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. A wind, cold as though it had
swept across glaciers, moaned through the room.
KNOW WHO SENDS YOU:
HE WHO OWNS WHAT YOU HAVE SOLD.
Black as night, insubstantial as the smoke of a funeral pyre, the
four phantoms formed before the mage. Their bodies were only
shades of what they had once been, living men. Their eyes were
red as the flame in the hearth, their hearts as empty as
winter's wind.
"Where?" the darkest one, the longest dead, asked.
"A day's journey from here. You should be able to reach
them before dawn. A girl, a dwarf, and a half-elf."
"Bring them?"
Gadar hesitated.
The phantom laughed, and the hair shivered along the
mage's arms. The spirits were his to control, but he feared
them nonetheless. Still, he feared more any interference in
his plans. He could not allow himself to be stopped now.
Tomorrow was the night when the spell must be cast;
tonight the night when one must be chosen from the two
young men who waited in his dungeons. He must set these
four phantoms prowling again. It must be certain that
nothing could occur to thwart the spell.
"Stop them."
"It is done," the leader whispered.
And it was, Gadar thought as he watched the incorporeal
bodies of the spirits thin and fade. It was done. These
creatures had never failed to serve him before. They would
not fail now.
Regret stirred in the old mage's heart. But it never rose
strong enough to call him back from the shadowed path he
walked
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