The rider’s long cape flapped in the wind as he raced across the narrow dirt road. He was keeping pace with two others as they charged their horses through the dusk. The road they traveled was an ancient passage that wound its way through the very heart of the deadly swamps for which their homeland was known. Avoided by all but the most foolhardy of travelers, the soft and treacherous terrain had dragged many a soul down to its watery depths over the centuries and the riders were just one wrong turn away from joining them.

With scant few withered trees in sight the late autumn winds swept across the desolate landscape mostly unhindered. The reeds they bent sent ripples running across the cold water, stirring the long forgotten victims that slumbered in the depths below. The winds whispered a silent warning: to keep away from the land of the dead. It was an advice that only the foolish or brave would disregard, but it was also a warning that these desperate men could not heed.

The hour was late. Victorian looked back one more time to catch a glimpse of his pursuers – the dozen shadowy riders that had been chasing him for the better half of the evening. He was hoping for a miracle only to find that they were now no more than an arrow’s flight behind him.

At this pace I will drive my horse to death, he thought. How much farther is it?

His tired eyes scanned the horizon ahead of him in search of a landmark. An old ruin of a time long gone was known to lie at the heart of the swamp. Most people had a story to tell of it, but none could claim to have seen it in person. Not traders, knights or even hermits could be persuaded to scout it. That was because everyone knew the nature of the stories surrounding it – the legends of old and horrible powers, warnings of curses and worse – for there was always something sinister about a graveyard to be heard. But it wasn’t the dead slumbering within their graves that gave weight to these ghost stories. No, it was the dead walking out and about them that had seen the site wisely abandoned for centuries.

Victorian’s heart jumped as the unmistakable shape of a burial hill slowly dawned over the starlit horizon. His moment of relief was brief, however, for the paladin knew his odds of survival. There was only a slim chance for salvation to be had by treading upon such unholy ground.

Surrounded by crumbling stone walls, cast pitch black by the onset of the night, the decrepit outline of a graveyard slowly rose up from the featureless terrain ahead of him. An ancient burial ground of generations long forgotten, it was an island frozen in time, forever adrift in the sea of death that enveloped it. This lonely mound of earth was completely parted from the rest of the world except for the single dirt road running through it. And it was exactly because of this secret passage that it would have unwelcome visitors tonight.

A strong gust of wind blew back the cowl of Victorian’s cape revealing the young man’s face. He struggled briefly with his unwieldy garment only to give up on it a moment later. The cowl remained flapping in the wind as he spurred his horse towards the graveyard.

The paladin was lightly armed and armored. He wore a chainmail shirt over his cotton gambeson and his only weapon was a steel arming sword that rattled at his left side – a weapon carried for self-defense in absence of better armament.

He was not equipped for a proper fight and there was only so much that his arcane gifts could do to aide him against overwhelming numbers. And what magic Victorian had mastered was of no use against the living foes driving him towards the graveyard.

The paladin found himself between a rock and a hard place with nothing more than a few years of training to call upon. Still, he did not allow for despair to set in.

Though barely a man grown, Victorian already had that piercing look in his eyes of someone who had witnessed the cruelty of war. A tall, lean youth with wide shoulders and short blond hair, he made a striking first impression. Most notable was the poorly healed scar that ran across his brow. Had the blade cut him a little lower the wound could have cost him his right eye – possibly his life – yet it had not been the end of him. And neither was Victorian going to let his enemies slay him tonight.

This is not how I am going to die, Victorian reminded himself. I will have my vengeance!

Seeking to lose his pursuers by any means possible Victorian’s party raced towards the graveyard. With the onset of the night a full moon now cast its silver light over the ruins. It etched the sharp edges of the crypts and mausoleums into the starlit skyline, as if to point out the way for the young paladin and his fellow men. It was a solemn invitation best turned down by the living, because on a night like this the dead were sure to be restless.

– On a night like this it was easy to join their ranks. But that was the risk Victorian had to take.

“Halt, Richter!” one of the riders pursuing them yelled. His voice carried strong across the barren wasteland. “Be smart! We only need the boy!”

That man is wasting his breath, Victorian thought as he looked with confidence to the veteran soldier riding at his side. You’ve gotten me this far, old friend. Just a little farther now…

Richter was a grizzled, gray haired man well past his prime and he was one of the few people that Victorian could still trust, as he did – right now, with his life. Having served the Rotwald house for well over a decade, the old soldier had proven himself a wise and skilled master at arms. His mentor’s past, however, was something Victorian had never quite gotten to know about.

The old man’s face was as hard as rock. Not giving even a moment of consideration to the offer made by their pursuers, Richter instead encouraged his young master to focus on the task at hand.

“Don’t listen to them, Victorian,” he yelled over the noise of the chase, “Focus. Look out for the enemy. Be ready to fight when we enter that accursed place!

Things will get worse from now on. But the graveyard might yet turn our luck.”

Victorian spurred his horse onwards expecting the worst. The dead will get to us first...

Richter reached over to Victorian and pressed a crumpled up scroll into his hand. “Take it!” he ordered. “If all else fails, use it to ward against the undead! It could buy you time.”

Victorian took hold of the bruised paper parchment and felt something hard beneath it. Careful not to drop the item, he shifted the scroll in his hands revealing a small vial with an amber colored liquid bound inside of it. There didn’t appear to be any easy way of opening the glass vessel, so Victorian reasoned that it was some sort of an explosive or incendiary concoction.

“Dragon’s Breath!” Richter yelled and pointed to the item in Victorian’s hand. “It’s an incendiary – you break the vial at the feet of your target!”

Victorian gave his old mentor a concerned look. And what about you…

Richter seemed to understand the boy’s expression and mustered a weary smile. “I will be fine!” he said. “I will see us through this.”

The graveyard was close enough now that Victorian could smell the heavy presence of decay lingering in the air. An old place. A haunted place. But it was the only path left open to him. If his pursuers caught up – which was only a matter of time now – his fate would be sealed. Even with the aid of Richter I couldn’t face them all at once.

With that concern weighing heavily on his mind, Victorian finally arrived at his destination. He rode past the time worn and crumbling gate pillars crossing into the now unholy ground. The scene beyond met him with an eerie silence befitting the realm of the dead. Victorian charged past countless gravestones, tombs and chapels; grey and moss covered statues, carved in the likeness of their long buried owners. He had entered the realm of the living-dead where the merely living were unwelcome guests at best.

Victorian’s gaze narrowed as he scanned his surroundings for the vaunted undead that were known to roam here. Terrible, unholy things, brought back to life by evil intent, both of their own and that of others. The undead were a formidable adversary even when simply left to their own devices, but if someone was leading them, commanding them…

The merciless servants of darkness were fearsome opponents, but the ones controlling them were the real threat.

Mages were known to sometimes dabble in the dark arts of death magic. Forbidden as these practices were, to some the immorality of resurrecting and commanding the dead was not an issue. It was common knowledge that the practice of this universally despised school of magic was punishable by death – often carried out on the spot without a trial. Yet, there were still some who sought such knowledge regardless of the dangers involved, be they human laws or… inhuman sacrifices.

Necromancers. Victorian shuddered at the thought of meeting one here. Having trained as a paladin – a warrior-mage in the service of the Temple and the living – he knew quite well just how powerful and cruel these mages could be. They truly had to be if they sought control over the creatures of the un-death and all the unspeakable horrors that came with it. And he had just set foot inside their realm.

The twelve riders were still giving chase in spite of the dangers presented by the haunted place. Their determination to capture young Victorian apparently outweighed their fear of the graveyard’s gruesome denizens.

There had been none at first, but Victorian could now make out the undead creatures lurking in the darkness. The bone constructs shambled quietly through the aisles between the open graves. Their minds were consumed by an aimless drive to wonder the earth, never knowing why or to what end they did so.

Victorian pitied them. What little remained of their past lives now drove the living corpses in an everlasting quest towards nothing. They served no purpose, had no place on this world. But they were also excessively aggressive towards the living. And, with the full moon shining bright in the sky above, this was a spectacularly bad night to find oneself in a place like this – least of all things, unprepared.

Yet, Victorian’s pursuers seemed undeterred by the encroaching undead. The twelve riders cursed as they charged down the withered corpses that had gathered in a trail behind the party preceding them. Though initially somewhat hampered by the narrow pathways of the cemetery and its hostile denizens, the pursuers pressed after the young paladin with unyielding determination.

“Look out ahead, My Lord!” Richter shouted.

The half-sunken cobblestone road had lead Victorian to a massive tomb at the very heart of the graveyard. He was betting everything on his enemies getting delayed by the undead while he and his men – who rode in a much tighter formation – could evade the creatures more easily. Perhaps there was even a chance that they could pick off some of the riders along the way…

The young paladin paid too much mind to his pursuers and was about to commit a grave error of judgment because of it.

Glancing back over his shoulder at the riders, Victorian failed to notice a withered corpse as it staggered out in front of him. The creature spooked his horse as it impacted him head on, causing the beast to suddenly change direction and clash with a tombstone lying adjacent to the road. The young paladin was sent flying as his horse tumbled over the solid granite slab.

“Gaah!” Victorian let out a pain filled roar as he landed on the barren ground. The impact had been somewhat lessened by his padded under armor, but he was still left at a loss of breath.

The panic stricken horse staggered to its feet and ran off, leaving the fallen rider to fend for himself.

“We have him now!” one of his pursuers called out. “Over here!”

Victorian recognized the voice. It was his own court priest, Melvin – now a determined supporter of the usurper of his father’s tile. There were a few more reasons why Victorian would have liked to kill the man – slowly – if he ever got the chance, but his vengeance was going to have to wait for a more opportune moment. For now the last son of House Rotwald would have to fight for his survival.

“My Lord!” Richter shouted as he turned his mount towards Victorian, “Take my horse!”

There is no way I can make it out of the graveyard on my own, Victorian thought as he drew his sword in defense against the undead. He didn’t have to wait long to use it as a skeleton came charging in from the darkness. With the distinct cracking of bones that such an abomination made, it lunged at Victorian, unarmed, jaw gaping for the bite.

Fortunately for the paladin, the creature had misjudged the distance and ended up landing at Victorian’s feet. But it was quick to press its advance as it grabbed hold of Victorian’s legs, thus pinning the man to the ground. The bone fingers dug into the paladin’s thighs as the monster sought to claw its way over to the more vulnerable parts of the human’s body.

Victorian swung his sword towards the creature’s head. The blade struck the skeleton in the face and buried itself deep into the soft bone just below the nose. Unfortunately for him, the skeleton seemed merely inconvenienced by this. Even worse, he was no longer facing the man alone as two more abominations emerged from the darkness to join in the fray.

The hate driven creatures set their glowing green eyes upon Victorian and went in for the kill.

Unable to free his blade in time, Victorian promptly released it, leaving the creature struggling with the sword still stuck in its head. Desperate to free himself before his enemies could overwhelm him, the young paladin drew back his right arm for a strike.

Victorian cried out in righteous anger and his whole hand was engulfed by a golden aura. The paladin proceeded to deliver a devastating punch to the creature’s head that sent its skull and upper body soaring through the air. It wasn’t the force of his fist, but rather the arcane blast that the paladin had manifested around it that carried the day.

Unfortunately for Victorian, his sword – still lodged in the monster’s head – was sent flying off into the night along with the rest of the creature.

“Cursed undead!” Victorian hissed through his teeth. Still, at least he was finally able to get back up on his feet.

Just as the two remaining skeletons were about to reach the young paladin, Richter came charging in from behind them. He crushed one creature beneath the hooves of his steed while he himself used the flat of his blade to decapitate the other one. Richter then rode on, towards the priest and his men in an attempt to hinder their advance.

Victorian realized that there was little sense in remaining out in the open where the riders could charge him down with impunity. So he dashed, as fast as his injuries allowed, for the uncertain safety of the nearby tomb. But, since he was now unarmed, the higher ground of the stone steps was also going to be of little use if the undead should endeavor to swarm him.

Meanwhile his valiant escorts clashed with their pursuers in one final and desperate attempt at staving off the inevitable. It was nowhere near a fair fight.

The lone man at arms accompanying Richter was the first one to fall. Struck by the priest’s spell, his horse threw him and the man was quickly set upon by the undead horde. He spent his last moments in a fierce – if entirely futile – struggle with the growing number of undead surrounding him. Nothing could have been done to aid him. Judging from his screaming, the monsters took their time clawing through his armor before a mortal injury was struck.

Now Richter stood alone against the twelve riders. He masterfully parried the attacks of one of the armor clad warriors as the two horsemen clashed, but he too was thrown from his horse when it was struck by a lightning spell. The blue bolt of electricity had held enough of a charge to kill the beast outright, but only managed to stun the rider.

Richter barely managed to avoid being pinned under his horse as it fell.

“Escape, My Lord!” he shouted back at Victorian while trying to recover from his fall. ”I will buy time–”

“Get out of my way, you old fool!” a familiar voice called out over the noise of the battle. The priest, Melvin, halted his horse a safe distance away from Richter.

“You can’t protect the boy now,” Melvin said. “At least save your own wretched hide. My new liege has no need for your head or your services.”

The soldiers, of whom there were nine in the priest’s group, scoured their immediate surroundings, cutting down the undead before they could reach an overwhelming mass. Judging from how fiercely they charged them down, it was evident that this was not their first dance with death and its creatures.

Richter readied his sword. “I’d rather die here than live on as a traitor,” he proclaimed and pointed his weapon at the priest. He then took a moment to try and catch his breath before continuing, “How could you, Melvin? To think that you could be as cruel as to betray our Lord’s trust. After all that he did for you…”

The priest laughed in response. “Please, Richter, don’t judge me,” he said. “I’ve taken your confessions. I know of the things you have done. Do you really think that dying for some highborn brat will redeem your soul? The Oblivion is where you belong, monster!”

Melvin then spurred his horse into a charge. As he drew closer to Richter, the priest raised his staff and pointed it towards the lone man. A flash of white light and a blast of force erupted from the staff and clashed with Richter, striking the man from his feet.

Melvin frowned in contempt for his near helpless adversary. “You are old, Richter,” he declared as he turned his horse around for a second pass, “It is time for death to have its due. If it is punishment for your sins what you seek then I will be more than happy to grant it!”

Another blast followed.

Pummeled by the powerful magic of the priest, Richter tumbled across the ground like a ragdoll until coming to a stop at the foot of a time worn granite tombstone.

The priest winced at the sight of Richter’s unyielding determination. “Stop wasting my time!” he demanded. “I take little joy in this.”

As if to spite Melvin, Richter once more struggled to his feet and raised his sword. Having already resigned himself to defeat he looked over to Victorian, who was still perched on the steps of the tomb, and barked his final command in a ragged voice: “Go already– you idiot!”

Victorian gritted his teeth as he looked upon his mentor for what he knew would be the last time.

Farewell, Richter…

Richter graced the last lord of house Rotwald with a stern nod before turning to face his enemies.

A fare-well indeed…

Determined to use what little time Richter’s last stand had bought him, Victorian delved into the tomb. With no moonlight to guide him, the only thing that Victorian could make out beyond the doorway was a five man wide spiral staircase leading deep underground.

Victorian raised his hand before him and channeled a small amount of his arcane power into his fingers. The golden glow that he created was no better than a candle’s light, but any small amount of arcanite spent now would be arcanite sorely missed later. And he would need all of his arcane might – as little as there was – to fend off whatever horrors dwelled beyond.

A crypt? Victorian thought as he examined the staircase before him, If I could maybe arm myself? If there was something down there that I could use against them…

To enter the realm of the dead unprepared seemed like a terrible decision to make, but at this point there was no other option left.

Victorian placed his left hand over the leather pouch on his waist and felt the vial of Dragon’s Breath inside of it. He then reached for a gold chain around his neck and pulled out a medallion from beneath his chainmail shirt. It was a bulky thing – a palm sized base of pure gold that housed a hefty ruby in the shape of an arrow head.

“Ancestors, protect me,” Victorian said as he clenched the artifact in his hand.

It was his inheritance – a knight’s medallion capable of manifesting a defensive barrier, but only for a short while and only when worn by one gifted in the arcane arts. It was his last line of defense, so the young paladin was determined not to waste it.

Deep down Victorian still prayed for a miracle to save them. If there had ever been a moment when he had hoped for a divine intervention the most, then it was now. That is why, despite Richter’s orders, he found it impossible to simply abandon his old friend and mentor to his cruel fate.

So Victorian lingered at the mouth of the abyss a moment longer, observing the two battles simultaneously taking placed before the steps of the tomb. The one between mortals seemed all but decided while there was no telling how long the dead would keep up their assault on the trespassers.

Melvin channeled an illumination spell from his staff. It lit up the otherwise gloomy graveyard with a warm golden glow. His comrades stepped up their attacks on the undead, now aided by the necromancy weakening effects of the priest’s magic. It was not enough to break the arcane bindings of their bones, but made it harder for the undead to move and react in time to the increasingly coordinated attacks of the intruders.

Beaten, cornered and old, Richter faced his enemies on the field of battle for one last time. There was no denying that his life was about to come to an end. Now only the matter of how it came about was still within Richter’s ability to decide. Facing the party of twelve, Richter braced a time worn granite tombstone for support as he struggled to remain standing.

With the undead horde greatly diminished by the combined efforts of the priest and his comrades, Richter’s executioner finally revealed himself. A burly, armor-clad warrior dismounted before the old, wounded man. He stood a foot taller than Richter and carried a large two handed sword. The plate armor of the knight-like figure glistened in the orange and gold light cast from the priest’s staff.

Richter readied his blade to the extent of his ability, but his tired arms failed him. Slouched forward he looked up at his opponent with a tired expression. There was no fear in his eyes, only a calm resignation as he clutched the sword in his hand in a show of defiance.

Hiding his face behind the visor of his helmet, the knight approached Richter and raised his impressive weapon above his head for the swing. The direction of his attack was obvious and the warrior made no effort to try and deceive the old man. He was confident that the opponent would not – or could not –dodge it.

Richter smiled wearily. The old warrior was glad that he would be killed by a man that at least could read the battlefield. Death at the hands of an undead horde or a craven mage was a far worse way to go, at least as far as his pride was concerned.

The blade cleaved heavily towards Richter. The old man raised his sword for one last time to parry. Steel clashed and his blade snapped, followed by a dull thud as the knight’s weapon struck Richter’s body. There was a brief and sickening crunch as it shattered bone on its way inside.

But Richter did not scream or flinch. He simply let off one last sigh and collapsed, as if suddenly released from a heavy burned.

Victorian turned away, unable to bear witness to the death of his old friend – the last friend he had left.

Now he had no one.

Farewell, Richter. Thank you for everything.

A heavy, sunken feeling was churning inside Victorian. It was the stark realization of powerlessness paired with great loss.

Victorian struggled to swallow the bitter lump in his throat, yet it remained, choking him from the inside. He was now left alone to face his numerous enemies. There was simply no one else left who could help him.

This is an easy fight for them. Victorian realized that the undead were merely a hindrance to the priest and his battle hardened men. Melvin will come for me soon.

The young paladin once more raised his hand to light the way and began his descent into the underworld. The noise of charging horses, cracking bones and angry curses grew more distant with every step he took. The stairwell made several turns as it wound its way deep underground. As Victorian neared the bottom, he was surprised to find the red glow of fire dancing upon the gray stones of the crypt’s interior.

Soulfires? he wondered while eying the red light, That would almost certainly mean that there is a necromancer here.

He ceased channeling his magic and slowed his approach. It was only after a moment of consideration that he realized the folly in his judgment. No, the fires would have to be green then... Soulfires burn green. Or maybe the mage did not use them?

Who else could possibly live in such a horrible place as this?

As Victorian finally reached the bottom of the stairs he found a long hallway reaching into the darkness of the catacombs. Black iron braziers spanned the length of the passage for as far as he could see. They housed red fires that burned without a trace of warmth or smell.

Their alluring flames slowly twisted in the wake of a constant draft that flowed in from the world above.

Where there is a draft there is another way out, Victorian reasoned.

He closely examined the fires burning in the braziers and found them to truly be magical in nature. They were in fact feeding upon a substance known as ‘mage amber’ – a crystalline mineral used for illumination in dwarven holds.

There is definitely a mage down here, he reasoned. For the amber to burn indefinitely it needed to be maintained by an arcane caster. The amber burns bright. It has been fed recently.

As he traversed the silent halls arches and side paths sprung up in precisely measured intervals. The gray chiseled stones that made up the interior of the crypt were time worn and cracked with nothing but old, rusted steel braces to show for some variety. Everything was covered in a fine layer of dust, except for the floor itself. There were clear signs – footprints and drag marks – proving that someone or something had passed through recently.

How long has it been here? Victorian wondered as he snuck through the ancient hallway. How old is this place?

It was indeed a hard question to answer. As a man of noble birth, he had been taught history, but most of his studies had been centered on the politics of his kingdom. Outside contemporary wisdom there was a general account of history to be had– told by both, those of noble birth and low status – but when questioned it usually turned out to be about as reliable as folk tales. And much of common history was exactly that – a skewed and inaccurate retelling at best.

What both the historians and tavern keepers could agree upon, was that the first humans had settled this land more than a thousand years ago, long before the cataclysmic events that drove Victorian’s own ancestors to settle here. The accounts describe the eastern continent as a land dominated by large elven tribes and ancient dwarven holds. Truly, it was only when the rise of necromancy forced a mass exodus of humans from the ‘Old World’ to the ‘New’ that a dramatic shift in the population happened.

Seeking to escape the seemingly unstoppable advance of the undead armies, the uncounted millions of human colonists that crossed the Great Ocean brought with them their traditions, laws and religions. With the ancient forests fiercely guarded by the elves and the impressive mountain ranges claimed by the dwarves for the abundant resources held within, the humans were granted the open plains to settle – at the time an offer gladly taken by those in need.

But needs are fickle things and they tend to grow and multiply in proportion to the needy. So it was that for a time trade fostered a beneficial coexistence for all. It was a new beginning for the war beleaguered mankind that had so narrowly escaped extinction at the hands of its own folly.

Yet, like all things in life, this peace could not last forever, for over time the human race grew to outnumber their peers. Then it grew some more and overwhelmed them.

A shift in the balance of power happened, too slowly for the other races to notice, but too quickly for them to react in time. Mankind had recovered from their decimation at the hands of necromancy and once more embraced their natural aspirations for greatness. Though divided into hundreds of trade federations, kingdoms and lesser dominions, the human realms prospered and blossomed into a new power that soon outgrew the others. They had become a force that the elder races could no longer ignore. And the humans had learned that their will could no longer be opposed.

Treaties were broken. Forbidden, sacred groves harvested. Elven forest holds raided and slaves taken. The forests themselves clear cut and burned. Mountains claimed for their resources. Dwarven keeps assaulted – dwarven mines claimed, dwarven clans crippled, chained…

Horror – terror – pain.

The new world by the scourge of the old one was claimed. Greed before honor came…

And thus, mankind had risen once more from the ashes of near extinction only to spread the flame across a land they now claimed as their birthright, for they truly were a race born with a sword in hand and a fire in their heart.

In time the human worldview changed beyond mere conquest. A new reality gave rise to their hubris when the Temple of Seven, the unified religious institution lying at the heart of the otherwise fractured human realms, sought to further humanities place in the world at the cost of the others. Chosen by their gods, humans were set above the rest. A people that had once been regarded as inferior by the elder races now saw themselves as something more, something far greater than the rest – and they had the will to prove it.

Victorian was just a tiny and insignificant part of it all. As a recently anointed paladin he was little better than an acolyte to the Temple. As the second son of a noble house he would have been reduced to a pious life in the holy armies of the order, if not for the fateful events of the past few days.

The grim catacombs below the cemetery were a ruin from a time long gone. And Victorian wondered their halls in utter lack of awareness as to their purpose or value in the pages of history. But he did not have to wonder them long before a hostile presence revealed itself to him.

From the shadows of an archway a skeleton emerged and took up position blocking Victorian’s advance.

Reacting to the new threat the young paladin reached for the closest brazier. In one long swing the ambers of the arcane fires were sent scattering throughout the hallway. Victorian took up a combat stance, bracing his newfound killing implement for the fight.

He whispered for a blessing from his gods and invoked his arcane talent to bolster his feeble flesh. When called upon, the arcanite flowing within his veins heightened his senses, increased the blood flow to his muscles and raised his endurance far beyond what a normal human could reach. But it was also slowly killing him.

It was both a blessing and a curse to be born with the ability to use one’s own body to invoke magic. A blessing because of what those that were gifted in the arcane arts could achieve throughout their lifetimes, and a curse because of how short they usually were. As seconds passed with the arcanite rampaging through a mage’s body their lifespan grew shorter by hours. It was because of this unfortunate sacrifice that no one could claim to know an old mage, and yet all mages looked old by the time their names became worthy of note.

Reinvigorated by his magic, Victorian took up a proper fighting stance. Though the brazier was far more cumbersome than a quarterstaff, the young paladin was able to wield it reasonably well in his defense.

Victorian jabbed at the approaching monster with his improvised weapon and sent it tumbling backwards. The skeleton facing him was unarmed but carried an old, battered wooden round shield in its left hand. It raised that shield in defense, but stumbled and fell when Victorian landed a second hit with the brazier. The powerful strike managed to part the skeleton’s hand from the rest of its body and the shield fell to the ground at its feet.

But even with one arm missing the undead abomination did not relent. It once more charged towards Victorian in an attempt to grapple him.

Just when the skeleton had come within the reach of his weapon, Victorian struck down hard with the brazier, crushing the skull of the undead warrior, thus finishing him off once and for all. Following the destruction of the creature’s head the bleached white bones that made up its body promptly arranged themselves into a disorderly pile on the ground.

Victorian sighed in relief. “That is one down,” he told himself while searching for the next enemy to tackle.

He did not have to search long.

“Fool!” a crackling, drawn out voice echoed through the hallway, “Go back the way you came.”

A pack of the undead, led by a figure dressed in dark blue robes, emerged from a side passage. The light from the nearby brazier danced upon the bleached white bones of the skeletons as they spread out across the hallway, cutting off his retreat back to the surface world.

“Leave this place, mortal!” the robed skeleton ordered. His voice sounded distant and ethereal.

Victorian readied his weapon as the shuffling dead approached. With the ferocity of a cornered animal he swung the heavy metal bar crushing the first of his assailants. The attack struck the skeleton in the chest and sent his bones scattering in all directions.

Having made his advance towards his enemies, Victorian used the opportunity to pick up the round shield lying at his feet. He braced it in his left hand as his channeling of magic power had enabled him to wield the heavy iron brazier single handed.

Victorian felt like he could take them on. He readied himself for the next attack as the second skeleton drew closer.

Once more the paladin cried out in anger, invoking his arcane gifts. A magic barrier of golden light enveloped his shield hand and, by extension, his shield.

Reinforced by the paladin’s magic, Victorian’s battered wooden round shield became a weapon in its own right. He lunged forward and slammed the shield into the skeleton, blowing the creature apart in a shower of bones. Once more it was the volatile power of arcanite that delivered the actual damage as it collided with the arcane presence of the undead skeleton.

Having done away with his second foe, Victorian took up a guard stance and examined the four skeletons still standing before him. He was backing off in preparation to counter the next assault when the robed skeleton raised his arms in a chant.

A pale green glow engulfed the now scattered remains of Victorian’s first victim. Drawn together by unholy magic the body of the defeated foe began reassembling itself. In places where the bones had been shattered a sickening green glow now embraced the cracks and shards, seeking to bind the body by magic where natural means no longer could.

“An undead mage?” Victorian cursed his luck as he eyed the skeleton in the blue robes.

Having successfully reanimated Victorian’s first victim, the undead mage moved on to the next one.

Victorian gave up on fighting defensively and launched into an all-out attack. His best chance for victory was to close his distance with the spell caster while the creature was still busy channeling magic.

It was a trap.

The skeleton mage stopped his chant mid-sentence and directed his bone fingers at the charging paladin. “[Lightning]!” it shrieked, releasing a magic attack.

The bolt shot through the stale air of the crypt and connected with Victorian’s shield. Repulsed by the divine enchantment of the paladin’s armor, the bolt erupted into an explosion, forming several smaller trails of lightning. Like greedy fingers they arched through the surrounding hallway, picking at the walls and floor, in an attempt to dissipate the energy that the mage was channeling into his spell.

Victorian cried out in pain as one such smaller trail of lighting briefly connected with the iron brazier in his right hand. A sharp stinging sensation jolted up his arm and the weapon slipped out of his grasp.

The mage ceased his channeling of the [Lightning] spell and observed the human cowering behind his shield.

Though his divine enchantment of the shield had saved Victorian’s life, the paladin had now been effectively disarmed. More importantly, his determination seemed to have all but vanished.

Why? Why have the Gods cursed me so? Victorian thought to himself as he looked down upon his shaking hand. His palm had been seared black by the [Lighting] spell as it struck. The smell of burning flesh rose from his blistered fingers.

“Leave!” the undead mage howled at him.

I can’t fight this! Victorian pushed away one of the skeletal warriors with his shield as it tried to grapple him. But I can’t go back either… I must look for another way out!

So Victorian turned and ran. Holding his enchanted shield in-between himself and the mage to ward against his attacks. The defeated paladin fled from a battle that he could not win.

The undead mage called out after him, “The other way, you fool!”

But Victorian did not listen. He would not listen. There had to be another way out somewhere up ahead.

Victorian ran past countless doors and burial halls and down another stairwell. Along the way he passed through several large chambers, filled with eerie statues of long dead humans. Whenever he tried to change direction, the doors were locked. The side paths were all dead ends. He found no path that could lead him back up above the ground and out of this nightmare.

The longer he ran the more convinced Victorian became of his own inescapable fate. The hollowing sensation of doom began to take hold of him as he desperately tried to navigate his way through the unfamiliar crypt. Lost and alone, he no longer cared for vengeance – only the desire to survive remained to spur him onwards. In a sad twist of irony, his will to live drove the man ever deeper into the depths of the crypt.

Thoughts raced through his mind. The only constant was the sensation of pain in his charred hand that seemed to be growing stronger with every passing moment. The agony had a pulse to it – his pulse – as it told the running man to stop and rest. But he could not.

It stung. The wounds stung, but so did his loss. The loss of his friends and family. The loss of faith – his faith in gods and men.

I cannot give up! Victorian reminded himself. But despair had already taken hold.

Another closed door, more ground to cover… Somehow he found himself again facing the seemingly endless hallway as the only path remaining. A moment of indecision saw him halt in place as Victorian tried to figure out which way he was supposed to go down next.

But then something else caught his attention.

“A trespasser,” a woman’s voice resonated through the unending hallway, “And such a handsome one!”

Victorian ducked to avoid the pale banshee that emerged from the ceiling above him. Even through the white, transparent glow of the lost soul he could make out the form of a beautiful young woman.

“Are you lost, adventurer?” the banshee asked in a sweet voice. She remained hovering in the air above him, looking down at the wounded paladin with her porcelain fine expression. There was a glint of interest and a meek smile offered on display, but to the frightened man it made no difference. A monster was a monster – to be despised and feared.

Driven by that fear of the undead, Victorian swung his enchanted shield at her, but to no effect. The golden aura passed through the banshee’s ghostly shape without meeting any resistance.

“Impossible!” Victorian muttered and examined the shield in his hand. The enchantment was still present but it had failed to cause any harm to the undead apparition hovering before him.

“Stand back, you foul creature!” he commanded. But his voice cracked betraying a lack of confidence.

The banshee frowned and crossed her hands. “Now, now... That is no way to treat a lady,” she said.

The undead apparition radiated a calming aura. It felt enticing to Victorian. Tiring…

“Don’t you want to rest, weary adventurer?” she asked. “I can sense that you are in pain. There is no need to fight anymore. No one is going to hurt you now.”

Victorian judged her charming demeanor to be a pretty obvious trap.

The woman reached out for Victorian with her delicate, pearl white hands. “Come, it is time to rest,” she said.

Victorian acted quickly. Disregarding the intense pain in his right hand he brought forth the small glass vessel – Richter’s parting gift – and aimed it at the ceiling above.

I was saving this for the last, but I guess that moment is now!

Victorian threw the vial containing Dragon’s Breath as hard as he could before jumping back to avoid the inferno that was about to follow in the wake of the glass shattering.

The paladin was not disappointed by its performance.

The hallway lit up with a booming red glow. A roaring fireball engulfed the banshee and the ghostly apparition let off a high pitched shriek of pain as the arcane fires consumed her.

With the red blaze ravaging the passage behind him, Victorian continued down the long hallway in search of an exit. He took some small relief in the fact that this encounter would at least buy him some time as no undead could follow him while the arcane fires still burned.

Having thought the banshee vanquished he stumbled and almost fell when her angry voice called out to him from the raging flames.

“GET BACK HERE!” the banshee ordered in a deep, terrifying growl. Her voice now was anything but enticing.

Victorian was running for his life.

The braziers are getting brighter! And there are more of them. After what had seemed like an eternity Victorian had finally reached the end to the long hallway. He still held out a hope for finding an exit.

A massive metal clad double door bared his way forward.

“HOW DARE YOU, MORTAL!” the banshee screamed as she flew after Victorian. Her long white hair violently whipped the air as she drew ever closer to the interloper.

Victorian pressed his back up against the door and it gave way surprisingly easily. The paladin went stumbling backwards, lost his footing and landed on the stone floor of the dark chamber beyond. With the banshee now almost upon him, he resorted to crawling away from the doorway on his back in a pathetic display of fear in the face of imminent death.

She’s getting closer! Closer! “Oh, Gods, help me now!” he called out in despair knowing that only an outside intervention could save him.

“What is the meaning of this?” an angry voice called out from the darkness. Like the boom of a distant thunder blast it had an almost physical impact on the listeners.

For a moment it looked as though Victorian’s wish had been granted. The ghostly woman halted in the doorway. Her hair – that had been flailing so wildly just a moment ago – settled down elegantly over her shoulders.

Having regained her ladylike posture the banshee bowed her head to the oppressive presence in the darkness. “My Lord,” she said in sweet voice, “We have an uninvited guest.”

Victorian rolled over on his belly and examined the chamber with terror stricken eyes. The moment his look crossed the massive stone throne at the far end of the room the braziers all along the walls erupted in bright red flames. An inhuman beast sat atop of the crudely carved seat. Its hulking shape was made all the more imposing by the shadow it cast on the red canvas covered wall behind it.

“A demon!” Victorian managed a muffled cry of despair. Why? Why? Why have the Gods cursed me so?

“An intruder,” the horned demon calmly noted with a mean grin on his face.

It sniffed the air for the man’s scent. The creature then rose from its seat and made its way over to the interloper. The hulking demon’s heavy footsteps shook the ground beneath Victorian as the petrified man observed the beast drawing closer. In but a moment the monstrosity had covered the distance and now stood towering over the puny human.

Victorian looked back at the banshee hovering in the doorway and found the ghostly creature observing the scene with a delighted look upon her face. It reminded him of the looks that highborn ladies often gave to those of lesser rank in the courts. He was her source of entertainment – a plaything – and Victorian ventured a guess that the banshee enjoyed watching her toys get broken.

The demon snapped his claws twice to get Victorian’s undivided attention before speaking. “I think that your evening just got a little worse, little man.”

The only answer that Victorian could muster was a look of utter disbelief.

“Not one for words, I see,” the red beast said. “Well, we have ways of making you talk.”

The demon crossed his hands and licked his teeth. “So, tell me, little man, how did you end up here?”