Wraiths Progressing
L eaves driven by the north wind whirled and skittered along the roadway.
The land went silent in advance of the clop and thud of horse hooves.
The whites of the horse’s eyes shone bright in the gloom, and a lather foamed on its neck.
Though its mind had been broken so it would bear the one who now rode it, the reek of living death and all that burrows and rots in graves still excited the poor horse’s senses.
The wraith once known as Terrandon, Lord of the South, had made good progress riding north-northeast from its former territory in Wayman, leaving mounts dead in the road after the life in them had been expended. The wraith proceeded on foot until it came upon another horse it could use.
The call from Blackveil urged it on. Bring the Galadheon, it commanded. Bring her to me.
The wraith traveled as the sun went down in the leaden sky and through the night, seeking deepest shadow in which to hide from the day’s sharp light. The wind lifted its ragged cloak behind as it rode toward Sacor City to heed its master’s call.
E ast of the Wingsong Mountains in the interior of Coutre Province, the wraith known as Lichant, Lord of the East, dug its hands into a mound of earth, pulling away turf, clods of dirt, and rocks.
Digging, digging, digging until the rough stonework of a small cairn began to take shape.
Ancient runes scribed on some of the stones warned against trespass and bore faded spells of warding.
The wraith pried at the seams and fractures of the stonework. It tugged and pulled at the blocks to loosen them, undeterred even when its blackened fingernails were ripped off and papery torn flesh hung from its bony hands.
When finally one of the stones yielded, a current of cold, blue energy erupted around the cairn mound.
The wraith tossed its head back with a tortured howl that echoed through the valley.
The woods went silent, and any who heard the cry felt icy terror strike their hearts before they rushed inside their homes and locked their doors.
Even sitting huddled by their fires, they shivered worse than from any nightmare.
The wraith persisted despite the agony of the wards, dislodging one stone after another. By the time the wards died, its hands smoked.
A hole gaped open where the wraith worked. It reached in shoulder deep, groping and pawing, and retrieved muddy and corroded shards of steel that had once been the blade of a sword. Last of all, it removed what remained of the tang and guard.
The wraith emitted a rasping breath at its success. It had recovered its sword, a sword that could best even a god, and now it would be remade.