Some were small and doglike, carrying bloodstained axes and hatchets. Others stood tall, their muscular bodies capped with the head of a goat, what little skin showing painted with demonic symbols. And in the background there were shadowy THINGS, defying any description.

Something shook him, and a voice said, "Would you mind if I share your fire?"

Siggard sat up, finding himself back beside the forest path. A cloaked figure stood above him, and Siggard could make out a sharp, but strangely kind visage in the shadows of the cowl. The fire crackled beside the man, and in the flickering glow of the flames and the waning moonlight, Siggard noticed that the man seemed to be clad entirely in gray.

"Help yourself," Siggard said. "I'm afraid I have no food to offer."

"That is not an issue," the man said, sitting down by the fire. "I have already eaten. Perhaps I can offer you something?"

Siggard shook his head. "I'm not hungry."

"There are many restless spirits out tonight," the stranger said. "As I walked, I saw several ghosts."

"I noticed that too," Siggard stated, scratching his beard. "For a while, I wondered if I had gone to Hell."

The man chuckled. "I can assure you, this is neither Heaven nor Hell. However, it is the Night of Souls, when it is said that in some places the restless dead will return."

"And what do they come back for?" Siggard asked.

"Some come for vengeance. Some come to see their loved ones again. And for some, they just cannot rest. Sometimes it is the earth itself that brings them back, remembering the life force that once was."

Siggard shuddered. "It is unnatural."

The man laughed, his voice strangely musical. "On the contrary, it is entirely natural! Life does not simply give in to death, and the soul is more than some abstract idea. These spirits merely walk their own path, most unaware of any others around them. But there are some, particularly in the forces of Hell, who would raise the dead, animating them so that they do not hold a spirit, but are merely an automaton. I think that is what you speak of."

Siggard shook his head. "I do not know if I should be terrified or awed by what you say."

The stranger lowered his hood, revealing eyes sparkling with life and a long mane of blond hair. "I think both would be appropriate. There are more things in Heaven and Hell than any mortal man could dream."

"And how would you know all of this?" Siggard asked.

The man shrugged. "I am a wanderer; I have seen more than most would ever imagine. That is merely my nature."

"Will you give me your name?" Siggard said.

The stranger nodded. "My name is Tyrael. May I ask your name?"

"Siggard."

Tyrael smiled. "Your trust does you credit, but be careful with whom you place it. I am safe, a traveler sworn to the light. But there are others who are sworn to darkness, and they do not reveal themselves unless they are forced to."

Tyrael leaned forward. "Tell me, friend Siggard, what brings you onto this road on this of all nights?"

Siggard shrugged. "I wish I knew."

Tyrael raised an eyebrow. "I don't understand."

"The last thing I remember is the battle at Blackmarch. If this is the Night of Souls, then that would be two days ago. I can't remember anything between lining up in the shield wall and awakening earlier this evening on the ground."

Tyrael nodded sagely. "Sometimes one will see something so horrifying that the mind will block it out, as though the soul itself cannot bear to remember it."

Siggard suddenly recalled the strange shadows behind the treeline at Blackmarch, and found himself nodding in agreement. "I guess I just want to find out what happened at Blackmarch and see my wife and child again."

Tyrael pursed his lips. "I have heard fell things about Blackmarch. I would not go there if I were you."

"I have to know what happened."

Tyrael shook his head, and for a moment Siggard thought he could see a great sadness in the man's eyes. "If you must go, then you must go. You are ten leagues south of Blackmarch as the crow flies. You can reach it in a couple of days by following the road north." He pointed back in the direction that Siggard had originally come. "If I were you, however, I would go south for one more league, and then take the fork west. It will take you back into Entsteig."

Siggard nodded. "I will consider your advice."

Tyrael smiled kindly. "That is all one could ask."

Siggard watched as the waning moon finally slid down under the treeline and the eastern sky began to brighten. "It will be dawn soon."

"It seems that the Night of Souls has come to an end at last," Tyrael mused. "All of the restless dead now return to their graves in the hopes of peace."

Siggard turned and stretched, wincing for a moment as his back ached. "I should begin my journey; I have a long walk ahead of me."

"May your feet be swift and take you into places far from harm," Tyrael said, still sitting by the dancing flames.

Siggard turned and looked at the road. "You have the tongue of a poet, my friend. I thank you for your good wishes."

But when he turned, he stood alone by the fire.

The mist was gone by the morning, burnt away by the autumn sun. Siggard carefully smothered the fire, trying to ensure that no billowing smoke revealed where he was. He still remembered the sights of the previous night with fear and awe, and wanted to ensure that he did not run into any restless spirits who did not respect the dawn.

Thinking back on the evening, he still wondered at some of what he had seen. He had never been a superstitious man, but the memories of the hanging corpse and the ghosts in the mist seemed too real to have been a vivid dream. And then there was Tyrael.

Was the stranger a ghost, come back for a friendly chat? Or was he something else? A figment from a dream, perhaps?

Siggard shook his head; at this point in time, it was useless speculation. Aside from which, he still had to find out what had happened at Blackmarch.

He checked that his sword was securely fastened to his belt, and began the journey north.

After only a couple of hours of walking, Siggard found himself once again facing the fork and gibbet. In the light of day, the hanged man was little more than a desiccated corpse, barely any flesh left on the pearly bones. The eyes that had seemed to stare so dangerously at him were reduced to empty sockets.

Siggard shook his head. It was amazing how easily the terrors of the night vanished once the sun rose. He was still left with the crossroads, however, one path leading back northeast and the other leading westwards. Either path could twist and turn, appearing to go one way when in reality it did the opposite.

Such is life, Siggard mused. Regardless, he had no time, and needed to get to Blackmarch. Scratching his beard, he finally chose the northeastern path, and began to walk.

As he traveled, the forest seemed to stretch on into eternity. At least the path seemed to be consistently taking him northwards; Siggard checked the position of the sun at what he thought was every hour, and everything seemed to be as it should. The path did weave, however, and when the sun finally sank into the west Siggard estimated that he had only traveled about five leagues.

Once again, he built a fire off to the side of the road. As he watched the flickering flames, giving the light mist around him an eerie glow, he suddenly realized that he wasn't very hungry at all.