Alec awoke. The first thing he was aware of was a stabbing pain in his back where he was lying on a particularly pointed stone no bigger than a knuckle yet entertaining delusions of knifehood. Sitting up, he found himself covered by a thick and rather scratchy grey cloth of some kind, not wool or any other fabric he could put a name to. Slowly he rose to his feet, surprised to find his knees wobbling and unsteady, blinking furiously as his eyes strained to readjust to the gloom.

It was a cave of some sort, exceptionally dry; the only sign water had ever once existed here were the small stalactites and stalagmites, almost vestigial, the diminutive structures forlorn and time-worn relics of an era before man’s ancestors had pondered the pros and cons of standing upright. Ignoring the muted majesty of the structures around him, and barely able to see them in the dim light, Alec zeroed in on the light source which was just visible deeper in the cave. It did not flicker or, if the temperature was anything to go by, provide warmth, but projected a clinical white ambience that carried far, though by the time it reached Alec, white had faded to a dismal and murky grey.

Advancing cautiously and using the stalagmites — at least those few large enough — as cover, he approached, stopping still at every slight clack and click of his boots upon the stone until finally, the light source came into view.

On the hard, rocky floor, a black-robed figure sat, cross-legged and back ramrod straight, gazing at what had to be one of the most beautiful sights Alec had ever laid eyes upon.

A perfect sphere, almost two feet in diameter, floating and apparently transfixed roughly ten feet off the floor, the sphere glowing so brightly that he had to look at it out of the corner of his eye or risk being blinded.

“Beautiful isn’t it?” the robed figure asked softly, disturbing the heavy silence of reverence that had overtaken the cave. That said, he got to his feet and bellowed out into the cavern, his voice echoing back at him in a fading baritone, “Ente! Come forth so that you may be taken back to the place you once called home. Come forth from death’s embrace, your vigil is over, fellow magi have found your work. Come forth.”

Alec took a step back involuntarily, realising he was either in the presence of a sorcerer of the darkest magics or a madman, and, if the stories were to be believed, potentially both.

And then a voice answered back out of the darkness.

“You claim to walk knowledge’s path. What proof have you?” It was a faded, reedy and rasping thing, more the idea of words really.

“When has the pursuit of knowledge required proof?” the robed figure countered.

“For a thing to be known to be true it must be observably true, you should know that. Now demonstrate your knowledge, you wear the black robe, summon me forth. By your power and craft, summon this old ghost or leave me to rest,” demanded the voice.

There was the barest hint of a chuckle from within the robe before he sketched a symbol in the air with his hands. Alec could not truly describe what he’d done, there was no glowing script, nor impression in the air, but somehow he could see the rune the necromancer, for that was what he had to be to commune with the dead so, had sketched. And then a struggling Ente stood before him, his body, for lack of a better word, just a translucent blob of colour, barely even humanoid.

“Time has been harsh on you,” the robed figure observed softly.

“Not so harsh I cannot defend my work,” the ghost stated firmly.

The necromancer sighed before speaking, each word careful and measured. “I regret to say that the Tear must be destroyed.”

As soon as the words left him, the ghost surged forward, its shape becoming more defined, its colour stronger and sharper. Instinctively Alec knew this was an indicator of the ghost’s strength; Ente had been feigning weakness.

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The necromancer was unperturbed by this assault from beyond the grave, the old ghost simply coming to a halt mere inches from its target no matter how it swung and clawed and raked at whatever invisible barrier kept the man from joining his attacker in the hereafter.

“Bastard,” Ente declared angrily to the impassive face holding him at bay.

“Technically incorrect, I knew my father, in fact he and I were on good terms until the day he died, and even now we talk from time to time. Still I can appreciate the sentiment,” the necromancer said in the same too level tone. “I am sorry Ente but paladins are closing in on this cave, I can’t allow them the Tear. It would prove… disruptive.”

The ghost sighed, seeming to collapse into a defeated slouch. “Is there no other way?”

“None,” the necromancer said firmly. “But I have brought a ghost jar. I may not be able to save the Tear but I can at least bring you home. Let them have their small victory, for what is the Tear compared to the mind that made it?”

“My thanks,” the ghost answered, terribly weary and fading once more, whatever strength it had had burned away in its desperate attack. “Long have I wished to go home, it’s just a pity my life’s work must die.”

The dark mage quietly got to his feet and moved over to his backpack, like the rest of his ensemble it was as black as a midday shadow, and removed a small transparent crystal the size of Alec’s thumb, each facet a polished octagon, the teenager was almost disappointed, as gems went it might as well have been glass.

There was another hand gesture, almost a grabbing motion, and then Ente was gone, the gem glowing ever so faintly azure before it was hidden in the voluminous depths of the magician’s pockets.

“Rest well.”

With that done, the necromancer knelt back down to pick up his staff. A time-polished shaft of dark wood topped with a black gem shaped like a human skull, and the same size as well, very much in keeping with the necromancer’s gothic appearance. It should have been unwieldy in its weight, a hideously top-heavy act of artifice, yet going from how its owner held it, the balance was perfect.

With a mild sense of ceremony, he pressed the gem to the Tear, the light fading from within until finally, power either spent or drained, the orb fell, plunging the cave into darkness as it shattered upon the ground into a blizzard of glass shards which bounced harmlessly off of Alec and the necromancer, presumably a spell of some kind.

“Stay close child,” the mage intoned, a small flame appearing in the palm of his hand, “this cave is more than vast enough to lose you beyond even my abilities to find you.”

Alec jumped slightly at being addressed, presuming his presence forgotten.

“W-why have you kidnapped me?” he asked, not quite managing the presence of will to make it a demand now he was no longer entranced by the events around him.

“I would more call it a rescue than a kidnapping,” the barely visible figure replied softly, utterly failing to answer the question. “Now follow, it wouldn’t pay to get lost here.”

“I want to go home!” Alec declared, loud, defiant and just a little bit petulant, if understandably so, his voice echoing around the cave.

“Keep your voice down,” his rescuer/kidnapper hissed urgently. “If they’ve found this cave already then they’ll hear you.”

“Who are they?”

“Paladins,” the kidnapper answered, almost inaudibly.

“Paladins?” he breathed, relief coursing through him as he inhaled deeply to yell.

He never got the chance. A thin, gloved hand moved over his mouth; he’d barely seen the necromancer move.

“Don’t be an idiot, Alec. They’d kill both of us in a heartbeat.”

That said, he removed his hand. The beginnings of a scream died on Alec’s lips as his eyes rolled up into his head, the only thing keeping him from slumping to the floor in unconsciousness the iron grip of his kidnapper.

The necromancer sighed, knocking out the child had been distasteful but necessary.

With another monumental sigh, he hoisted the boy over his shoulder, then, at the same time as hooking the unused arm through a strap on his pack, picked up his stave before heading for the exit.