please—don't amuse yourself at my expense."

For a moment or two, there was silence. And then she could hear his footsteps. Several seconds later, she felt his weight upon the edge of her bunk, and she shifted, to allow him space.

"You collapsed, remember? The thunderstorm—it was far too cold." He began. She was rather pleased that his voice was low; she could not, for the life of her, tolerate a high octave, or too pleasant a pitch in her present condition. "It took me a long while, but I managed to calm the winds. But—" Here, he paused. "—Even with the thunder and lightning gone, the rain fell, still, and it was cold. Very cold."

"You could not move on your own accord, and I had to carry you. I couldn't see very far—the rain was too heavy, and heavens, it was dark! I had to call for aid, then." Again, he paused. "I called for one with the eyes to bring us through the storm unscathed. Thankfully, my call was answered, and within a matter of mere minutes, I'd stumbled—yes, literally stumbled, upon the waypoint."

"Akara was quick with her potions. If she hadn't been prepared—Well—"

"Well?" The sorceress had opened her eyes. Now, she gazed meekly up at the other; her fists were clenched.

He smiled wryly. "—I'm assuming you would have… er, moved on to the netherrealms. Your body temperature was too, too low, and it was all we could do to keep pouring warm potion down your throat."

Cordelia blinked placidly towards the druid. She was now faintly aware that she'd been tethering upon the brink of death. Clearly, she was not as strong in health as she'd like to believe herself to be. This new revelation brought about a wave of disappointment—for herself, for all she'd thought herself capable of. It was all fallen hope now.

She cleared her throat softly. "Thank you, Saul." She began, her voice low.

He smiled easily, arching back in a strong-limbed stretch. "Next time, you can save my life. Then we'll be even."

Cordelia frowned, tugging heavily at her hair. "Sure." Privately, she loathed her weakness, and doubted her abilities; collapsing as a result of some rain and thunder was surely a sign of weakness. She felt deeply ashamed of herself, though she said nothing.

He seemed to have noticed her discomfort, having studied her solemn expression for a moment or two. "You don't need to worry, Cordelia. I'm watching your back, and I will continue to do so." He grinned warmly, reaching over to give her a brisk one-armed hug. "Smile."

She blinked. His concern was kind, and the hug, most welcome. Even then, at the same time, she felt the urge to scream, to shout; to tell him that she was perfectly capable of watching her own back. Caught between gratefulness and fury, Cordelia found that she could only nod her head once—like a sleepy child. She cursed the blanketing feeling of helplessness that had somehow found its way into her chest.

"Smile." Saul was grinning at her again, his eyes twinkling.

She groaned.

He'd almost laughed aloud as she'd groaned. Truth be told, he had not expected any less than sulkiness from the sorceress, much less a smile. True to his prediction, she'd refused—she could not, or would not smile for him. This served only to amuse the druid; even as he left the rogues' sleeping tent, he found himself chuckling.

"She's awake." It was not a question, but rather, a statement.

Saul smiled brightly towards his fair-haired cousin. "Yes. She's awake now."

"That's good to hear. Akara was beginning to worry." Charsi wiped her soot-blackened hands on her apron, straightening for a better glimpse of him. Her hair had come undone of its braid, and her forehead was soot-stained. She grinned. "She must be hungry."

"Oh, yes. Ravenous, I think, was the word she used." He chuckled. "I was just coming to ask if you had any bread."

The blacksmith nodded swiftly—one hand worked the hammer at her forge, whilst she extended the other to point within her tent. "In there, on the table. I have some salted rabbit for her, as well."

If there was one thing that Kashya was lacking, Saul thought, it was the curiousity and kindness that his cousin had. Charsi was one to ask a million and one questions; she enjoyed trading stories with travellers. She had often taken the first steps in creating friendships with those who wandered into their midst. Where the other rogues were wary and untrusting, she was openly warm, and friendly to all she spoke to. Clearly, she knew the sorceress almost as well as Saul thought he did.

Lately, however, his cousin had seemed somewhat worse for the wear. He'd assumed that she was just tired. After all, days and nights spent repairing, and crafting armour for war could not be good for one's health, both physical and spiritual. Akara, however, had a different theory as to why the blacksmith was thus disheartened.

The Horadric Malus.

The enchanted hammer had been in his family for generations. It was said that his ancestors had built their lives around the magic of the hammer; imbueing weapons for gold to support themselves. In time, they had become wealthy, and the hammer had become an icon for prosperity. It was handed from parent to child; a most cherished possession. It was no secret that the Horadric Malus had been Charsi's greatest treasure.

When the hallspawn had begun their siege of the monastery, Charsi had been away with several of the rogues. It had been a sunny, clear day—the last of its kind to the present day, and the rogues had been eager for some fresh air. They'd journeyed as far as the Adura river, which now seperated the Rogue Encampment from the Blood Moor. They were far from the monastery when their sisters fled their ancestral home, perhaps never to return.

In their haste to exit the monastery grounds with their lives, the rogues had not the memory to rescue the hammer. When they'd finally congregated at the banks of Adura river with their sisters; it was too late—the monastery was overrun, and the hammer was lost within the depths of the barracks, within easy reach of the corrupted evils.

Upon hearing the tale of the loss of his cousin's beloved hammer, Saul had sworn that he would someday return to the monastery for the relic. It was only fair, given her unwavering kindness towards him. Besides, he'd always been of the opinion that family lived to aid one another in times of need. She was his favourite cousin, and she was in need.

He smiled at the thought, for he knew her well; she would shriek with joy at the return of her Malus, and the smile would return to that weary visage.

Even as he walked past her, balancing both food and drink in his hands, he leaned over and kissed his cousin gently on the cheek. "Thank you, Charsi."

She gave him a tiny, though rather devious smile—and for a moment or two, he was almost frightened. Then, with something of a twinkle in her deep blue eyes—"She's very pretty, isn't she?"

Saul wrinkled his nose at her, then turned on his heels, beginning to stride away. His cousin's laughter echoed heavily about the air behind him; and though he was amused, he scowled.

Cordelia was waiting for him, cross-legged upon her bunk bed when he'd returned. She'd changed in his absence; into an off-white undershirt, over which a sleeveless tunic of rough-cut, brown leather had been fitted, and black-leather pantaloons. She wore upon her face that same, solemn expression that he'd seen earlier—he rather wished she wouldn't frown so. For some odd reason, it caused him some amount of grief to know that she was unhappy.

"Food." He said simply, setting the laden plate before her. The goblet of water, he'd placed on the makeshift table beside her bunk; it would not do to spill any of it. Good, clean, crystal-clear water was very hard to come by—many water sources of the realms were now poisoned, or contamined with corpses and demon-blood.

She took the goblet and drank deeply, though her eyes remained somber. She said nothing.

"Ahem." Saul cleared his throat loudly as he settled himself onto the bunk beside her. He rather hoped she would smile; or else, release that small, sheepish laugh that he'd often heard of her.

"What?" She lifted a quizzical brow towards him—surprised at such a response, he smiled slightly, deliberately stalling for time as he scratched mildly at the back of his head.

"Well—" He began. Somehow, he did not think that she would appreciate his interference; and yet, he could not bear the thought of her sadness. "—For what its worth, Cordelia, I do not believe you are weak." He paused briefly, his eyes searching her face for traces of emotion. When she did nothing, said nothing, he continued. "On several occasions, I have felt useless; I have felt the shame that comes with weakness in body and in mind. I believe I saw that same line of thought flicker through your eyes." His voice was quiet. "Perhaps I am wrong. You needn't mind my words, if I am."

The sorceress stared at him for a moment or two; then, quite without warning, burst into tears. The noisy kind.

Saul frowned. Truth be told, he had little experience in the comforting of crying females—the women in his family were not much of teary-eyed damsels. The Vyreants were a proud, headstrong crowd; his sisters never wept, for any reason known and unknown to mankind. The rogues never cried either; they, too, were far too proud—too headstrong to shed tears.

For several long seconds, he watched the sorceress cry in earnest. Then, tentatively, almost as a frightened child would, he stretched out towards her; and with rather an uncomfortable air, patted her awkwardly on the shoulder.

"There, you silly girl. There's no need to cry." He mumbled, half wishing he'd witnessed such a situation in his youth. Surely then, he wouldn't be at a loss of what to say.

To his utter dismay, she sobbed—harder than ever.

"Don't cry." Saul wrinkled his brow as he patted her shoulder again, and again. "Please?" Nervousness and desperation were mingled within his chest now.

It seemed an age before she consented to lift her head slightly, and for a moment or two, he caught sight of two tear-stained orbs of pale blue; and this was quickly hidden away beneath her palms. Her breath came in soft, ragged gasps. It must, however, be admitted that the gasps began to subside, if only by a little. Slowly, very slowly, the sobs silenced themselves, and her body stilled—she ceased to shiver.

Saul quirked a tiny smile at her, though he knew she was not looking. "Feeling better?"

"Y—Yes." She sniffled softly, rubbing at her crimson nose with her fist.

The druid nodded firmly. "Good."

She seemed mildly aware of his hand upon her shoulder now, and, as she cleared her throat softly, Saul found himself starting—with a quiet cough, he removed his hand, and stood.

"Eat. Then rest. By tomorrow, we must—" His voice was quiet, though the emphasis upon each word was crystal clear, "—enter the tunnels through the Stony Fields. I need you with me."

The sorceress gazed solemnly at him, and her eyes were puffy, red, from her tears. Her lips were set in a somewhat determined line; it emboldened him to see that he'd somehow given her hope. She was clearly in short supply of such an emotion.

Very slowly, in a movement almost undetectable, she nodded.

It was two hours past mid-day when the sorceress emerged from the rogues' sleeping tent, fully armored and fully equipped. Her crimson hair had been pulled tight into a knot—she'd fastened this knot with a thin, quill-length needle of faded gold. Every inch of her body was tensed, prepared for battle. Collapsing again was not an option.

"In my experience, women take twice as long to dress in finery, than in battle-garb. If this is how long it takes for you to put on your armor, I shudder at the amount of time you should take to prepare for balls and such other events."

Cordelia scowled ever so slightly as she tightened her vambraces, though she chose to ignore the druid—he stood beside her, his back upon one of the many poles supporting the tent.

Saul gave a little laugh as he pushed himself off the pole. "Are you alright? Usually, you bite back."

"I'm fine." She threw her pack over her shoulders. "I simply have no smart remark to make."

The druid released a half-hearted chuckle. Cordelia frowned; she could feel his eyes boring into the back of her skull as she reached out to take a hold of her staff—it lay against the entrance of the tent. "Stop it, Saul. I'm okay, I promise." She turned to face him.

He watched her for a moment or two, his gray eyes studying her visage with an uncomfortable kind of intensity. Finally, with rather a resigned air, he shrugged, and nodded. "If you say so."

They made their way across the encampment, with Saul leading the way—past Warriv and Gheed, who were arguing about one thing or another. The bonfire clearing was otherwise devoid of life; Kashya had led the rogue scouts out on patrol.

"This—" The druid had stopped walking, and had turned to face the sorceress. A weather-beaten caravan and a low stone wall separated them from the High Priestess's clearing. "—is a waypoint."

Cordelia lifted a brow, pallid eyes searching her surroundings for a moment or two. "Where, again?"

He laughed. "Look down, Cordy."

"Oh!"

To say that she was surprised was a bit of an understatement. She'd seen the waypoint on her very first day in the encampment; only, then, she'd thought it was a prison to hold captives. It certainly looked like one.

Several steel shafts of darkened steel had been placed upon the ground in a square of various designs, beneath which a pit had been dug. Through the gaps between the steel shafts, Cordelia thought she could see the muddy brown of rain-soaked soil.

"We're not going to go—" The sorceress shifted her gaze from the waypoint to the druid. "—underneath that, are we?"

Saul laughed, shaking his head. "No." He motioned towards the grate. "On, not underneath."

Cordelia heaved a small sigh of relief—she was in no mood to wade in mud. "Alright. How does this work, then?"

The druid smiled slightly. "You haven't been looking closely, then." He knelt upon the grass beside the waypoint, fingers trailing gently along the edges of the blackened steel. "See here?"

She stooped low beside him, squinting slightly. "What am I supposed to be seeing?"

Saul exhaled exasperatedly as he reached up towards her, drawing her in for a closer look. "Places, Cordy. Names of places in which other waypoints have been built."

The sorceress blinked. Here, now, was something she'd failed to notice. Etched into the blackened steel of the waypoints, on all corners, were, indeed, the names of the lands of Entsteig. The Black Marsh, the forests of Nur'durain; The Inner and Outer Cloisters of the Tamoe Monastery. These names surrounded the square waypoint; two to each side of steel.

Only upon closer inspection did she notice the decorative arrows etched in between each name; each bore a specific direction. "These arrows—"

"—are for you to follow." Saul finished. "Our destination is the Stony Field, which lies to the West. Therefore, we step into the waypoint from the east, towards the west."

Cordelia sighed heavily, nodding as she stepped into the waypoint. "Alright. Easy enou—"

The scream was cut from her throat even as the world around her disappeared in a whirling blur of colours. No sound came to her ears, just as no light came to her eyes. For a single, fleeting moment, Cordelia thought she'd felt the odd sensation of flight; as though the winds had somehow gained the strength to lift her from the ground.

And then, in the blink of an eye, it was over.

She never saw the stony ground onto which she'd tumbled. Only when she'd felt the gentle prickling of grass against her hands and knees did she come to realise that she was no longer in transit. She groaned, staggering to her feet—this form of magical travel did not suit her insides well.

The soft, rustling sounds of rushing winds told her that her companion had arrived. Her vision was somewhat blurred from the tumble she'd taken, but she could see that the druid was smirking.

Scowling, Cordelia reached out with her staff to poke at the other. "You could've warned me."

The druid seemed amused, though he came to her side almost instantly. "You could've asked me before jumping in the way you did." He brushed several blades of grass from the top of her head. "How are you feeling?"

Cordelia winced, pushing his hand away. "Like I've just fallen seventy three yards. Can we please keep moving?" She paused; she could feel the bile rising in her throat. "—I may vomit if we don't."

He smiled wryly, and she could feel his concern—mingled with slight amusement. "Ceres is coming."

Her nausea seemed to fade as a new emotion overcame her head—curiousity. Cordelia frowned slightly as she straightened. "Who?"

The druid nodded; for some reason, his eyes were fixed upon a grouping of trees a little ways off. A moment later, he chuckled, as though slightly amused, before shifting his gaze towards the other. "Oh, I'm sorry. I must introduce you to her."

"Her?" Cordelia blinked several times, her brow creasing further—surely the druid was jesting? That part of the fields were empty, save for the two of them.

"She helped me find my way to the waypoint the other day. When you were deep in faint."

"I can't see her." The sorceress said. She turned her back to the druid, determined to search the fields for a glimpse of the apparent newcomer. "Nothing."

He laughed. "Cordy."

The sorceress exhaled heavily as she returned her gaze to her companion. "Wha—"

Ceres sat perched atop the druid's shoulder; she was, indeed, a beauty of a hawk. Soft, minute feathers of browns and greys grew along the bird's magnificent body, joining at her wings and tail in shades of golds and greens. Her eyes were jade, delicately flecked with various hues of gold and silver.

"—oh."

The hawk watched the sorceress rather haughtily from her perch. Cordelia frowned ever so slightly; she had never had one of the avian population stare her down in quite this manner before. Before the regal-looking bird, the young sorceress felt rather uncomfortable.

"This—" Saul chuckled, reaching up to stroke at the bird's feathers. "—is Ceres."

Cordelia found herself nodding obediently in greeting—towards the bird. Somehow, it felt rude to ignore her presence. After all, she had came to their aid during the windstorm. "Pretty." She coughed.

The bird watched her sternly for a moment or two, before shifting her footing upon the druid's shoulder. She flapped her wings once; and twice, and then, quite without warning, took flight.

They watched the hawk for several long moments, each silent in their own thoughts. When at last the bird disappeared behind several clumps of trees, the sorceress turned to face her companion. "Where now, Saul?"

Saul wrinkled his nose. "Over there. It smells fouler there—demons."

"When in doubt, follow your nose?"

"Exactly."

They made their way westwards through the muddy fields—the rain had seeped deep into the soil, and on more than one occasion, Cordelia found herself slipping, narrowly avoiding what was sure to be nasty tumbles. From time to time, the airborne figure of Ceres would make itself visible between the clouds, only to disappear again moments later.

It was not much later when they came upon an outcropping of rocks and boulders in various shapes and sizes. The most prominent of these were but five in number; menhirs, arranged in a curious circle within the center of the outcropping. Cordelia found herself staring in slight disbelief—such architecture had never before graced her eyes. The arrangements of the menhirs clearly served no practical purpose.

And yet, it seemed to the sorceress that these menhirs radiated with a form of energy—magic, perhaps. She frowned. "These stones—" She shifted her gaze towards the druid for a moment. "—they feel powerful. And yet, I cannot be sure what powers they have harnessed through the ages. What is their purpose?"

Saul wrinkled his nose slightly. For some reason, the druid appeared uncomfortable—his eyes darted from corner to corner of their surroundings, as though he were looking for something. "These are the Cairn stones. The mages have studied them for many centuries now—they are a powerful source of magic; old magic. They are of the same brand of magic as the waypoints' magic. But while the magic of the waypoints have long been discovered, none have been able to decipher the runes carved into these stones, as no one has ever before initiated their magic."

Cordelia sighed quietly as she stepped up towards one of the menhirs. A single rune had been hewn into the grey of the stone—a symbol unlike those the sorceress had studied in her younger days. "That's interesting." She murmured under her breath. "That's very interesting."

She moved from stone to stone, tracing the symbols into her palm in turn; she had no trouble committing runes to memory, for she'd often memorised runes and symbols in her younger days. These runes, though obscure and unknown, were no different. For some reason, Saul did not share her enthusiasm—it was true that he allowed her several long moments to study the stones, but he seemed worried; his dark eyes studied their surroundings with an odd sort of ferocity, as though he knew of an imminent assault.

"Cordy—" It seemed an eternity before he chose to speak. "—we should keep moving."

Cordelia was not quite done with the Cairn stones—their magic intrigued her. It was with a great mass of reluctance that she returned to the druid's side. "Is something the matter? You seem so worried." She frowned.

He shook his head. "We shouldn't linger, is all. There are demons about. Especially here—" He paused, lifting a hand to scratch at his nose. "—Even if I couldn't smell the foul stench in the air, I'd feel the evil."

The sorceress crossed her arms, inhaling deeply as she gazed about the deserted fields. "There's no one here."

"You work with magic, Cordelia. The Cairn stones draw you to them with their magic—they block everything else out. I am not quite so magically inclined—the stones do not draw me so."

Cordelia sighed. Try as she might, she simply could not see sense in the druid's worry—how could she, when there were clearly no demons about them? And yet, she knew that she should trust him; the druid rarely worried. Only the rising of a likely formidable opponent would cause such caution in his actions.

What other choice did she have but to listen to him?

In his lifetime, there had been few instances in which Saul had allowed himself to feel worry. Nonchalance and ease had, for the most part, domineered over his other emotions—and he'd always chosen to look upon the troubles in life with hope, rather than despair. And yet, the general silence they'd encountered thus far within the Stony Fields troubled his mind.

It was true that they'd slain many of the hellspawn and corrupted rogues during their last visit—the corpses that still littered the ground were a testament to that. Even in greatly lessened numbers, however, the demons were unlikely to cease fire. The fallen and the carvers, blood-cousins of different dark elemental magics, were the cowards of the evils—they alone could hide and run from the forces of light. However, the other demons were not quite so spineless, nor were their desires for blood quite so easily sated.

The whole ordeal troubled the druid to a great extent. He was sure of his ability to hold his own in battle, but worried for Cordelia—if the need arose, could she be depended upon to protect herself? She was obviously a formidable opponent; and yet, Saul found himself concerned for her. Would she be able to throw her self-doubt aside to rise to the occasion?

They travelled silently through the fields, across deserted pathways. From time to time, Ceres would swoop down upon them, circling their heads for several long minutes, before disappearing once more into the cloudy skies. Saul was almost sure that the hawk could feel his unease; the frenquency of her visits decreased as they approached their destination. It was not long before they found themselves cast within the shadows of the great grey walls of Nerheid.

The inhabitants of Entsteig knew the giant boulder as but one name: Nerheid. Ten times the length of the greatest war-ships, and twenty seven times the height of the most elevated oaks, Nerheid served only one purpose—to separate the Stony Fields from the shadowy forests of Nur'durain; the Dark Wood.

Saul wrinkled his nose slightly as they came towards the cavernous entrance into the underground passage through Nerheid's belly—the scent of hellspawn lingered even within the mouth of the tunnels. "We're here." He said.

Cordelia's eyes were narrowed in distaste—perhaps it was the prospect of walking within the darkened cavern, and perhaps it was the stench of death all around them. She nodded curtly towards him, before stepping right up towards the mouth of the cave. "And these tunnels will lead us to Nur'durain? To the Dark Woods?"

"Yes."

She sighed, nodding once. Saul found himself crooking a tiny smile—somehow, the sorceress did not strike him as one to enjoy a journey through a darkened, dampened tunnel. In the face of her apparent loathing of the tunnels, however, the druid found himself attempting optimism, if only for her sake.

"It won't be that bad. At least you won't be in there alone." He patted her gently on the shoulder; and she turned her head slightly towards him, only just managing a small smile.

There was a moment of silence; a soft caw echoed in the distance, and the sudden rumbling of thunder rocked the grounds as lightning streaks in golds and silvers began to dance through the skies. Saul frowned, concerned—he'd caught a glimpse of his companion's pallid face.

Her eyes were widened—shock and fear were mirrored within their blue chasms. "Saul—" The word escaped her lips in a softened whisper. "—you were right."

Saul thinned his lips—all too soon, he realised that which his companion spoke of. Overhead, Ceres released a shrill, echoing cry, a warning to the man she had come to respect as one of Nature's own. The druid inhaled sharply, allowing himself only mere seconds to calm his suddenly nervous heart. In his newfound fear, Saul found that he could only just manage a tiny, re-assuring smile—this, he offered to Cordelia.

"Stay close to me." He whispered. The sorceress nodded stiffly, and, for a fleeting moment, her eyes met his.

Saul echoed her nod, before shifting his footing—in a single, sweeping movement, he whipped around, his grip of his staff tightening as yet another flash of lightning barbed across the skies.

The army that marched against them looked to be smaller than most—perhaps fifty strong in size. Within its ranks were various forms of undead; skeletal archers and undead corpses—zombies. The corrupted rogues marched within the center of this army; and, flanking the edges of the ranks, the crimson fallen and cerulean carvers brandished their crudely-made weapons.

They moved in unison; shrieked with unison, a single word uttered in the foulest languages of hell: Rakanishu.

Saul smirked vaguely to himself—it was clear to him that the army had been united in the name of the hell-spawned guardian of the Stony Fields; of the Cairn Stones. The single, sapphire-skinned carver marched at the head of the army, its blackened teeth bared in a ferocious snarl. Rakanishu.

"Are you scared, Cordelia?"

She shook her head firmly.

"Good."

And together, they watched as the hellspawn drew closer; together, they held their weapons at ready. Together, they charged into the fray of glinting blades and serrated daggers—together, they would fight.

Author's Note: Yay! Another chapter! I'm sorry it took so long, you guys, but I've been really busy lately. Also, this chapter might have to be revised, so don't kick me too hard for any mistakes in here!

Also! Thanks go out to Ophelion for the review.

Thanks also for the help with the places of Diablo II—I've found tons of useful information in the site links that you sent me! And yes, there will be lots of blood in the next chapter. Battle scenes!

Signing off for now!