Click, clack, click, the sound continued, drawing Marek’s focus south, further down the wall.

For some inexplicable reason, he wasn’t afraid. It wasn’t as if a bandit or a kobold would tap on the stone to distract him. They could just as easily slit his throat while he wheezed and caught his breath. Then what is it? he wondered. A mouse crunching on a dried twig? No, that wouldn’t be nearly so loud.

He squinted into the darkness that clung to the wall. All else was illuminated by silver moonlight, taking on the pale blue and white cast. The shadows remained black as pitch, though. “I must be exhausted,” he muttered in disbelief. “Almost looks like the darkness is expanding.”

Marek’s eyes shot to the sky. Sure enough, a bank of clouds was blowing in from the northern passes of Shirgrim. The moon slowly vanished.

The young man stood. His logical mind told him it was well past time to go, that his uncle would worry, and that he’d most certainly catch a cold or worse. Marek’s instinct, though, drew him in the opposite direction. He felt a distinct desire to explore further down along the wall. He wanted to wrap the shadows about his shoulders like a mantle and stay here indefinitely.

Unsure why and uncaring, he strode along the wall and traced his fingers over the rough stone. The clicking didn’t stop; in fact, the cadence became more insistent. His head swung right and left, but try as he might, Marek couldn’t see anything that might be making the noise. Like bones tapping on stone, he thought, unable to shake the impression. Like fleshless fingers…

The image that accompanied the thought finally broke through his reverie. He shook himself and glanced back the way he’d come. Don’t be foolish. Probably vermin is all. Get home, Marek, and be done with it.

The fear his mind had suppressed returned in a rush. Heart pounding, he turned on his heel and took a single step along the wall’s path. Then he froze, ears picking up on a rasping voice. Call us, said the voice, as if whispered over his shoulder. Call for the aid of many, and we will come.

Marek’s legs became pillars of ice. Hands trembling and eyes wide, he dared not look around. It was only your imagination, he told himself. Trick of the wind.

As if summoned, a gust of wind poured over his shoulders and penetrated his cloak. Marek’s lungs rattled and popped as he was forced to clear them. His shoulders bunched, muscles knotting, the cold seeping into his bones. A surge of will unmoored his feet at last, and he resumed his walk. It took all of his concentration to ignore the cramps in his legs and back. Spasms were one of the signs his body was giving out. His own illness was similar to Uncle Mirrin’s. Marek lacked the hallucinations and visions that haunted his guardian, yet as he trudged homeward, he couldn’t help but doubt that assumption.

He promised the Principalities above never to skip another dose of medicine again. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember what had been so important as to ignore the necessity. Surely, any sense of agency and defiance he’d gained wasn’t worth the apparent cost.

The silver light of the moon returned, and some of his fear abated. Marek picked up his pace, and soon he’d found the peaked flagstone that marked the trail leading eastward over the barrows to Misthearth. He strode toward town, ears refusing to acknowledge the clicks that sang like a chorus of fell crickets. It’s only a hallucination. You’ve seen Mirrin have hundreds of them. It was only a matter of time before they came, and we’ve a Healer in town that can help.

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Marek kept up this internal monologue every step of the way, yet movement soon caught his eye. Ahead and down the hill, a plume of mist swirled up from a turf-covered down. Glowing silver and blue, Marek thought he made out the shape of a skull within the swirling mist. Two silver points of light stared at him from its deep sockets, watching him approach. Marek blinked but the creature remained. It lifted a skeletal hand and pointed at him, jaw opening wide. A faint gust of wind shattered the visage into fragments, but not before it managed to speak. The ghostly voice was filled with conviction.

My blade is yours, my lord. Take up thy staff and command me, and my blade will be yourssss.

All attempts to remain calm were thrown aside. Marek broke into a stiff and painful run. Thoughts of his conversation with Tilda returned suddenly; she’d mentioned the rise of a Death Mage in Casteras. Was this all just a series of hallucinations, or was he instead witnessing the onset of a ghastly attack?

Marek, like most commoners, knew little of the dreaded sorcerers. His knowledge was limited to the rumors of the townsfolk, though he’d learned a few things from Rauld himself. The Death Mage Class was inherited, taking the souls of corruptible men and women and turning them into agents of destruction. They wielded the magic of death itself. Capable of resurrecting the deceased, they forged constructs made of rotting flesh and bone. Their Spells could rot the body of a strong warrior in seconds, and all those who had faced one remembered the encounter with utmost fear and respect.

By the way Rauld’s whiskers had trembled in the telling, Marek suspected he might have faced one long ago.

“Rauld,” Marek said between clenched teeth as his feet pounded along the uneven path. “He will know what to do. I only have to reach his tower.”

Perhaps half a mile away, Marek saw the silhouette of the crooked mage tower. He had only to hold out a little longer. His muscles twitched and protested, and twice he was forced to hunch over and hack up mucous and flecks of blood. Ignoring the clicks and moans and breathy voices around him, Marek drove himself up and over the last cluster of barrows. His foot caught on a knot of turf at its zenith, however, sending the young Sigilist tumbling across damp grass.

A rush like pounding surf against the shore filled his ears. Rising on hands and knees, he trembled as what he thought was the rush of blood and wind turned into something else. The wails and frustrated howls of the dead, countless in number, rose like bubbles in a mire. Translucent spirits drifted up from their graves, eyes hungry and hands reaching. With a single purpose, they spoke to him.

Call us, Lord Mage, and we will answer. Our purpose is to fight, to lend our strength to quell the foe. Blade and hammer and spear be yours. Please, Lord Mage, command usss.

Blind panic reared its head. Grunting in pain, Marek rose to a knee and stood on trembling legs. His usually solemn expression was frozen in a grimace as he took in the army of spirits closing in on his position. They wore every variety of armor one could think of, bodies torn and broken or little more than a shamble of bones and sinew. All glowed with the same green-blue translucence.

All yearned for him alone.

Half mad with fear, he shoved off his back foot, yet before he could take another step, a mass of spirits burst up from the barrow beneath him. Mouths yawning, they grasped him at last.

An icy cold he’d never experienced penetrated his body from a hundred points. All frigid like the Silverdown, these rivers coursed deeper within him, carving pathways through his flesh. Marek thought he might be screaming, but the wail of the dead was all he heard. And still, the cold invaded until he noticed it was gathering into a vast pool.

In the center of my chest, he thought distantly, Where my heart should be.

Darkness stole over him at last, a booming voice echoing in the chambers of his mind, The Crucible of the Remnant Mage begins.