Whitlock wiped sweat from his brow, and readjusted himself in the saddle. He scanned around, always looking for danger.

When they began the trip from Archendale three days earlier, Whitlock had convinced Melann to don a leather jerkin for a modicum of protection. A brown traveling cloak covered most of the armor, but not a wooden amulet bearing Chauntea's symbol-a flower surrounded by a sunburst-displayed prominently at her chest. Melann's faith was her strength, and indeed it allowed her to perform great feats when she called on the power of her patron. That faith, however, also led her to believe that Chauntea would provide her with everything she needed. Whitlock knew that most of the time you had to take care of yourself.

The sound of his glistening chain mail lightly jingling with each step of his mount constantly reminded him of the dangers all around him and the need for protection. He noted each tree, each bend in the road, with careful consideration. Their father had taught him that the spot that appeared safest was actually the best spot for an ambush.

The people of the Dales," his father used to say, didn't survive so near dangers like the Zhentarim and Myth Drannor by being trusting. We go through life with our eyes open."

Now, riding into these mysterious elven woods, his sister's safety was his responsibility. Their quest weighed heavily on Whitlock's shoulders.

Melann's long dark hair, tied away from her face in a practical manner, pulled free of the bond a few strands at a time with each rhythmic bounce of the horse. They both had been told that there was a strong familial resemblance between the two of them, but of course Whitlock's hair was much shorter, and for the last few years he'd worn a short-cropped beard. Whitlock had never let himself think much of women and feminine beauty, but he imagined that other men might find his sister attractive. Usually Melann's hands and clothes were covered in fresh dirt, as she spent most of her time helping fanners with their crops or in her own garden. Perhaps if she didn't concern herself with things like that so much, Whitlock thought, she would be married.

Now only the dust of the road covered Melann's hands and clothes. The journey they had been forced into did not allow for the luxury of tending to plants, nor did it take them near too many tilled fields. Only the dust of the road soiled either of them. The two rode in silence, as they had for much of the journey.

Both held their mouths in tight expressions, and their eyes hung heavy and low. Still, Whitlock took Melann's praise to her goddess as a sign of unswerving faith and optimism.

The narrow path cut through the ancient trees in a wilderness neither really fully comprehended. Now, as darkness slowly overcame the light of day, Whitlock grew even more wary. The seriousness of the mission that drove them on made him reluctant to speak, but his silence fostered the cloud of gloom that hung over them as surely as the ancient curse they struggled against hung over their family.

The town of Essembra supposedly lay on this road, and he'd planned on their reaching it by nightfall.

"Did you hear that?" Melann asked softly.

"No," he replied. Her voice broke through Whitlock's silent reverie. He'd heard nothing. Still, caution was always prudent.

"I thought I heard a voice," Melann said, her voice still low. "As though someone called out from far away."

At that moment a deep, resonant voice came from among the trees. Both heard it this time. The man, if it was a man, spoke from what seemed a good distance off to their left. The words were clear but meaningless.

"I think that's Elvish," Melann stated, halting her horse and looking off in the direction from which the voice had come. Whitlock pulled the reins on his own mount and looked back at her.

"Come along, Melann. We've got to get to town before nightfall."

"But-" she began. She was interrupted by another deep voice calling through the trees, this time from the right side of the road. She could find no meaning in the words. Despite the distance from which they seemed to come, the voices were more like whispers than shouts.

"Melann, come along. We have no business in this wood after dark."

"But what if he's in need? His voice seems so mournful-so sad."

Whitlock sighed heavily, even forcefully. "Melann, they call this the Vale of Lost Voices for a reason. People say these woods are filled with ghosts-elven ghosts."

Instinctively, Melann spoke the Chauntean prayer of the dead, looking around the whole time. When she finished the two pressed their heels into the sides of their mounts, urging them onward to the north as the woods around them grew darker and darker with the fading sun.

Neither of them actually noticed just how much they sped their horses until they suddenly had to bring them to a stop. A single figure stood in the road. He fearlessly held his ground even in the face of the galloping horses. Neither his stance nor his expression changed as the two of them struggled to stop their mounts. Once their horses were under control, Melann and Whitlock gazed at the man before them.

Most certainly elven, his lithe form betrayed a deep-seated power. Finely crafted armor seemed to glide over his body and accentuate his features, each line in the armor playing off a similar line in his angular face and body. A sword and bow remained at his back. His eyes were as black as the night that was approaching far too quickly.

Whitlock reached for the hilt of his weapon, but the almost whispering voice of the elf stopped him cold.

Neither sibling could understand his speech, but they watched closely as he raised a graceful, muscular arm and pointed to the west, then again to the northwest. Whitlock followed the elf’s long, pointing finger and looked off into the woods but saw nothing. When Whitlock looked back at the elven warrior, he was gone.

"Did you see that?" Melann whispered as though she had no breath within her at all.

"No," Whitlock lied to her and himself, grabbing the bridle of her horse and spurring it and his own to a gallop.

They hardly got more than a hundred yards down the road when a shadowy figured loomed ahead of them. Again they pulled on the reins of their mounts, bringing them to a halt in front of an elven warrior.

"What in the name of…" Whitlock didn't finish. Instead, wide-eyed, he stared at the figure.

It was the same warrior they had seen before.

"Wait," the figure whispered, this time in a strangely accented but understandable version of Common. He held forth a stern hand.

"Melann, get back," Whitlock warned.

She didn't heed her brother. "Who are you?" she asked.

The elf did not respond.

"My name is Melann Brandish, and this is my brother, Whitlock," she answered, motioning to her brother.

Whitlock looked at her incredulously. This was no time to hold a conversation, particularly with a ghost!

The features of the elven warrior were more clearly defined now-though Whitlock couldn't reason why. The elf carried a sword and a bow, but he kept the blade sheathed and the bow unstrung. His armor was silver, unlike any Whitlock had ever seen. The apparition's eyes were black like bottomless pits, drawing in light around him.

"Hear me," the warrior said. When he spoke, Whitlock heard voices like his coming from all around them in the woods. "We have buried our dead in these woods for a time longer than you can understand. Warriors fallen from centuries of conflict now lie here. We do not always rest quietly."

Melann shook her head slightly, her mouth agape. Whitlock reached for the reins of her mount, to pull her back. Instead, much to his surprise, she bade her horse ahead a few steps.

"Why are you here?" she asked softly.

Whitlock was stunned by her courage, or carelessness,