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. Stories of ghosts and ghouls, the
undead who roam the land in torment. I was terrified for
days after."
"What happened?" asked Nikol, sitting beside him,
crowding near for warmth and comfort. "Why do you
sigh?"
"I told my teacher one of the stories. He was a young
man, a new cleric sent from Istar. He was furious. He called
the Plainsman a wicked liar, a dangerous blasphemer, a
corrupting influence on impressionable youth. He told me
my uncle's tales were ridiculous fabrications or, worse,
downright heresy. There were no such things as ghosts and
ghouls. All such evil had been eradicated by the almighty
good of the Kingpriest. I can still feel the knock on the
head the priest gave me - in the name of Mishakal, of
course."
"What made you think of all this?"
"Those ghost stories." Michael tried to laugh, but it
ended in a nervous cough. "When one of the undead comes
near, my uncle says you feel a terrible chill that seems to
come from the grave. It freezes your heart - "
"Stop it, Michael!" Nikol bounded to her feet. "You'll
end up scaring us both silly. There's snow in the air. We
should go on, whether we're rested or not. That way, we'll
reach the tower before nightfall. Hand me the waterskin. I'll
fill it, then we can be on our way."
Silently, Michael handed over the waterskin. Nikol
walked over, rilled the skin at the bubbling brook. Michael
pulled the symbol of Mishakal out from beneath his robes,
held it in his hand, stared at it. He could have sworn it
glowed faintly, a shimmer of blue that lit the gray gloom
surrounding them, deepening around them, deepening to
black
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