“We need light,” Flint said uneasily as night’s shadows closed in thickly. Sounds in the woods that had been innocent in the daytime now seemed sinister and threatening.
“Surely you do not fear children’s stories,” Raistlin hissed.
“No!” snapped the dwarf. “I just want to make certain the kender doesn’t rifle my pack in the dark.”
“Very well” said Raistlin with unusual mildness. He spoke his word of command; “Shirak” A pale, white light shone from the crystal on the tip of the mage’s staff. It was a ghostly light and did little to brighten the darkness. In fact, it seemed to emphasize the menace in the night.
“There, you have light,” the mage whispered softly. He thrust the bottom of the staff into the wet ground.
It was then Tanis realized his elven vision was gone. He should have been able to see the warm, red outlines of his companions, but they were nothing more than darker shadows against the starry darkness of the glade. The half-elf didn’t say anything to the others, but the peaceful feeling he had been enjoying was pierced by a sliver of fear.
“I’ll take the first watch,” Sturm offered heavily. “I shouldn’t sleep with this head wound, anyway. I once knew a man who did-he never woke up.”
“We’ll watch in twos,” Tanis said. “I’ll take first watch with you.”
The others opened packs and began making up beds on the grass, except for Raistlin. He remained sitting on the trail, the light of his staff shining on his bowed, hooded head. Sturm settled down beneath a tree. Tanis walked over to the brook and drank thirstily. Suddenly he heard a strangled cry behind him. He drew his sword and stood, all in one motion. The others had their weapons drawn. Only Raistlin sat, unmoving.
“Put your swords away,” he said. “They will do you no good. Only a weapon of powerful magic could harm these.”
An army of warriors surrounded them. That alone would have been enough to chill anyone’s blood. But the companions could have dealt with that. What they couldn’t handle was the horror that overwhelmed and numbed their senses. Each one recalled Caramon’s flippant comment; “I’ll fight the living any day of the week, but not the dead.”
These warriors were dead.
Nothing more than fleeting, fragile white light outlined their bodies. It was as if the human warmth that had been theirs while they lived lingered on horribly after death. The flesh had rotted away, leaving behind the body’s image as remembered by the soul. The soul apparently remembered other things, too.
Each warrior was dressed in ancient, remembered armor. Each warrior carried remembered weapons that could inflict well- remembered death. But the undead needed no weapons. They could kill from fear alone, or by the touch of their grave-cold hands.
How can we fight these things? Tanis thought wildly, he who had never felt such fear in the face of flesh and blood enemies. Panic engulfed him and he considered yelling for the others to turn and run for it.
Angrily, the half-elf forced himself to calm down, to get a grip on reality. Reality! He almost laughed at the irony. Running was useless; they would get lost, separated. They had to stay and deal with this-somehow. He began to walk toward the ghostly warriors. The dead said nothing, made no threatening moves. They simply stood, blocking the path. It was impossible to count them since some glimmered into being while others faded, only to return when their comrades dimmed. Not that it makes any difference, Tanis admitted to himself, feeling sweat chill his body. One of these undead warriors could kill all of us simply by lifting its hand.
As the half-elf drew nearer to the warriors, he saw a gleam of light- Raistlin’s staff. The mage, leaning on his staff, stood in front of the huddle of companions. Tanis came to stand beside him. The pale crystal light reflected on the mage’s face, making it seem nearly as ghostly as the faces of the dead before him.
“Welcome to Darken Wood, Tanis,” the mage said.
“Raistlin-” Tanis choked. He had to try more than once to get his dry throat to form a sound. “What are these-“