The early morning sun peeked from behind a bank of clouds, and shone its gradually strengthening light down on upon a group of covered wagons moving east into the dawn. Two wide-chassied wagons, drawn by great dun colored draft horses bumped and swayed along the packed dirt road that lead from the hamlet of Trellfoden to the sprawling city of Jantalar. The wagons were loaded with vegetables and grains, bales of hay and bushels of apples. An old man and a young boy each rode one of the teams, keeping the dangerously swaying wagons on course. The boy, although barely in his teens, stood nearly as tall as his father, who’s hair was a brilliant white. The old man peered at the road ahead through eyes squinted by a lifetime in the sun. The boy rose in the saddle and swept his long braid of hair, nearly as silvery-white as his father’s, over his shoulder where it fell down his back. He too peered down the road, hoping to capture his first glimpse of the great city of Jantalar, capital of the territory of Baron Hochstib.

            As if it were a key, the sunlight falling on the great city gates caused them to buckle and sway, grinding stiffly along iron tracks, the great invar bound modwir gates swung open to admit the days traffic. “Errethe, steady now!” the old man hollared to his son. The wagons pulled to a halt in the shade of the massive gatehouse. A scribe with parchment and pen in hand, and flanked by two Jantalarian pikeman, holding long wicked looking mithril pikes. After a few moments of conversation, the scribe collected a few coins and marked down the name Eckbe on his register. Then he waved the wagons through the gate.

            In the center of the market district, Errethe Eckbe and his father parked their wagons in the food goods pens. Errethe unhitched the horses and began to wipe them down, removing the sweat and foam that had built up from the long drive across the grounds. The journey had been blessedly peaceful. The forest trolls, from which their village got its name, were quiet and docile in the early mornings, leaving the wagons unmolested. While he rubbed down the horses Errethe listened to his father barter with one of the city merchants. The old man was a master of bargaining. He allowed the city merchant to mistake his thick country accent and plain clothing for dull wits and simplicity. In every deal that was struck, the old man got the better of the merchant, subtly and never with too heavy a hand. In truth the bargains struck were more close to the fair value of the wagons contents that the merchant had ever paid. Errethe listened silently and remembered, for soon it would be his turn to take over the business and he would need wits such as his father possessed to be successful.

            As Errethe was finishing with the horses, he saw something move at the back of the wagons. He jump to the pillon seat of the first wagon and looked down upon the faces of two boys huddled below the wagon, liberating apples from one of the bushels. With a yelp of anger he dove from the wagon and tackled the nearer of the two boys. The boy dropped the apples and rolled in the dust, he was somewhat shorter than Errethe and taken completely by surprise. His companion was not. Errethe felt a great hand grasp the back of his shirt. He was hoisted aloft by the other boy. The young giantman was no older than Errethe but still stood at least a foot taller, and his body was heavily muscled. Numbed by fear of this giant boy, Errethe lashed out with a foot, he aimed for a tender spot his uncle had once shown him on the inside of the giantman’s knee. The strike, his uncle had told him, could break a leg if performed properly.

            The young giantman shrugged the ineffectual blow of with a laugh. Then his fist descended on Errethe’s head.

                                                *                      *                      *

            Errethe awoke with a start. He sat up straight and instantly regretted it as a world of pain descended dizzyingly upon his head. His uncle’s hand steadied him as he fell back onto the bed.

            “Easy there lad, you’ve taken quite a pounding.” There was mirth in the older mans eyes, mixed with concern at the extent of the boy’s injuries.

            “What happened?” Errethe tried to rise again only to have a wave of nausea send him swooning back to the bed.

            “If your father hadn’t told me, Id say you’d been run down by a wagon train.” He chuckled. “But it seems you  got on the bad side of a certain young giantkin who felt your face needed rearranging.” Privately the older man was astonished at how well the boy had stood up to the pounding. He rubbed his finger through his bushy brown moustache. “You rest up a bit lad, and when you’re feeling better, Ill show you how to keep from ending up like fruit for a pig slop.” He turned and left the room quietly as Errethe lay back on the bed. Outside, Errethe’s uncle spoke quietly to his father.

            “The boy has a warriors spirit. You should reconsider your decision.”

            “I will not allow it. I wont have him running off to the north to get caught up in that ridiculous crusade you are espousing. I need him here to help me with the business. Its bad enough that you are leaving. And two months before the harvest!” Errethe’s father cracked the knuckles in his hands with a loud snap. “I need your strong back. Even with the boy to help, its going to be a difficult crop.”

            Errethe’s uncle sighed “I can stay until the end of next month, for the boy’s sake. He is becoming a man in a difficult world. Your ways will not save him or you from what is coming. Jantalar will not be a peaceful land for much longer.”

                                                *                      *                      *

            Errethe wiped the sweat from his face with the tail of his ragged blue tunic. His hands were red and aching from the wooden grips of the long scythe. Long years of use had worn the handles to a polished smoothness, but the wood still rubbed his hands raw as he made long sweeping passes, reaping down stalks of wheat for the fall harvest. Each day he rose with the sun and spent all day in the heat, scything the grain that would be the bulk of his families product for the fall markets.

            A rustling noise came from the wheat stalks to his left, and Errethe turned to see his uncle step from the grain, holding a scythe of his own. “Come here boy, leave that thing a bit and talk with me.” His uncle sat on the edge of the bailing wagon. “You know your father is a peaceful man, yes?” Errethe nodded. “And you know that it is a good and righteous way to be.” Errethe had heard speeches similar to this his whole childhood. He nodded again. “Well my boy, there are those whose way is peace, and those whose way is not. There may come a time when you are faced with a decision about which you will be.” Confusion played in Errethe’s eyes.

            “If this is about the fight in the city…” Errethe bit off his words as his uncle raised his hand.

            “It is…and it isn’t.” Errethe’s uncle took a deep breath. “Learning to defend yourself against street bullies is important. It is the business of hands and feet. That I can teach you now, and I will my boy, before I go.” Errethe looked up from the pile of wheat he had been worrying.

            “Where are you going Uncle?”

            ‘To Wheinimer’s Landing.” Errethe’s Uncle clasped his hands. “There are dark times coming and without anyone to protect this home, we will loose everything. I am going to join the Order of Voln and become a Paladin.” Errethe’s eye shone with wonder. He was about to speak again when his uncle stood.

            ‘Now boy, come here and learn how to use your hands when a fellow like that giant-kin decides to take a piece out of you…”

                                                *                      *                      *

            Over the rest of the summer, Errethe spent most of his days with his uncle. Every task about the household became a contest of strength or combat skill. Instead of shearing wheat, Errethe now hewed rows of orcs and hobgoblins. Armies of the wicked fell as his feat with each pass of the sctyhe, and he grew stronger and more agile every day, until his evening wrestling matches with his Uncle began to swing in his favor.

            All was not well in this time however, for Errethe’s father deeply disapproved of Errethe’s learning the ways of war. Silence covered the dinner table so often that Errethe and his uncle took to eating their meals by candle light in the barn. Errethe’s mother had tried to intervene but with no success.

            Still, at night when Errethe lay in bed, he heard hushed voices in the main room speaking of the goings on in the world. Rumors about the Baron Hochstib and dark forces moving about in the land. And another name was spoken, in the most hushed of whispers behind locked and barred doors…the name of Lukkos.

                                                *                      *                      *

            Clouds roiled thick and black above the fields of reaped wheat. Gods tossed bolts of lighting back and forth from cloud to cloud as if playing some supernatural game. In the fields, the men of Errethe’s homestead bent their backs to the task of gathering up the wheat sheaves before the coming storm could destroy the crop. The wind howled through the remaining stalks and its voice was like a banshee crying in horror. A thick, heavy pall of fear fell over the farmers as they worked. Errethe and his uncle stood against the wind, desperately swinging their scythes back and forth, cutting the last remaining wheat stalks. Suddenly the sound of tramping hooves could be heard even through the gale. Upon the road appeared a tall figure in heavy black armor. He was mounted on a horse the color of midnight, with blood red jaws and a firey mane. Flame spouted from the beast’s mouth and a horrible wave of evil radiated from the dark rider.  The black rider raised his cruelly jagged sword and, as if summoned from the very ground on which his mount stood, a lumbering horde of the walking dead appeared.

            They moved with the unholy speed of muscles that no longer felt pain or exhaustion, and they destroyed all in their path. For long moments Errethe could not move as the terrible mind numbing fear paralyzed his muscles. Then, to his left, he saw his uncle standing, not cowering in fear but moving toward the undead with his scythe held high. Something white gleamed in his hand, and Errethe watched as his uncle doused his farm tool with a pure white liquid from a small glass bottle. The scythe began to glow with an intense white radiance. Dropping the bottle, Errethe’s uncle turned suddenly and with a sweep of his powerful arm, took the head from the nearest of the walking dead.

            This display of power shook Errethe free of the fear, and tried to go to his uncle’s side, but a ghoul stepped between them and swung its decaying arm at Errethe. Errethe hooked the scythe upward, but the blade did not cut the undead flesh. His weapon could not harm the walking dead.  Errethe dodged another swipe by the ghoul. Most of the men in the field were down now and only his Uncle could be seen.

            “Errethe, swing low and take their legs out from under them lad!” Errethe’s Uncle decapitated a zombie in one swing and cut the leg from a rotting corpse with another. Understanding burned in Errethe’s mind. He turned suddenly bringing the scythe down low, as he would on a stalk of wheat. The zombie fell backward suddenly as its feet were taken from beneath it. Errethe jumped the corpse and sprinted toward his uncle. With another low swing, he took the legs from a mummy that tried to ensnare him. Errethe’s uncle was a madman swinging two and fro with his scythe, shaving two or three heads off per swing of the shining blade. Watching his Uncle Errethe gained insight, as he swung now, he tripped two foes with the scythe. Soon the army of undead had swept past and the last remaining few that stayed to fight Errethe’s Uncle had been slain and decayed into filth staining the ground where they fell black for a month.  Errethe and his Uncle returned to the homestead which had been barred tight against the invaders. Some of the outbuildings had been destroyed, but none had been killed.

                        *                      *                      *

            The next morning  Errethe’s uncle and father left for a meeting with the factor of Baron Hochstib in the capital city. They refused to take Errethe along, and when they returned. Both wore looks as black as death. They told the family that Hochstib would do nothing about the undead attacks, would not admit even their existence. Either he was deliberately being mislead, or...he was in collusion. Then Errethe’s Uncle proclaimed that he was leaving. The time had come for him to travel north to Wheinimer’s Landing and seek the Order of Voln. Only they could help.

                                                *                      *                      *

            Months passed in Jantalar. The undead came again twice. Each time the family remained barricaded inside as the dark army swept past destroying crops and livestock. But again they all lived.

            In time Errethe moved from the fields to the Smelting Plant. There, wrapped in heavy padding resembling the heavy leather armor worn by the Janalar soldiers, he ran the great forge that smelted iron ore down to useable slabs for sale to blacksmiths across Janatalar. Such work was heavy and difficult and required much crawling and climbing to repair parts of the giant smelting plant. As the months passed Errethe grew and matured. His physical strength and natural agility increased at the hard work until he was a fully-grown man.

                                                 *                      *                      *

            “Errethe, the post has come!” His mother called across the yard to the smithy. Errethe laid down the bellows for the forge and nodding to the master-smith, ran across the yard, shedding heavy protective clothing as he went. Today was the first of the month, and the letters from his Uncle always came today. But there was worry in his mothers eyes as the post rider galloped off.

            “What is it mother?” Errethe stopped advancing, the last piece of chest padding hanging from his arm.

            “There is no letter today Errethe.” She wrung her hands. ‘One month with no letter might be something, but two…” Her voice trailed off and she turned to re-enter the house. Errethe  followed her after a few moments, but climbed the stairs to his room when he saw her in quiet conversation with his father.

            Once in his room he fished under his bed for a small battered iron strongbox in which he kept the letters from his Uncle. Laying back on the bed he skimmed the contents of the letters that had come over the past year.

            …Errethe, I cannot tell you how astounding the city is. There are so many folk from so many places. Halflings and Giantmen are no strangers to our lands, but so many more folk live here in the city of Wheinimer’s Landing. Short stumpy, dwarves, tall graceful elves, even the occasional reclusive Sylvankind. Their languages fill the town center with song and stories, merchanting deals and requests for assistance from the healers that congregate there…

            …It has only been a few short weeks, but I have found my way around the town. There is a blacksmith by the name of Iron Jack here. He offered me employment as I was just starting out and had only what little coin I could borrow. It seems there is an iron mine in the hills not far from here. The smelting plant is much older than our own, but is much simpler to run. All you need to do is…

            …The trainers for the warrior profession are very skilled. Even now my skill with weapons and armor increases. I hope you can come to visit me some time soon. There is so much to see and learn. I have even met a member of the Holy Order of Voln. He is an old warrior who spends much of his time wandering the town, but when questioned about his adventures, he told me how to reach the Voln Monastery. On the morrow I go there to seek admission…

            …My boy, my heart rejoices at this new way I have found. The Order of Voln has undertaken the quest to rid the world of the curse of Undeath. All of the Lords of Liabo offer their strength to its members and I feel a true sense of community here. I have made some friends here who share my task. One I especially hope you can meet one day is a young Ranger named Wandir. He and I have taken up hunting wraiths in an ancient abandoned inn south of the city…

            …The path of Voln is a long but honorable one. At first I thought that only the dark gods magic and the horrible death of violence caused the undead to rise from their graves. But I have learned now that there is another force at work in the city of Wheinmers Landing. A secret society whos name it is forbidden to speak. They seek to aid a force called the Unlife. It is they who force the dead to rise. It is they who are the ultimate enemies of the Order of Voln. But the order does not see this. They concern themselves only with the destruction of those already risen. They do not work against those who help them to rise. It seems like such an endless task. I hear the screeching of the Wraiths I fight in my dreams. I sleep at an old table, but yards from where they walk, the ancient protective magics hold their bodies at bay, but their tortured wails echo through the dusty rooms…

            …I grow tired my boy. It seems that no matter how many times my sword rises and falls, more wraiths swarm to take the places of the fallen. Even after the victory of the city guard against the hidden headquarters of the dark society. They burned out their accursed bathhouse and forced the elder members of the society into hiding. Even with that great victory, the undead walk still. I fight from dawn to dusk and on into the night. My power grows, but so do the numbers of the undead that I must free…

                                                            *                      *                      *

            That night at the dinner table everyone was quiet and disturbed. When Errethe sat, his mother stared at him with an unreadable expression. When the meal was done Errethe’s father spoke the first words to cross the table that evening.

            “This lack of correspondence from your uncle is troubling to your mother, Errethe. I fear that something must have gone wrong up there in the City.” He paused to take a deep breath. “You know I do not approve of his violent nature, or his quest, but he is one of our own.” He put his hands down on the table. “Tomorrow, I want you to take the one of the horses and ride to Sol Haven. There, I want you to see if you can find out where your Uncle is. Go on to Whenimer’s Landing if you must, but send word as soon as you can, and return…as soon as you can.”

                                                            *                      *                      *

Dearest Mother

            I hope this letter finds you well. I am doing fine and settling in well in the great city. It was everything uncle wrote in his letters and so much more. How is uncle? Is his health improving? I was glad to hear he made the trip back to you in one piece. I feared for his life and his sanity when I found him in that Abandoned Inn, sword across his knees, staring into the darkness. He could not have eaten in days. I had to borrow money for healers and clerics to bring him back from the edge of death. Please write soon and tell me he recovers.

            I know father is still angry at my decision to remain here. But he has never understood the calling that uncle, and now I have heard. Even now I am preparing to enter the service of Voln. I have met Uncle’s friend Wandir and he took me under his wing. Tell uncle I carry his armor and it serves me well. Tell him also that I have taken up the halberd as my weapon of choice. I will come back as soon as I can to visit you all. I hope father grows less angry with time. Love to you all, Errethe.

Dearest Mother,

            I hope this letter reaches you well. Indeed, I hope it reaches you at all. Relations between Jantalar and the Landing have grown worse. Baron Hotchstib has closed down communications between the two cities and his troops harass Sol Haven. My work in the Order of Voln has paid off and I am now a Master of that Order. I know this will please uncle. I was so glad to hear of his recovery. However I share your fear that he will never hold a weapon again.

            Perhaps it will please father to learn that I have taken up the smithing trade as well. I spend long hours in the workshops here perfecting my art. I know he will not approve of my making weapons, but it is clear that war is coming with Jantalar and I must provide for my friends. I hope the conflict will not spread to our families lands, but with the Baron acting so unreasonably and the recent murder of the Mayor of the city, conflict cannot be far off.

            I have joined a militia unit known as the Protectors of the Citadel. I do not wish you to worry, for I have been assigned to guard tower duty when the town falls under attack. If I may brag a bit, my skills with the Ballista are quite good and my friends in the ‘Tower Team’ are good to me.

            I must go now Mother, for it is time for drill. But I have heard a rumor, of another organization that is dedicated to the cause of the Lords of Liabo. Yesterday afternoon I caught a glimps of a man named Morgiest, he is the Lord Paladin of the House Daingneach Onoir, holy warriors and guardians of Elanthia. I feel a calling to them I cannot yet describe. On the morrow I will seek them out.

            Love Errethe Eckbe.