What is fate? Are the lives of men and women predestined or do we have freewill? Perhaps it is possible that both are true. Maybe the pattern itself is alive, and allows for the fluidity of each individual life. Yet should one single thread become unfixed forcibly enough, the whole of it could unravel. So when facing the end of all that you are and all that you love, which serves the greater good - to fight to change your destiny, or to surrender to it?

The Story: The companions from the Inn of the Gaudy Sprite have faced the darktide of a Dreadlord and the fell magic of the demonic Blood Arch. Though some have perished in the struggle, something unforeseen and good was forged. Now the company must venture across the Sea of Gold and into the reaching grasp of their enemies. What awaits them is a land of harrowing villains, strange customs, and nightmarish monsters; all of which will push them beyond the limits of sanity and fellowship. It will be a journey without hope; but hope is not a failing common to those living upon the sands of fire.

Excerpt from Chapter 16: The Sacrifice of One

The vapid air tasted rotten. Ducgus and Carryn lead the way ahead with swords held vigilantly. As they stepped warily down the passageway, their own shadows played across the chiseled walls like stalking demons. The underground pressed heavily upon their fears and the silence screamed in their minds – forbidden.

Mykre scowled. The Ur Sadem Cor ruins were a tomb, plain and simple. He kneaded his knuckles against his throat and massaged his neck with his thumb. We are being watched. He knew that with certainty; still, nothing stepped from the shadows to challenge them.

Mykre longed for a drink of anything: wine, whiskey, even Wallace’s bitter ale. Each passage they took became an exercise in horror; and with each passage, the terror mounted. There was no place to hide, and there was no retreat. Mykre and his companions had no choice but to see this through to the end.

The healer reached over and squeezed Sheyla’s shoulder. She released a heavy breath and smiled at the brief respite. His look to her promised that it would be all right. Both knew it was a lie.

Mykre returned to his thoughts. It had been many years since he had known real fear. Terror held no reign over a man who held onto nothing. Apathy of self could be forged into armor stronger than mail, and this he had done. The drinking had only been a crutch. As a Healer, his body was immune to most diseases and poisons, including alcoholism. Mykre drank as a cavalier would polish his armor. He had no illusions that this made him anything more than a coward, hiding under a table, buried deep under a rock someone had named Knee Deep.

Yet now, with suspense wrapping its fist around his heart, he felt fear. Mykre frowned sourly. There could only be one explanation - he was now holding on to something. My friends. The self-imposed walls warding his psyche were beginning to crumble. Guilt washed through him; believing that these feelings of belonging betrayed his love for another - his beloved Laurel, buried these twenty long years now. Dead because he had failed.  He could deny none of it.

The passage continued curving downward, descending deeper into the spire. After several more minutes of creeping, the hallway leveled and the flickering of several torches revealed a vast rectangular chamber perhaps fifty paces in length. Every niche and surface, including the pillars and high arches, were scored with cruel hieroglyphs and etchings. The floor was sandy, but unlike the pale grains of the dunes, this was grave dirt. Eleven massive stone sarcophagi lined the perimeter. The relief and scrollwork showed no signs of erosion or age. Above the graves, tall obsidian statues kept vigil. Each depicted the body of a warrior with the head of a jackal. A high, irregular stone table dominated the room’s center where sharp and menacing tools of gleaming silver lay atop the dull stone.

The companions had taken only a few steps forward when a foul wind blew through the room. In the sputtering torchlight, the eyes of the eleven statues assailed the intruders. A moment later, the wind was gone.

Sheyla’s look was pure horror. “Sadem-mumaed. The Curse of the walking dead.”

“This is just plain wrong,” Silas breathed.

“I’ve got a bad feeling,” Jester mumbled. “I don’t think we need to be in here.”

Carryn nodded after a moment. “I think you may be right.” Murmuring in agreement, the others turned to step away.

Too late. A low moan filled the hall. It was forlorn, hungry, and sanguinary all at once. More eerie sounds followed, reverberating through the passage behind them. The company looked to their one and only avenue of escape, and despaired at the disjointed shadows passing down its length. Involuntarily, the party stepped back into the burial chamber.

The ghastly shades solidified into the cursed. The corpses were all but decayed - skeletoid creatures wrapped in tattered burial shrouds. The only organs clearly intact were their eyes. Steeped with malignancy, their putrefied countenances sweep across the party, and unholy moans issued crudely over broken teeth. They shuffled forth in twisted agony, swaying their heads like cobras set to strike. Behind came others, groping, stalking. At first there were four, then nine, then over a dozen.

Carryn and Ducgus stepped forward, arcing their blades slowly over their heads and into a ready position. The others retreated to the center of the tomb as the cursed filed forth from the passage.

Jester struck first. A triad of flame burst from his outstretched hands to surge over the lead creature. Fire cracked across its form like tinder, but the cursed still advanced. Carryn stepped in and struck low across its waist. Her solid blow swept through the creature with a dry snapping of bones and it fell in halves upon the floor. Yet, it came still, dragging itself with putrid arms, moaning in hunger all the while. Ducgus struck as well, splitting its skull. Still the thing would not die, but lay writhing directionless and burning in the sand.

The remaining cursed pressed forward like a flowing dune. Ducgus and Carryn struck, hacking at the undead with terrible resolve, but the enemy was too many.

Silas rushed in. He focused his balance just as Carryn had instructed, by turning his body sideways and taking a half-step towards his target, blade leveled between the heart and the head. He then stepped into an overhand strike and pivoted, neatly decapitating his opponent. Blindly, the cursed lurched; its bony fingers striking to Silas’s throat. With inhuman strength, it began crushing his windpipe. Silas flailed desperately with his fists, but could not break free. Suddenly a sheet of lightning splintered the creature into a hundred shards of bone.

Silas fell back. Even as Carryn and Ducgus dispatched another fiend, the party was repulsed further into the chamber. With putrid groans and gnashing of splintered teeth, the damned closed about them - footfall by twisted footfall. From the shifting shadows of the chamber floor, one of the cursed who had since fallen to their blades reattached its broken skull and rose again in baneful hunger. It shuffled forward in contempt of what little courage the warm-blooded mortals still possessed.

Without warning, a skeletal arm jutted from the sands behind Ducgus and grabbed for him. Without thought, the minstrel leaped over and swung his blade in an underhanded arc. The arm snapped free and flew for several paces. In the flickering torchlight, the hand quivered as if still reaching for him. Without mercy, another cursed climbed from the sandy floor.

“Fall back!” Ducgus cried.

Where to? Silas’s mind screamed.

At his side, Carryn shouted in pain. Two of the cursed had seized her, and a third had torn a ragged finger across her chest, ripping through robes and flesh. She freed her sword arm and thrust the blade through the mouth of monster assailing her. The skull snapped from the creature’s neck, wrenching the sword with it. Simultaneously, another cursed bit savagely into her shoulder. Bone cracked in a spray of blood.

Silas and Ducgus jumped on her attackers, hacking like madmen until the corpses splintered away. Abruptly, a magical wall of flames shot across the chamber before them, allowing Silas and Ducgus to drag Carryn from the advancing horde. The company retreated to the center of the room, backs to the stone table.

As they stood there, haggard breaths whittling through dripping sweat and reckless spit, Jester’s firewall began to waver. The flames parted like silken veils and, one by one, the cursed advanced.

There was nowhere left to run.

The creatures spread out across the hall, and halted. Still writhing in agony, they moaned in increasing fervor, but approached no further. The companions held their breath.

Then once again the grave spewed open. From the abysmal shadows about the chamber, stone grated upon stone, and the lids of the sarcophagi inched open. In response, the cursed fell to their knees, arms waving in anticipation. Stone lids crashed upon the ground, and ethereal figures of towering flame rose as liquid air. Their humanoid bodies were dull black, like coals turned to ash. Their nearly human faces stirred like molten lead. Their white hot eyes burn about them with eternal hatred. Yellow-orange flames cloaked their bodies like robes.

Sheyla backed against Mykre. “Efreti!” She was trembling violently, and she was not the only one. To one side, Jester and Ducgus stood overwhelmed by panic, and on the other, Silas frantically supported the half-conscious Carryn. The knight’s blood dripped from her wounds to pool at her feet. Her pupils dilated and her face paled.

One Efreti, greater in bearing than his brethren, advanced to the table, forcing the party to retreat midway towards the cursed. It burned its gaze across their minds, measuring their terror like a merchant at his scales. When at last satisfied, it spoke.

“The Curse falls upon the lambs.” Its voice was dry, but as timeless as winds raking the dunes. It scorched its fingers along the stone table, perhaps waiting.

Mykre accepted the challenge. “You are Akorte,” he accused, just as dryly. “It is you that has hunted us across these deserts.”

“Mykre,” the Efreti spoke. The sound of his name in that voice resonated like damnation. “Priest of the Northern mythos. Helot of the Light. I see you. Your soul is marred in presumption and affliction. You were unmade years ago. Why did you not have the good sense to die?” Those words, impotent in the mouth of another, stabbed clear through Mykre’s heart.

The healer closed his eyes, turning away from that dread stare. “Death would have been too kind.” Oh, Laurel!

Ducgus held aloft his blade. “Stop assaulting a defenseless old man, you monster. Or are you afraid of the taste of cold steel?”

Akorte merely raised his hand. The Elf’s blade flared white-hot, searing into Ducgus’s palm. The Elf dropped the sword to the sands, where it melted in liquid heat.

Akorte grinned. “I claim you for the Sadem-mumaed. Steel, magic, prayers will avail you nothing.”

Jester took a half step forward. “You’re not making any friends here, you know.” Silence followed his remark. Jester cocked his head with incredulity. “That was funny,” he complained to the Efreti.

Akorte picked up a large twisted poker. “The ritual of the Sadem-mumaed requires disembowelment. I condemn you to endure the rituals while still alive.” The Efreti looked down towards the table and spread its arms wide. Ash-skin blistered under writhing flames. The other Efreti bellowed tumultuously with hard, alien speech; their white-hot eyes wide with expectancy. The cursed moaned in frenzy.

Akorte looked back at the humans. “The rituals are protracted, with pain beyond all imagining. By the time your Sol rises again, you will undergo the Sadem-mumaed and join the ranks of the cursed for all eternity.”

Akorte picked up a long silver blade, inscribed with dark hieroglyphs. “But this night requires that one of you must die.” He lifted a fiery palm towards the ceiling. “The Fallen Iron Fist encroaches ever closer; the Iron Fist must be kept at bay.” The Efreti behind Akorte hissed obstreperously. “Hades has promised to stay its brother; but Hades requires a human sacrifice.” He pointed a long fiery finger at Sheyla. “You, the Rydaan, are the hope of the your people. That hope dies this hour.”

Mykre stepped before Sheyla. “No!” his voiced rang through the hall. He raised one hand to the heavens and pointed the other at Akorte. “We are Children of the Light! In the name of the Creator, I defy you.” He spat at Akorte. “For Vara Mjazahir, for the Umayyd clansmen, for all that you have butchered, there will be a reckoning. I challenge you. I will be the first to face your dark curse, and I will undo you. My soul is beyond you. You are nothing. Your judgment is set.”

Akorte’s face boiled in rage. “So be it. You will be the first. Witness your Creator abandon you, and know that your blood will summon a Demon Lord!”

The last two syllables stunned the humans into silence. Akorte continued. “And it will gain you naught. Tomorrow, your body will be prepared for the Curse, and the others will follow, including the Rydaan. In the Well of the Damned, I will rape her secrets from her soul.” He pointed a long finger at Mykre. “Bring the priest to me.”

Several cursed rose slowly and shuffled forward. “No!” Sheyla screamed. “Leave him alone!”

Akorte ignored her.

Yet before he could be taken, Mykre reached for Carryn, who was still slumped against Silas. His hands fastened about her shoulder and chest; he closed his eyes and muttered quick prayers. Magic stirred.Verses clamored frantically through the chambers of his mind, even as bony fingers grabbed at him. Upon the fringe of his awareness, a short and furious struggle erupted. He was pulled from Carryn in mid-prayer, and dragged away.

Mykre opened his eyes. Through the haze clouding his vision, he witnessed Jester and Ducgus struggling to save him. “No!” Mykre shouted. “Stand fast you thick-headed fools. This must fall to me.” He winced in a flood of pain, as fresh blood matted his robes. Ducgus and Jester hesitated. Behind them, Silas was restraining Sheyla, who was leaping forward in complete rage.

Becoming aware of her predicament, Carryn stood – unsteadily. She was still badly wounded, but no longer dying. He saved me! Even as he was being dragged away. She stepped forward to attack, but collapsed under the pain constricting her chest.

Mykre was manhandled onto the table and held spread eagle by the cursed. Sheyla leaped again for him, crying. “No!” The others held her back.

Father Mykre beheld his friends. If I buy them time, just a few hours. Maybe. His eyes calmed.

Akorte smiled, as if reading his thoughts. “You imagine your death may ransom them. Ignorant. An army could not fight free from here. Come night’s end, the Sadem-mumaed shall befall each of you. Living, or,” he pointed his golden blade at Mykre, “dead.” His sneer crackled like charring tinder. “As for the Giant and the Dwarf, the cursed will find them as well. None shall escape the sadem-mumaed.”

Despair flooded Mykre. From his prone position, he looked full into the face of evil. Thus will it end. He felt panic. He felt shame. But in those final moments, he did not feel alone. Above him Akorte drew back the cursed blade to strike.

“I die in the light.”

“You die,” Akorte amended. In one swift motion, he plunged the blade into Mykre’s heart. The priest wailed sharply and fell horribly silent.

The companions cried out in horror. The cursed groaned with frenzy. The Efreti chanted. Akorte removed the blade and with fresh blood sizzling in his hands, and he raised his arms wide. The Efreti’s chant quickened and blood continued to flow from Mykre’s body. Then, in the deepest recesses of their souls, the party heard a sound not unlike the creaking of a cemetery gate. The chanting fell away.

Akorte’s form flared. “The Fallen comes. Tonight, Var Otto will burn.”

The company huddled together in despair, their heartbeats sounding through their chests. Amid those frantic beats, came the sound of a something approaching. Massive. More terrible than the Efreti or the blood flowing from Mykre’s heart. The presence was the darkest of midnight, and the humans hid their gaze.

Akorte’s voice whispered. “You come as promised. Our powers are one. Our fates are bound forever.”