“The hour of departure has arrived, and we go our separate ways, I to die, and you to live. Which of these two is better only God knows.”

― Socrates

Zygmund von Nordmark was in a good mood. All seemed to go well, and he managed to raise his first wight. He was a genius! How long would it take a peasant to learn what he had accomplished in mere months! Shrugging his shoulders he raised himself from the altar he had been leaning on. Giving the frost elf necromancer a smug look, he focused and ordered the wight to kneel. With ponderous might, the armored skeleton lowered itself on one knee.

“So, what were you saying?”

The young elven necromancer clenched his jaws. “Fine work, my lord.” The words were like pulling teeth. “We seem to have some problems.” He had prepared the raising meticulously and carved runes and circles. While the vampire had arcane power to spare, it was still clumsy and unrefined. The gods knew what would happen if he were left to his own devices. Perhaps he would level the castle but creating a higher undead? No chance.

“What’s the matter? Is Lars being grandiose again?” The old man wrinkled his brows.

“As far as we know, the ritual worked perfectly. Now, when the kingdom intercedes, they have to contend with self-multiplying undead, which will slow them or even keep them away completely. The tribes are reacting as predicted, and attacks have been reported along the whole border. When we sacrifice the old diplomat, all hell will break loose.” Ivyander could not contain a frown of disgust that was gone too quickly to be noted by the vampire.

“But the academy hostages broke loose and, curiously enough, by using large-scale necromancy. How they got the ritual underway without anyone noticing.” The elf shook his head incredulously. “I don’t know how they have done it, but the restless dead killed and dispersed our men stationed there.”

“So that is the big setback? They still have to pass through the undead-infested areas- so they will die then? And even as we hoped to use hostages, killing the lot will cause chaos as successions fail and families are suddenly without an heir. That will serve us well.”

“’If’ they die. My lord, they have shown a peculiar proficiency with necromantic rituals, so I would be careful in tempering my expectations.”

A sudden movement, nearly too quick to see, and the elf was ripped from the ground, feet dangling. Zygmund had grabbed his clothes at the neck, bunching the shirt in his hand. He did not seem to be straining at all. “Little worm. What I would or would not expect is not something for you to think about. You are useful for your knowledge, but you are a slave. So don’t think and act above your station. I can see right through your little ironies and sarcasm, and if you want to live to see your kin ever again, better keep that in mind or else…” The vampire leaned closer, and canines crusted with old blood nearly touched the elf's slender neck, and the reek of decay was overpowering. “Is that clear?”

Scrabbling with his hands, the elf struggled to draw breath and after seeing him turn an alarming shade of blue Zygmund threw him against a nearby table, shattering some alembics and causing caustic liquids to spray some scrolls and notes which began to dissolve with a hiss. Coughing and grimacing from the pain, Ivyander nodded, and still rubbing his smarting neck, he said, “I understand.”

“Good.”

Sirviel's Grove

Iseret pressed a piece of linen cloth torn from a downed soldier to the cut on her chest. The fight was still ongoing, but the forest had been quiet after the detachment of scouts had been defeated. Quickly she ripped free a belt and fit it around the wadded piece of fabric to put some pressure on it. Breathing experimentally, she grimaced at the pain. Sadly her goddess did not often grant the ability to heal. And if she did, it was mostly in the form of hibernation or healing sleep.

The ground of the clearing was littered with the dead and dying. Several of the tribesmen were still fighting, Mordrak among them. The army group had brought the numbers and the mages, which had begun to count. There were still too many enemies for the Reborn to feel comfortable.

The air seemed to quiver as a pulse of energy rippled from the giant oak tree, and the figure of Sirviel the dryad walked out. Raising her head, long green hair drifting about her ankles, and eyes glimmering with unshed tears, she spread her arms. A bolt, shot from one of the soldiers, thudded into her side. Grimacing and stumbling, she ignored the pain and began to sing.

Iseret sprinted forward and, stretching desperately, she cut the next bolt out of the air tucking her arms around the blade so as not to be cut she somersaulted to shed momentum and speed. Crashing into the bushes, she was scratched by broken branches, and her hair entangled in the undergrowth. Ripping free, she snarled, and black poison dripped from her lips.

The song built in momentum, and golden-green light suffused the misty air as the snow on the edges of the grove began to melt in unseasonal warmth. There were no words, it was like the singing of a flute or the melodious rippling of a stream. The music told of growth and renewal, of the sap flowing after a long winter, leaves, and branches stretching toward the sun breaking through ice and snow finally shedding the lethargy of winter.

Several small spheres of fire shot from the outstretched hand of a sorceress and blasted toward Sirviel. Gritting her teeth, Iseret looked around and saw a dead dryad lying among the grass. Grabbing her she hoisted the body into the path of the missiles, which impacted with bruising force exploding soon after. Hissing with pain from her burned arms, she let fall the mutilated corpse with a silent apology.

The light grew even more intense, and her wounds began to tingle and itch. Where the golden light fell, injuries faded, bleeding stopped. But as it touched the kingdom's soldiers, movement became ponderous and several stilled completely. With a gargled scream, an officer frantically shook his arm as he saw his fingers busting into fresh green leaves. “Retreat!”

Stumbling and not without getting a few swings from the tribesmen that were still standing, the soldiers withdrew, leaving a group of their own behind. And as the mists shone with gold branches that once were limbs lifted toward an uncaring winter sky as Sirviel sang of spring.

Amber sat before the old tower and looked over the quiet valley. Her daughter. She could not wrap her mind around that. The woman that professed to be Lily, her Lily. Seemed to be over double the age she had been when she was pulled into the void. Moving was still awkward, and her hands did not quite feel like her own. And there was the tugging from an invisible string leading somewhere to the south. But otherwise… She breathed deeply of the cold air and had to cough a bit. But the fresh and unpolluted breeze caressing her face brought her a kind of joy that seemed to have been lost for a long time.

“Mother. You shouldn’t stay here for so long. You will catch a cold.”

“Let me stay at least until the sun has passed. As long as it shines on me, it isn’t that cold.”

“Then drink some tea.” The older woman reached forward and offered a steaming cup.

Turning, Amber regarded her and tried to find the baby she had once nursed in the features worn by time and hardship. Blushing under the scrutiny, the woman turned. “I will see if there is something to make soup with.”

“Wait.”

The word made the robed sorceress stop, and she turned her head as if expecting a scolding.

“Stay with me. I cannot say that this is an easy thing to accept. But even as I have slept away my…and your life there is still time. Let us get to know each other.” Sighing, she continued, “I cannot go and find Tiberius, and you don’t seem optimistic either. I would pray he is in good health, but from what you told me, that is most likely not the case. So we use the time we have and not squander it. Who knows how long that will be.”

The group of students and teachers left the treeline and faced an open field. Relief was written on many faces as the sun lifted the gloom of the forest and the past day. Glittering ice stretched before them what was essentially the gently sloping side of a rocky hill. The forest path had led them here and joined a more robust road made of gravel and cracked stone. An old marker rested in the shade of a massive cedar, and elvish symbols surrounded a bounding deer just barely visible on the weatherbeaten surface.

Just as the fire wizard Escaldis cleared his throat and gestured for them to be quiet, a low scream came from farther downhill.

Gazing downward, they saw several dark figures stagger from the woods.

A student exclaimed. “What are they?”

Calvin took a look and grumbled, “Undead by the looks of it.”

Sunlight shone dazzlingly on the snow, and he squinted his eyes, shading them with his hand. “I fear that will get troublesome. We should take care of them from here and be observant the farther we go. If they catch us in the forest, we will have problems."

The fire wizard gave an annoyed grunt and, without another word, began to intone a spell gathering motes of fire into a spinning sphere, first glowing a dull red and, with time becoming white, then blue. Heat exploded in waves from the fiery ball when he finally sent it hurtling toward the small group of revenants. Impacting between them, there was a bone-shaking thump and roar as snow flashed into steam and flesh and bone were shattered and scorched and began to burn.

The corpses twitched and tried to get up for a few moments until another teacher finished a spell of his own, and lightning burst from the sky, raining down until nothing moved anymore. The corpulent red-haired wizard that had welcomed them into the camp patted his hands and grinned. “This, dear students, is why you never give a wizard time to leisurely cast a spell. It might surprise you what is possible with a bit of preparation.”

Both teachers seemed heavily winded after the exertion, and with only a short discussion, they decided to continue until dusk.