James knocked on the door.

After a few moments, a dough faced woman answered, keeping one arm braced behind the door in case her visitors were less than congenial.

"What is it you want?" Although she clearly was addressing James, her gaze danced nervously to the moredhel. "I've had enough runins with strangers of late."

"Were we looking to get a bit of water per...," James started, but found the old woman had slammed the door...

Mist floated in the pass.

"This road leads to Krondor and the west," Locklear said, "though I believe it also forks to the north and leads through the Dimwood forest. Which way do you think would be best?"

As much a fixture in the myths and legends of Midkemia as the stories of the gods told by priests in the Temples, Sethanon was nothing more now than a sad old ghost town. In passing a low brick wall which had been overgrown with ivy, they were struck by the words that had been painted there in sheep's blood: REMEMBER US.

Owyn stared into the crevice. Standing on the rubble of Sethanon's ancestral keep, he was shaken by the sight of the thousands of moredhel bones which had been used to fill the gap into the undergrounds. However interested he was in finding out what lay below, he had no desire to burrow through the moldering bodies.

Rubble littered the ground. Moving closer, Owyn tried to see what was between the cracks of the fallen stone, but was unable to tell more simply by looking.

Curiosity got the best of him. Dropping to his hands and knees, Owyn began pulling the rocks aside in hopes of finding something of interest...

The well seemed normal, and yet there was something about it.

Stepping up to take a closer look Owyn suddenly felt a powerful surge of energy enter his body. He jumped back in pain.

"Obviously," Owyn said, rubbing his stinging shoulder, "somebody doesn't want us to get too close to this well. Perhaps we should go talk to whoever lives in that house over there."

Standing in front of the intricately carved door, Owyn stepped forward. "These are magic symbols," said the magician, "Carved, no doubt, by magic means..."

"Nope, just a regular hunting knife."

The figure of a small elderly man followed the disembodied voice around the edge of the house. "I was out back tending to some chores. You're right about the symbols being magic though. Carved 'em there myself. Name's Flarr Wygn."

Thrilled to be in the presence of another magician, Owyn smiled and said, "It would've been easier to do it magically, Flarr."

"I suspect you're right about that. But I'm not a magician. No, it was my brother who had the gift. Died a couple years back." The old man stared solemnly at the door for a moment, then suddenly cheerful said, "Left behind a magic well. His legacy. Its guarded by a pretty nasty spell -- give you a good jolt unless I turn it off. You head on over to the well and I'll give you a drink. It'll fix you right up and set you back only 25 sovereigns."

"The protection spell's off, boys." Though he claimed he wasn't a magician, Flarr had a knack for appearing out of nowhere. "Gotta keep it on to ward off animals and freeloaders, you know." With several sweeps of his hand he motioned them forward. "Come on. Don't be afraid. The water in this well will fix you right up...only 25 sovereigns. Want to give it a try?"

Locklear knocked and almost immediately there was the sound of frantic movement inside the house. Then silence. He knocked again. Nothing.

"Hello?" Silence. "Is anybody there? We are weary travelers and seek only a moment of your time, and perhaps a drink of water." Locklear waited patiently for a moment, then said sternly, "Look, we know you're in there. We heard you moving about."

Finally, with the door still closed, a man replied weakly, "We know who you really are. We will have the rest of the taxes as soon as we get the money."

No amount of arguing or explaining could convince the man of the truth. The door remained closed.

The door opened with a creak.

"Good day," said a lady of about twenty five. "What brings you kind gentlemen to Lyton?" Locklear glanced at Owyn, then replied matter-of-factly, "Just passing through. Could we trouble you for something to drink perhaps?"

"You'll find a well beside the road near the center of town," she said.

Realizing that she was probably a bit leery about talking to strange men, Locklear thanked her for the information and said goodbye.

They were greeted warmly.

After a friendly chat and a steaming pot of tea, they refused any further hospitality from the host. "You've been more than generous," Locklear said, grabbing his pack. "But I think it's time we made for the road again."

Gorath was about to knock on the front door when he heard a strange roaring sound coming from inside the house. It lasted for several seconds, stopped. Then it began again.

"What in the name of Ishap?" - Gorath stood with his ear cocked to the door. Suddenly realization dawned, and with a smile he turned to leave.

Owyn gave him a puzzled look. "We're leaving? It sounds like a wild beast in there, perhaps we should see if there's anyone inside in need of our assistance."

"I'm afraid even if you were a master magician like Pug you couldn't cure a snore like that. Come on, let's allow him sleep."

Locklear looked around the small barn. Judging by the variety of livestock he guessed that it was community property, perhaps owned by the citizens of Lyton.

He poked around for a few minutes, then said, "Nothing of much interest here. Let's move on."

Conversation within the room halted briefly as Owyn pushed his way inside the room, returning a nod from a rough looking pair of mercenaries who otherwise seemed engaged in a dispute over a lost bet.

James asked for company.

Smiling at them, the man eagerly accepted the offer of fellowship and told a number of tales about his works for Lord Lyton. Unsure what in the man's manner inspired his trust, James responded likewise by telling him a few of the details of their trip to Romney, though omitting the specifics about Gorath's part in things.

"Ah we! I don't envy you that," the man said, waving his hands. "I'd not be heading anywhere near the river, not for no amount of silver. Not me."

"Why is that?" James asked.

"Awful troubles there. The Guild of the Romney and the Riverpullers Guild are as good as at war. If you ask me, some bloke down Silden way is trying to stir up things. I've heard he's even got a few sneaks what are posing as members of other guilds, even carrying forged guild seals. Saw a group of them with Max Feeber, that greedy bastard out west of here."

When the man excused himself to go answer nature's call, James pondered for a moment the things he had learned. While it seemed wildly improbable that the events that were going on around them were somehow connected, he had seen the plots of Murmandamus previous to the last uprising and those circumstances had left him jaded. It made him none the more comfortable that he was now escorting a former ally of that moredhel monster.

Men were laughing.

"That sounds like quite a funny story," James said. "Would you care to repeat it?" The man looked about nervously, "Uh, no... I..."

"Please," said James with as warm a smile as he could muster, understanding why the man might be nervous.

"Well, okay. I was just tellin' the fellas about old Glover. Paid 300 sovereigns for a dead man's hand - thought it was a 'glory hand' or something like that... figured he could sell it for big money, I guess."

James thanked the man for his information and his time.

The man at the door flew into a rage!

"YOU!" he shouted, pointing at James. "That hand you sold me was totally WORTHLESS! It wasn't a glory hand at all!"

James took a step back. "I'm afraid you have mistaken me for someone else, I really have no idea what you are talking about. But did you say something about a hand? We'll buy it back from you."

"I tossed that worthless thing into the dried up well at Lyton. 150 sovereigns! That's how much I paid for it. You telling me you'll give me my money back if I retrieve it for you?"

A servant answered the door.

"May we speak to the lord of the manor?" James asked.

The servant shook his head. "I am sorry, he is sleeping. You will have to come back in the morning."

A voice inside the house called out to them.

"Go away! Lord Lyton is very busy meeting with a reeve sent from Earl Presser, and he doesn't wish to be disturbed at the moment."

They argued with the voice behind the door for several minutes, then, recognizing the futility of further discussion, left.

A servant met them at the door.

She ushered them inside and led them to a partitioned corner of the room. Pulling back the curtain, she revealed a gangly man with a white beard and snow grey hair who introduced himself as Lord Lyton.

"Please forgive my humble accommodations," he sighed. "My financial situation has been compromised by the death of my lord, Earl Presser of Romney." Suddenly, he brightened, "Perhaps you fine gentlemen would be willing to assist me in a small matter..."

"What could we do to help you?" asked James.

The lord sighed again, "I was to equip six knights and send them to Romney for my former lord, but his holdings were bestowed on his half-brother following his death, and he wishes me to deliver 12 fully equipped knights to Malac's Cross."

"If you could bring me 6 suits of kingdom armor, in good condition, I would be able to get rid of those annoying tax collectors who have been travelling the roads terrorizing people and extorting money. I wouldn't actually expect that you would have that sort of a thing with you. You don't, do you?"

James made a face. "It isn't exactly the sort of thing we would carry about with us as a rule."

"Of course not," Lyton replied, showing them to the door. "But please, see what you can do."

A well armed band of men approached.

"You shall not pass this way unless you pay a road tax," yelled one of the men.

James put a hand on his sword, "Under whose authority do you make these demands?" he shouted back.

"Lord Lyton. Now either turn back or pay us a tax of 25 gold sovereigns. Which will it be?"

James stopped.

With a puzzled look on his face he turned to Gorath.

JAMES: "There are some men up ahead, and judging by their strides I'd say they were guarding something. Perhaps we should avoid this area until we can find out what they are up to."

James elbowed Owyn in the ribs, noticing the color rising in his young companion's cheeks as they surveyed the three young ladies who graced the common room. With other matters on their minds, the attentions of a soft spoken female could be fatally distracting should a fight break out in the confines of the room.

Within, the accommodations were humble. Several splintering tables had been jammed in to the common room and arranged to accommodate perhaps twenty five men, thirty if hunger pressed them. Greasy stains covered benches and walls, evidence of wild days past.

The innkeeper smiled...

"Welcome, gents! It's going to be dark pretty soon, you should think about spending the night. Dangerous out there!"

"Dangerous?" questioned Locklear. "Why is that?"

The innkeeper leaned forward and whispered, "The dead have taken up refuge in these parts. They stalk the roads by night and have been attacking travelers. If I was you, I'd think about staying here tonight, and getting an early start in the morning.."

The man joined them. "What can I do for you?" he asked.

James offered the man a seat. "What can you tell us of the area?" he asked.

"You won't be wanting to travel by night, sirs. Rusalki roam the hills lookin' for weary travelers to prey upon. And truth be known?" he lowered his voice to a whisper. "I think the innkeeper has somethin' to do with it."

"What makes you think that?" James said with a tilt of his head.

The man looked around, "People say he knew where the Rusalki were hemmed in during the day, and that he hired a fella named Crenard and a few of his companions to protect it!"

Head still atilt, James asked, "Why would he want to do that?"

"To protect his livelihood, o' course! Folks was scared to sleep outdoors, so they would stay at his inn - he was makin' a pile of the shiny stuff, he was."

The owner of the house, a bearded man of about fifty, obviously saw Locklear approaching because the door swung open before he had a chance to knock.

"Good day to you, sirs! My name is Buck Rausch. And who might you be?"

Locklear made the appropriate introductions and the man smiled at them warmly. Then he said, "The river has been fruitful this season. Could I interest you fine gents in some dried trout? Or perhaps you'd like to buy one of my handmade shovels -- or maybe a torch?"

A man shouted to them.

"Have you brought the Chief Reeve's dinner?" he asked, evidently viewing their arrival as part of a regular schedule. When James wasn't quick to respond, the man seemed to get a bit irritated. "Are you or aren't you the delivery men from the goods store?"

"Yes," James quickly lied, seeing it as an obvious way to get past the guard. "We'll just go on in and deliver his dinner to him..."

The man frowned. "Obviously they didn't explain to you the way things work round here. No one comes past Podrich," he said, thumping his chest. "You go over next to the field and put the goods in the box, then go about your way. Now do you or don't you have his food?"

Podrich shouted at them.

"If you had pulled that stunt with me, I'd have your livers for breakfast," he said, referring to their having previously left the tainted rations. "The Reeve is a little more forgiving. He says anybody what had the manhood to try that deserved at least a meeting with him. I'll deactivate the trap so as you can get through."

Owyn winced as the guard removed a scroll from his tunic and read the incantation, horribly fumbling most of the words which were written upon it. Once before, he had seen a neophyte spellcaster consumed in flames as he mispronounced a critical line of a spell, leaving forever after a greasy spot on the streets of Tiburn. Much to his relief, the trap collapsed without incident.

Arlie smiled at them.

Dabbing a sooty grime from his face with a towel, he seemed genuinely pleased to see them once again.

A man appeared in the doorway.

His raven hair dusted with grey and the lines around his eyes hard, he looked on them with gravity, the weight of his stare deep and penetrating. "This is the house of Madame Haphra," he rasped. "Futures, speaking with the dead, rumors. We will require a payment of fifty gold. Do you wish a session with Madame?"

Noticing that Owyn appeared to be drifting off, James threw him a sympathetic smile. "I think we've heard enough for now, Madame Haphra. Perhaps we will come and see you again."

"Very well," she replied. "Bella shall show you out."

"Rumors," she repeated, quietly. Leaning forward in her seat, she met Owyn's gaze and held it, allowing her voice to harden. "Rumors? I will tell thee of the only rumor about which I know. Many have come and spoken to me of Rusalki that roam the lands near the River Pilot's Folly at night, but these are lies..."

Startled with the ferocity with which the woman had bitten off the last word, James shrugged his shoulders. "I had not heard anything of them..."

"Do not seek the Rusalki!" she continued, her voice still frantic. "They are of no harm to anyone!"

Although he had remained quiet as Haphra had begun to rant, Bella moved forward and touched her on the shoulder, seemingly relieving the wildness that was overcoming her. "These gentlemen are friends," he said quietly. "You will not be injured."

Taking his hand, she nodded once, then looked back at James. "You will forgive me. This has...touched our lives, but I can explain no further."

Closing her eyes, the old woman shook as if a tree bowing beneath the winds of a howling gale, her lips drawn taut and her face drained of color. After several moments of effort, she shook her head. I cannot...help you. Lims-Kragma holds those you wish too tightly."

"Very well," Haphra said with a weak smile, her posture relaxing visibly as she leaned back into the overstuffed cushions of her sitting chair. "We shall tell your future..."

SEVEN FALSE PROPHECIES:

Owyn cringed as he found that the mystic was regarding him intensely, fixing him with a gaze that looked frankly more familiar than he liked. "You shall discover wealth in a hidden place, but shall lose something dearly won so that you may obtain it. In gaining it, you shall have great joy, but later will find that it holds great misery for the time ahead."

Staring deep into Owyn's eyes, she hesitated a moment, then shook her head. "I can tell you nothing you do not already know," she said, then locked gazes with Gorath. "But you, however, I see betrayal in your future. You will turn on all that you have sworn oath to and will become something you once hated. You will face your enemy most hated and he will change you."

For a long moment she sat silently, her gaze turned as much inwards as outwards, but at last she spoke in a startlingly youthful voice. "A long shadow and a star stand over your house," she said, addressing Locklear. "Even as you find the soul that is kin to your own and achieve all that you had hoped, you will lose your closest friend to passion in a foreign land."

Regarding James, the look on her face slowly changed, turning into a mask of pain and regret. "You will die a slow and painful death, alone and in starvation," she said somberly. Those upon whom you thought you could count will abandon you in your hour of need and in death they will believe you a disgrace to your station."

A puzzled look crossed Haphra's face as she attempted to concentrate. "Yours is a fortune I have not seen the like of for some time. A dead man's key will open the doors which cannot be seen and are hidden beneath those who bow below the seven rayed star."

Her eyes half-closed, she looked dreamily at James, licking her lips as she spoke. "When you are driven on the longest road, you will seek to destroy the instrument of deception, but will find need to deceive those who guard the way. In the very last place you will find that salvation is with the man who seems a boy."

Shivering, as if seized with a sudden chill, she flicked a bony finger out at Owyn. "You shall save one whom you admire from a dire fate, but shall awaken the attention of those whom most wish for your destruction. Forever after, you shall find that you walk the paths of the world nameless and alone."

Folding her hands in her lap, she looked on them serenely, her face beginning to resume the look of her age. "This is the fate I see for you," she said, the slight tremolo in her voice betraying a hint of nervousness. "The fates have spoken through me..."

Detecting how important it was to the fortune teller that they believed what she had told them, James leaned forward and patted the old woman's hands. "We believe you Haphra," he said, reinforcing his words with a flashed smile...

James snorted his contempt for the old woman's prediction. "I could have said any of the same things. I've heard virtually all those things from street lunatics..."

"Haphra!" Bella shouted, but was shoved aside like a mere twig as the old woman lunged to her feet, her eyes blazing fury. Raking James's face with her sharpened nails, she howled in a voice that no longer sounded human. I am Haphra! You will believe! You will believe..."

Weeping openly, Bella moved behind his distraught wife, but rather than trying to console her, he lifted a stick of fire wood and struck her to the floor. Standing over her unconscious form, he seemed poised to strike again...

"Wha... ," Confused, James flashed a horrified stare at Bella, but suddenly drew back in shock as another form began to materialize around Haphra's crumpled body, taking on the shape of a young girl. For a moment it hovered, its expression glowering as it stared at Bella. Then, with a hateful screech, it flashed through the air to pass through the walls of the house.

"Go after it," Bella sobbed, dropping to the ground to cradle his wife. Go and kill it. We are finished with the rusalki now. Go!"

Nearly tripping over the clutter of the small house, they rushed outside and prepared their weapons for the rusalki who now awaited to kill them all.

Bella said nothing as he let them inside.

Next to the door, Haphra was sitting up, her frail fingers clutched in her hair and a distant look on her face. As she regarded them, she looked more relieved than pained for her injury.

"She is dead?"

"Yes," James replied. "Dead. Or at least we may assume so. What exactly did we witness here?"

"A foolish old woman who didn't wish to let her daughter go," she said, her voice trembling. Grabbing hold of Bella's hand for support, she continued on bravely. "After our daughter died, I sought to find her with my talents. I thought if I could seize on to her, we could keep her with us."

"But that's not what you found," James replied.

Haphra shook her head. "No it wasn't. Instead, I found the spirit of the rusalki who promised that she would bring our daughter to us, if we would allow her to live through me, to inhabit this body. For a while we believed her, but after several weeks...we knew we had been trapped by the creature."

Feeling awkward in the woman's presence, James touched the woman's shoulder lightly. "I am very sorry."

"Don't be," she said. "You have freed us of a curse and now we can begin to rebuild our lives without my daughter. For this, I shall grant you a true prophecy, or at least one as true as I am capable."

Bella answered the door.

"Madame Haphra is too weary to attend you," he said, his narrowed eyes betraying a hint of accusation. "Events of late have exhausted her and she will be resting for some time to come. Goodbye gentlemen."

The lay of the goods store was comfortably familiar, arranged in such a common sense fashion that it took only a few moments for James to locate the items which interested him.

There was something very strange about the house.

Locklear couldn't put his finger on it, but the house had a dreamlike feel. Or was it a nightmare? He barely remembered knocking on the door, but he was sure no one had answered.

Except for a thin strip of floor that led between the door, the counter and the stairs, a grey cowl of dust coated the inn's fixtures. The patrons of the inn seemed similarly stagnant as they glanced up lazily from their mugs of ale and brandy.