“Run!” the crowd shrieked! “Run!” Wraiths began divebombing them, snatching up people with their bony fingers and embracing them in a kiss of death, then dropping them to the ground. Maurice began a familiar utterance, and a ball of light began to grow in front of them, momentarily protecting them against the wraiths.

“Look!” Teresa said. A wraith had Gregor’s ankles in its bony claws, trying to drag him up to the sky. The executioner had long disappeared without pulling the lever, but Gregor’s hands were still tied and the rope was still around his neck. Now the rope was all that held him to the ground, slowly strangling him.

Before Terry could move, Elwood rushed forward, out of the protective sphere, and ran at the wraith, waving his iron sword. The wraith screeched in pain, and let go of Gregor, but did not disappear. Gregor fell to the platform with a heavy thud as Maurice and Terry rushed forward, but before they could reach Gregor and Elwood with the sphere of protection, yet another forest wraith swooped down upon them and snatched up the young cleric in one long, bony claw. They saw Elwood swinging at it bravely with his iron sword as he rose in the sky—the wraith screamed in pain and dropped him from a terrible height.

“Elwood!” Maurice screamed, and the orb of light wavered.

“Don’t stop, Maurice!” Terry shouted, and rushed up the gallows stairs, now within the golden orb of protection. Gregor’s body was horribly still. She ripped off the noose and the hood, desperately afraid of what she would see.

But Gregor was an ox of a man, and the muscles of his neck had saved him. He coughed and sputtered in Terry’s arms—spewing spit and mucus everywhere. But Terry didn’t mind.

“Can you stand up?” she asked, unbinding the knots that tied his arms together. He coughed again, and nodded, while Maurice grimly muttered on. “Be ready,” she said. Then she removed her golden ball from her pouch and leapt off the gallows platform, spinning fabulously with the ball in her hand, throwing it in a spiral at the sky.

Immediately, a cacophony of shrieks could be heard, and the sky grew slightly less dark as many of the flying wraiths disappeared into the air. They stopped divebombing the courtyard, trying to stay out of range of the golden ball. When Maurice saw that the threat of Terry’s weapon was protecting them, he ceased his chanting and ran to where Elwood lay.

“Oh, Elwood!” he cried. The fall had broken his neck. He reached out his hand and closed the dead man’s eyes. “You fought bravely, my friend,” he said quietly, then quickly picked up the dead cleric’s sword and shield.

“You must take these,” he said to Gregor.

“What?” Gregor said. “I’m a woodsman. I carry an axe.”

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

“Your axe is gone, and you need weapons. These are a centurion’s weapons, and they suit you.”

Gregor begrudgingly accepted, while Terry eyed the sky, her golden ball in her hand. The winged wraiths hovered as close as they dared.

“Let’s go,” Maurice said, and they made their way slowly through the chaos of a city under attack towards the northern gate. Every 100 steps or so, Terry would throw the ball in a great, arcing spiral, killing many of the creatures, and keeping them at bay. But for the most part, they seemed focused on destroying the city. The screams of the people were horrible.

“Can we not help them?” Gregor choked out as they slowly approached the city gates.

“We can only help them by beginning our quest,” Terry said, and Maurice nodded.

“But couldn’t you call for Old Tom?”

“I almost did—for you,” Terry said. “Even though I knew it was not the right time. There’s going to be a time—I feel it. I don’t think I’ll get to do it twice, though, and this is only the first glance of what we can expect to face.”

As soon as they passed through the city gates, Terry no longer needed to defend the little group with her spiral throw. As they looked back, they saw a horrible black cloud over the city, and at random spots, smoke started to pour into the air.

“Do you think the duke—” Terry began.

“Oh, yes,” Maurice said. “There’s no way he survived. No one survived but us, I think,” he added grimly. “I can only be grateful that the clerics and head clerics are safely asleep in their house of stone. It’s well protected by magic. I hope for the best. Ah, Elwood. What a noble death. He was my friend.”

They trudged on in silence on for some time, and the chaos of the city faded behind them. The blue sky and peaceful fields seemed almost to mock them, knowing the death and destruction they had left behind. Sometime near noon, Gregor cleared his throat.

“Ahem—ouch!” he said, grabbing his throat. “Just curious. Do—uh—flying wraiths drop coins?”

“No,” Maurice said. “It weighs them down.”

“Too bad. Also, does anyone know where we’re going?”

“North,” Terry said. “We found the place where the grass grows upside down.”

As they walked, they explained to Gregor the illustration in the book, and the suncaves of the north. Gregor’s eyes grew wide as he heard the tale.

“My, my,” he said. “You’ve been busy book learning! And here I was thinking I was missing some battles! You know, good stuff.”

“Oh, Gregor, did they treat you horribly?”

Gregor shrugged. “Nothing my tough hide can’t take.” He laughed. “They were for sure beyond certain that I was the highwayman, though! ‘Confess,’ they’d say, and I’d say, ‘I confess that I’m Gregor the woodsman, now Gregor the wraithlord-killer, but I am not Gregor the highwayman!’ Eventually, they branded me with an H,” he added casually.

“What?” Teresa said.

“Oh, yes,” Gregor said, and showed them a fiery wound on his upper chest. “Hurt like the dickens,” he added. “Still does.”

“Would you like a healing potion?” Maurice asked, but Gregor waved him off.

“Nah,” he said. “Let’s save them for when we need them.”

The rest of the afternoon was uneventful, but for the aches and pains of the long walk, and their sorrow at witnessing the attack on the city. Occasionally a cloud of flying wraiths would block the sun, but they never came within range. It was well past dark when they finally approached the abbey.

“I know this place well,” Maurice said. “I studied here for some time. The head cleric is Hemdale’s cousin, I think.”

The sight of the place seemed to bring some cheer to Maurice, but then his good humor disappeared. “There’s no light at the windows,” he said, and three of them paused.

“Wait here,” he said, and approached the dark abbey alone.