“This is it!” Jarek confidently said as he opened the door to an old, decrepit building.

“That’s what you said at the last soup kitchen,” Braden said with an exasperated sigh, “and the orphanage before that and the shelter before that!” Jarek just waved his hand and stepped inside.

Like many of the buildings in this part of town, the orphanage was old, run down, and dusty. The room’s sole illumination was from several small candles and lanterns placed throughout it.

“Hello?” Braden yelled as he followed Jarek inside. He was answered only by silence. “I don’t think anyone is here, boss.”

“Neither do- wait, do you hear that?” Jarek sharply questioned. First there was nothing, then the sound of slow, even footsteps could be heard, then a terrible moaning and wailing. Motioning for Braden to be quiet and watch the door, Jarek slowly drew his sword and began to ascend the old, rickety staircase that led to the next floor. When he reached the top, he recoiled in shock, nearly dropping his sword.

The room was relatively large, with a number of beds lined up against the walls. The floor was stained with blood and vomit, adding to the foul smell of unwashed and dying bodies. But the most tragic addition to this scene was the occupants of the bed.

Lying on each cot was a child, their ages ranging from barely three to adolescent pre-teens. Covering their frail, emaciated bodies were dark red and green bulbs, many of which had popped and were freely spilling blood. Some of the children had what used to be white sheets placed over their heads but had turned red from the bloodstains, while those that still lived writhed in unending pain, moaning and groaning, the younger ones howling and wailing, tears mixing with the blood on their faces.

Moving from cot to cot was a man garbed in silver plate mail, his dirty blonde hair just cresting his shoulders. At each bed, he’d whisper a short prayer then place his hand on the child’s forehead. The child’s body would suddenly stiffen, but then relax. The cleric would then take a white cloth and place it over the body, say another short prayer, and move on. At his hip hung a mace, it’s handle engraved with various runes ending in a spiked head. A silver shield was strapped across his back.

“By the Gods…” Jarek whispered, then, sheathing his sword, he slowly walked towards the healer. “Are you Hadrian?” he asked in a solemn tone.

“Yes,” the cleric replied as he laid another child to rest, “Or that is what He once called me.”

“We need to talk. I have a friend who needs-“ Jarek began. Hadrian slowly stood up and walked towards the last cot, performing his merciful healing for the last time. Then he turned around to face Jarek, revealing a clean-shaven face and sad, blue eyes nearly covered by his hair.

“Take me to her.”

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“Are you sure about this Mako?” A short, scrawny, rattish looking man asked. “These guys seem pretty tough, ‘specially that big one.”

“Quiet yer sniveling Ross! ‘Sides, the big one left with that strange swordsman ages ago, which means that only the runty mage and that sleeping broad are in there, and there is no way I’m going to let them steal my room. No, hurry up and help me get this door down, you too Brigs!”

Inside the room, Ameloren was sitting in a chair reading his spell book when he heard voices outside the door. Closing the book, he walked across the room to where Kithilien lay on the bed.

“I won’t let them hurt you, my love,” he whispered, stroking her cheek. “I won’t let anyone hurt you.” Then he walked towards the door and opened it. The three ruffians spilled into the room after preparing to charge the door.

“Gerrof me you useless halfwit!” Mako cursed, shoving Ross off him. Ross was about to snap back when he looked up, his face frozen in fear.

“What? What is it?” Brigs asked, shaking the petrified man. Then, as one, he and Mako looked up.

Staring straight at them was the cold, heartless visage of Ameloren. Then, the young mage raised his hands into the air, softly mumbling the words to a spell till it rose to a violent crescendo. Unearthly screams filled the room as three wisps appeared above Ameloren’s head, then slowly glided towards the poor would-be robbers. The first one struck Ross right in the chest and began to tug, as if trying to wrench out the man’s very soul. Then, with one last tug, the wisp pulled out and flew back into Ameloren.

The two bandits watched in horror as they watched their comrade’s life sucked out of him. Then they quickly scrambled up and ran out the door, screaming all the way. Brigs turned around to see if they were being followed when a wisp struck him right in the face, diving through the man’s open mouth. Brigs kept screaming till he suddenly shuddered and fell to the ground, the wisp slowly floating out of his mouth and back to Ameloren.

Mako had almost reached the stairs when he felt something tug at his leg, tripping him. The last thing he saw was an evil, maniacal grin on the wisp hovering above his face.

Ameloren breathed in deep as the last wisp returned to him, then smirked, “Not as strong as I’d hoped, but worth the distraction.” Then he walked back into the room and closed the door. His evil grimace instantly vanished as he looked towards Kithilien, replaced by a crazy, almost hungry smile.

“I told you I wouldn’t let them hurt you, my love. No one will hurt you. You are mine! You are meant to be mine, and you will always be mine!” Ameloren yelled, then, returning to his whisper, “I love you, more than you know, but will soon find out.” He then kissed the comatose girl on the forehead and returned to his spell book.

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Dust rose as the army of the living dead marched towards the city; it’s occupants oblivious to the impending attack. Undead and foul creatures of all shapes and sizes composed the horde, from zombies and skeletons to the more powerful demons and devils. But most fearsome was a warrior clad in completely in jet-black full plate, riding a chariot pulled by a pair of basilisk. The surface of the metal itself seemed to emit it’s own dark glow, and upon the warrior’s head was a closed helmet with curved devil horns on top. At the warrior’s hip swung a heavy flail, the spiked head glowing red.

Behind the army lay the burning remains of a village, ahead another country town.

The army rolled on.