"An evil known to us is once again stirring.''

Melann recoiled. "What evil? What do you mean?"

Whitlock reached down to where his shield hung on his saddlebag and slowly strapped it to his arm. never taking his eyes off the elven spirit.

"I cannot speak of it."

The warrior shifted his stance. Whitlock wondered if the elf was preparing for something. Perhaps, however, he was just particularly uncomfortable with what he was saying. It was difficult to tell.

"Does it have anything to do with us?" Melann asked the warrior.

"More than you know."

"Melann, we can't trust him," Whitlock whispered quickly. "We should go."

"There is arcane magic born of this wood," the warrior said to Whitlock. "The spirits of elves, ancient when humans first came to the Dales, walk here still. Dragons, elven magic, monstrous creatures, restless dead-the woods are mysterious and deadly."

Was that supposed to be a threat?

Melann ignored Whitlock, her eyes never leaving the stranger.

"We are on a quest," she told him. "Our family has an ancient curse on it, and we think we know how to lift it."

"Melann!" Whitlock spat. Her naivete might spell disaster for them. She was too damned trusting.

The warrior looked at Melann, as if expecting more. The black pits of his eyes widened, but he said nothing. The light breeze stilled, and the forest grew silent.

"The curse strikes down members of my family with no apparent pattern." Only now did Melann's gaze leave the elf, for now it dropped to the ground, and she closed her eyes. "Our…" her voice faltered, "… our mother and father lay dying in Archenbridge with a horrid disease. It's the only way we can help them."

"What is the only way?" the warrior asked with an ancient, resonant voice.

"That's no business of yours," Whitlock said, reaching slowly for his sword hilt.

"A wizard," Melann explained, "who's now long dead, cursed our family. We've learned that perhaps if we can find his magical staff, we can rid ourselves of the curse."

The warrior paused for a moment, then pointed to the west and said, "Kirthol Erdel”

"What?" Whitlock asked, his hand grasping the hilt of his weapon tightly. His eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward.

Melann answered, but she did not look back at her brother. "That's an ancient elven name for the Thunder Peaks."

The horses shifted nervously, stamping on the ground. Melann and Whitlock pulled back on their reins to keep control. The warrior didn't react.

"Signs and omens show nothing but dark portents for the days ahead," the elf said. "Disturbances in the flow of magic have brought me back here to the corporeal world. Since my return, I have learned of ill tidings from Kirthol Erdel speaking of large and frequent bands of creatures you call gnolls gathering and attacking whatever they come on."

Melann seemed to drink all this information in, but Whitlock was disturbed. "Why are the gnolls gathering?" he asked, reluctant as he was to converse with a ghost.

"I do not know," came the response, "but they seem to be directed by someone."

Again the warrior seemed to shift his position. Whitlock saw his hands twitch and readied himself, but the elf didn't reach for his weapons, so Whitlock still didn't draw his own sword.

"Can't you tell us more than that?" Melann asked, her hands waving toward the warrior. "Does this have anything to do with what we're trying to do?'"

The warrior pointed again, toward the east. "Chare'en."

Melann gasped. Whitlock looked at her, to see what she would say next. He hoped it would be nothing-but a part of him was now intrigued at what this long-dead elf had to say.

When Melann said nothing, he whispered again, "We should go."

She paused and drew a breath, still not looking into her brother's disapproving eyes. He did nothing to stop her, though.

"No, Whitlock," Melann said, "we won't learn anything if we don't tell anything." With a quickening pace she continued. "Perhaps Chauntea brought us here-to you-for a reason. Perhaps not. In any case, we do know of someone called Chare'en."

The warrior stared at her in silence. "Chare'en was the ancient sorcerer who put the curse on our family."

Again, the warrior's hands seemed to twitch. "He died long ago and was buried in a crypt hidden by an avalanche," Melann said, though it seemed as if she was talking to herself now. "At least, that’s what some old family records show. The crypt holds something that can lift the curse. The curse… drains their strength until they haven't even the strength to… their hearts just stop beating." A tear ran down Melann's face, her lips quivered, but she continued. "We need to find this hidden crypt. We don't know how much longer our parents have left.

"Or how much longer we have left," she added.

The warrior stood silently watching her.

"So, are you saying," Whitlock asked, "that this old sorcerer's crypt is in the Thunder Peaks?"

The elf did not reply.

Melann turned toward Whitlock, wiping away the tear. "I think that's what he's saying. I think Chauntea sent him here to help guide us."

"Tilverton's at the northern edge of the Thunder Peaks," Whitlock told her. "We could make for there from here by staying on the main roads Rauthauvyr's Road meets up with the Moonsea Ride north of here, then heads west."

"That doesn't seem to be very direct," Melann replied. "I'd like to get there as quickly as we can."

"I'd rather stick to the main roads-particularly while we're here in these damned – "he looked at the elven warrior-"I mean, in these woods."

Whitlock began formulating further plans but was away into the darkness that surrounded them. The ground where he stood showed no sign of him ever being there at all.

"Vheod?" Whitlock repeated and furrowed his brow. He looked to his sister. "What does that mean?"

Melann shook her head. "That doesn't sound like Elvish at all."

The portal from the varrangoins' tower opened on this side in a space between the trunks of two oak trees, with their intertwined branches forming the top of the "doorway." A breeze tossed Vheod's long hair, and he shivered in the soft touch of its caress. Here on this world-wherever it was-the air was not abrasive. It didn't tear at his skin as he moved through it as it had all live life in the clutches of the Abyss. The sounds that surrounded him-calling birds, chirping insects, scurrying animals-all seemed so non-threatening. In his home, such an environments always made a wise man suspicious, but here? How could he know?

Vheod looked down at himself as he took a few steps forward. The magical trip had seemed instantaneous, and he looked none the worse for wear. At some point, while he wasn't looking, the Taint had slithered to the underside of his forearm, near his wrist. Its shape resembled a contorted face with narrow eyes and a thin, broad mouth. Tipped points on the sides might have been ears, or they might have been horns. As he examined it, the red mark shifted, the face broadening and the stiff line of the mouth bending into a smile. Vheod couldn't decide whether it was a smile of triumph or a leer of mockery.

In the dim light, trees heavy with leaves reached out in all directions as if searching for the intruder he knew himself to be. The first reaction that came to was that he didn't belong here. The colors were too calm, the sounds too sweet, and the smells too pure for someone accustomed to the horrors of the Abyss.

Cautiously, Vheod began to explore the immediate area in which he'd arrived. Smooth grass rustled under each step, but he soon found it quite easy to move silently through the wilderness. Ahead the sounds of running, splashing water alerted him, yet drew him onward. A brook cut its way through the landscape, and Vheod, once at its side, suspiciously reached down to touch the water. It was cold, coming down from rocky highlands that rose behind him. Its touch and smell revealed no threat, so he dipped his head down to taste it, for it had been almost a day since his lips had last touched water. The water wasn't only safe and pure but delicious.