Old, familiar dread gripped Morhion's heart. He managed to whisper a single word. "Serafi."

The ghostly knight bowed, but the gesture was one of mockery, not respect. "The orb of Selune rises full into the night sky. It is time once again for you to fulfill our bargain, Morhion Gen'dahar." Serafi's voice seemed to echo eerily from all directions.

A mirthless smile touched Morhion's lips. "Do you truly believe that I could have forgotten?"

"Perhaps," Serafi intoned indifferently. "The memories of the living are fleeting. But the dead never forget."

"I do not forget my vows," Morhion said.

The knight drifted menacingly closer. "Then give to me the blood that is my due. The pact is binding."

Though he had done this once each month for the past ten years, Morhion trembled involuntarily as he went through the ritual of lifting an arm and drawing back the sleeve of his night robe. Beneath the cloth, his forearm was crisscrossed with thin, white scars—the legacy of a pact he had once forged to save Caledan's life, an act for which he was later branded a traitor.

It had begun ten years before, in the darkest hour of the old Fellowship of the Dreaming Dragon. The Harper Kera, a member of the Fellowship and Caledan's beloved lay dead—murdered at the hands of their foe, the Zhen-tarim warrior Ravendas. Blaming himself for Kera's death, Caledan journeyed to the Zhentarim fortress of Darkhold to exact his revenge. Confronting Ravendas in her lair would mean his own demise, but Caledan cared not, for he meant to join Kera in death. Morhion's betrayal was this: He had forced Caledan to choose life.

Against Caledan's wishes, Morhion too went to Darkhold, and revealed Caledan's plans to Ravendas. Without the advantage of surprise, Caledan's attempt to slay Ravendas was foiled, as was his own suicidal objective Caledan would have been captured, then executed, but Morhion engineered their escape from the catacombs beneath Darkhold—doing so at terrible cost.

It happened that in ancient times Darkhold had been keep of the lost Empire of Netheril. Morhion had learned of a dark spirit that haunted the caverns beneath the keep—the usurper Serafi, who two thousand years before had schemed to seize the throne of Netheril and been executed for treason. The spectral knight agreed to show Morhion a secret way out of the catacombs, demanding a dark vow in exchange. Morhion had no choice but to accept.

With Serafi's help, Caledan and Morhion escaped Darkhold, surviving to defeat Ravendas later in the crypt of the Shadowking. For years afterward, Caledan despised Morhion as a traitor. However, Caledan eventually came to understand that Morhion had betrayed in order to save his life, and thus the two renewed their friendship. To this day, Caledan did not know of the pact Morhion had forged to save his life.

And he never will, Morhion thought fiercely.

The mage drew a small knife from the sheath at his hip. Slowly, carefully, he used the sharp tip to trace a thin red line into the flesh of his arm. Crimson blood oozed forth.

"The pact is binding," Morhion whispered hoarsely.

With menacing speed, Serafi knelt and caught Morhion's arm in a freezing grip. "Ah, the sweet substance of life!" the spirit cried exultantly in his sepulchral voice. "How I long to taste it again…"

A low moan of fear escaped Morhion's lips as the spectral knight bent over the mage's bleeding arm and began to drink.

Four

The autumn moon rose full and bright in the dark sky, casting its golden light over the little village of Corm Orp. Tam Acorn threw open the blue wooden door of his burrow and hurried outside. Tonight was the annual Harvest Festival, and he didn't want to be late for the dancing, the merrymaking, and—most important—the sugarberry pies. Hastily, he locked the door to his tidy underground home with a brass key and scurried down the winding path that led toward the center of the village.

Tam arrived red cheeked and breathless at the village commons just in time to see Pel Baker pull his first batch of bubbling sugarberry pies out of a brick oven. Moments later, Tam was two silver coins poorer and two steaming pies richer. Slipping one pie into a pocket, he began happily munching the other. He burned his tongue, and dark syrup ran down his chin, dribbling onto his green jacket and yellow waistcoat. Tam did not care. Sugarberry pies were his favorite part of the Harvest Festival.

Villagers were streaming into the open greensward now. While most of Corm Orp's residents were halflings like Tam, there were a few big folk as well. They lived in the stone houses that surrounded the village commons, while the diminutive halflings preferred to dwell in snug underground burrows. A bonfire flared to life in the center of the commons, chasing away the night. Laughter rang out, along with the clinking of cider-filled mugs. Tiny halfling children scurried about in an ongoing game of hide-and-seek. The rich scents of hot sausages, honey bread, and baked apples filled the air.

A call went up for the dancing to begin. "Somebody fetch old Quince Piper!" called out a plump, middle-aged halfling named Rin Miller.

Shouts of happy agreement rang out, but one voice rose above the others.

"I'm afraid my grandfather is ill," Ali Bramble said sadly to the faces turned toward her. "He won't be able to play for you tonight."

A collective groan of despair came from the throng. Tam sighed in disappointment. True, sugarberry pies were the best part of the Harvest Festival, but things wouldn't be complete without dancing to the music of Quince Piper's flute.

Rin Miller frowned gloomily. "I don't suppose there's anyone else who can play music as well as old Quince?" he asked without much hope.

"I can," a voice replied.

The crowd gasped with surprise, and the crowd hastily parted.

The stranger was a striking fellow. He was dressed all in black, except for his cloak of midnight blue, and he rode a horse as pale as a ghost. Dismounting, the stranger approached the bonfire. Tam thought there was something odd about the man. He seemed pale and haggard, though perhaps it was simply a trick of the flickering shadows. The man drew something from a pouch at his belt. It was a set of polished bone pipes.

"Well, now, I don't know," Rin said suspiciously. "This is all highly irregular, and—"

Rin stopped short as the stranger lifted the pipes to his lips and began to play. The most beautiful music Tam had ever heard drifted on the air. The villagers listened in rapt silence as the stranger's haunting melody filled the night. When at last he lowered his pipes, tears shone in more than one set of eyes. Someone called out for another song, and the crowd echoed the request.

"Make it something we can dance to, piper!" Rin shouted, now enthusiastic.

The stranger seemed to hesitate, then lifted the pipes once more. This time the music was fast and rollicking, almost wild. Whoops of joy rang out as the crowd leapt into a brisk dance. In moments, Tam found himself being breathlessly spun from one partner to another as the villagers danced merrily around the blazing bonfire.

That was when Tam noticed something peculiar. He blinked, wondering if it was simply his imagination.

The shadows around the bonfire seemed to be moving quite independently of the flow of the dancers. Even as he watched, they stretched out, forming themselves into shapeless blobs that began to whirl slowly around the bonfire. Then, impossibly, the shadows separated themselves from the ground and rose into the air. Tam untangled himself from his dancing partner and stared up in horror. Before he could shout a warning, Ali Bramble's scream shattered the air.

The shadows! Look at the shadows!"

In shock, the villagers looked upward, other screams echoing Ali's. Now the stranger's music was fey and dissonant. It seemed to pierce Tarn's ears and numb his brain. The shadows began to whirl faster and faster above the bonfire. One of them spun away from the whirling ring of darkness. It stretched outward, engulfing a stone house close to the commons.