"Go on, Devin, open it!" The older boy's voice both cajoled and mocked.

"You open it!" The younger one shied back. His eyes were filled with fear.

The most recent rains had collapsed an area of Tristram's graveyard. Though previously all entrances to the Monastery had been blocked, now a gaping hole had been opened to the Church for many days. All knew that the years of Diablo's reign were well-over and so a not-so-friendly dare to climb down into the first dungeon level was readily accepted. Exploring the dimly lit forbidden surroundings was second nature to two young boys.

But to discover an unopened sarcophagus. . .

Now that - that - was something that tasted of real danger.

Of course Devin had heard the old tales. How the Church once crawled with all kinds of foul beasts. Beasts that would like nothing better than to snatch up a little boy and gnaw his bones!

But now those creatures were mostly kept alive only in youngsters' imagination by the tales of Sir Cedrig. Some time ago the old man simply had moved into a hut next to the Church entrance. Since he seemed harmless and actually performed a small service -- keeping the young and unwary from harm's way at this place -- the town suffered his presence with barely concealed amusement.

But now, what if Sir Cedrig's stories were true? What if . . . if . . . something were inside that coffin? What if something wanted out!? What if . . .

"No guts? Come on, open it!", the older boy chided.

Devin hesitated. He hated being younger and weaker. He hated being teased by Kurk and his even older brother Malcolm. He hated being the taunted by them, being bullied by them, and being treated like a baby by them. They were entering their man-years, and he still was smooth-faced.

"What's the matter? Can't find the courage?" Kurk's sneer loomed nearer.

Devin hesitated. "Phhht! Nothing but a farmer. You'll never be anything but a dirt-digger. Little-boy! Never be a Warrior! Never be a Hero!"

Devin felt the blood rush to his face. It was true, he was just the son of a farmer trying to scrabble an existence in this god-forsaken place. They said the entire dungeon was supposed to be clean of all Evil. It must be safe! It must! If he couldn't open an empty coffin, he must truly be a coward. Nothing but a little coward.

Everyone hates a coward. So he carefully set aside his small candle and put both hands on the coffin lid.

"That's it! Go on! Push it! Push it over!"

Devin strained with all his might.

Groaning, Sir Cedrig bent over to inspect the simmering soup-pot. God! His back! Although he still felt young at heart, he hated how his body disagreed and emphasized its point with various aches and pains. Of course the reckless abandon with which he had dared danger in his younger years contributed to some of his problems. But ah youth! You had it; you lost it; and what you did in time it lasted . . . he smiled. No, he had had his good years, and his own small share of adventures. Even his middle years, spent braving the dungeons at Tristram, had been exciting, tempestuous ones.

Which is more than could be said of his days now. Stirring mechanically, he pondered what -- besides brevity -- his future held for him. After all those years battling in the dungeon, to hear tell the tale of Diablo's demise, and then suddenly to be without purpose or employ. He wandered a bit, clearing the surrounds of some bits of remaining Evil, but always seemed to return to this spot. He even took part in The Scouring, whereby the entire dungeon was cleared from top to bottom, emptied of every evil -- every foe dispatched, every trap disarmed. And afterwards the Horadrim mystic had asked him to stay on, standing guard over an empty vessel.

Odd. All these years and no beast emerged, no Evil resurged. Yet Cain had insisted Evil yet remained, and that Cedrig was still needed here. Right now it appeared he soon might end up buried here; Cedrig hoped his service was not intended to extend into the next life!

So he was startled to the point of dropping his spoon into the pot when he heard the first shrill cry for help.

Devin pushed with all his might, yet the lid would not budge.

"Did I say little-boy? I must have meant little-girl! Here, let me help you." With that Kurk joined him and both heaved at the coffin top.

This time the top nearly seemed to fly off of its own accord or as if by magic! With a crash Devin feared would wake even the Undead, the lid smashed on the ground and created a billowing dust cloud. The candle blew out.

Yet from within the sarcophagus a strange yellow light emanated. The dust particles caught and reflected this light a thousand times, so that the very air above the coffin seemed to glow.

With a sinister rustling and slithering noise, a creature sat bolt upright within the coffin! It was man-like in size and form and general appearance, but its clothes were in tatters and its very flesh seemed to hang to its body! Devin and even Kurk stood transfixed as the entity turned its gaze upon them both, then with alarming speed it stood up in its deathbed and raised a mighty arm!

With a smashing blow the arm crashed down upon Kurk, catching him between collarbone and shoulder. The young man went down as if poleaxed. Devin looked at the fiendish form and wet himself, his fear was so great. The creature made as if to lunge at Devin, but found its way blocked by the side of the sarcophagus. As the creature slowly worked to raise itself out and over and onto the ground, the boy rediscovered his will to live.

He ran!

He didn't think to stop and save Kurk. He didn't even look to see what the creature was doing to him. The beast was a thing of nightmares and no mere boy could be asked to stand up to it. He had to get help!

But as he fled to the fallen-down opening, his mind raced. His father's farm was too far away for help to save Kurk. Even Malcolm and Kurk's household was too far. He thought of the other inhabitants of Tristam, but didn't even know if they'd be at home. So many had left, so many had such odd duties that took them away from the town at all hours.

Then he remembered the old knight. Sir Cedrig? The one who told tales of once being a glorious warrior who braved Evil's lair. And he lived right next door! "Please, please, let him be in!" the boy prayed as he scrambled out the sinkhole entrance.

By the time the youth caught his breath and spilled it out again, Sir Cedrig had a good idea of what he faced. Humanoid, decaying appearance, and glowing a bright greenish yellow. It could only mean one thing: Black Death!

Cedrig shuddered inwardly. He remembered how even as a healthy young warrior he had given these creatures a wide berth. And how he preferred to dispatch them with bow and arrow rather than melee weapon!

But he had sold his bow and such years ago to pay for various other matters. Now he raced to the large chest that served as his dinner table also, and hurriedly swept it clear of adornments. Inserting the only key, he unlocked and opened it. Inside he chose quickly. A blade, a helm, a torch, and a morningstar.
He had to be quick if the boy was telling the truth.

He slapped the helm atop his head. His heart beat fiercely! It seemed Evil once again stalked the Halls of the Monastery of Tristam!

After sending the boy to town for others, Sir Cedrig entered the Church, carefully descending the tumbled down talus. He nearly fell twice; he had forgotten how much a helm impaired one's peripheral vision and how dark this place was. At the base he paused to catch his breath. Then he lit a torch in one hand and readied the morning star in the other. He would have preferred a flail, but his reflexes weren't what they once were -- now that weapon was probably beyond his capabilities. A Warhammer would have been better, too, but he doubted he retained the strength necessary to skillfully wield it for any length of time. The morning star seemed the best choice now -- simple to use, not overly heavy, and still doing the requisite damage. If he could just keep this Undead creature stunned until he destroyed it, his risk would be small.

As he ventured further, the light diminished. The Church was abandoned now as was most of Tristram. With the Demon Lord bound again, there was no reason for any to stay in the area. Those that remained were the desperate, the hangers-on, and those who simply had no where else to go.

And the old, he reminded himself. The old remained, too. And an old enemy now it seemed.

As the light gave way to darkness, his vision adjusted to the gloom. As he walked he held the torch high, peering in the direction the young farm boy had indicated. He could see the outline of a sarcophagus and its newly fallen lid. Of the other fallen youth there was no trace. A bad sign, but odd also. But he had no time to puzzle this out.

There! Not that far away, a glowing form shambled. He approached his old nemesis slowly and carefully. He smiled inwardly. Some practices never died.

The yellowish mass moved silently, ponderously. And indeed, just as the boy said a weird light emanated from its flesh. Sir Cedrig swallowed with difficulty and gritted his teeth. This light was _much_ brighter than what he remembered a Black Death would give off. He knew "bosses" of certain creature types glowed with a great intensity, but he had never heard of a Black Death leader. If this were some Boss, some master-creature he had never heard of, this battle might be over sooner than he desired. "But I must destroy this beast", he chided himself. "That last Horadrim set me here to watch and wait. He claimed that Evil still lurked here, and told me I was to stay and defeat it."

Within Sir Cedrig an unbidden thought arose.

Cain never said if he would survive the encounter.

Cedrig moved closer, trying to remember the exact distance at which a Black One became aware of a living person's presence. As he slowly made his way closer, his brow furrowed. Though his memory wasn't as sharp as it once was, this creature was like none he had ever seen before! Its skin, its body, the tatters of its clothes all sprouted something moss-like and seemed to glow! He even smelled the dank cloying odor of mold and mildew. A haze of dust motes and pollen seemed to float around the creature in the torchlight. Very, very strange! He never remembered this of any of the Undead he had battled as a youth. Had the passing years let Nature have its way -- was Nature herself trying to destroy an Undead? With Diablo's power gone, were germs of decomposition and destruction reasserting their sway?

And look at its movement, so different! Its arms were already upraised, as if sleepwalking!

Cedrig recalled no Zombie or its ilk that so walked. And the legs, the steps were large and leaden, not at all the shambling and shuffling steps of one Undead! In a corner of his mind he worried -- if this creature were some natural animal, and not an Undead being at all then his present weapon would be a poor one. He brushed a hand past his belt, assuring himself that his sword and a healing potion were there if need be.

He strode closer, well within even a Zombie's range of sensitivity.

And the beast turned away!

It turned away!

Sir Cedrig almost gasped aloud. Bizarre! Had the decays so affected this foe's abilities that it was now totally insensate? Was it plying its path oblivious to all? Was it even aware of its surroundings?

Most telling, would this make it an easier foe to dispatch?

Cedrig followed the beast slowly, watching it carefully. If this creature was oblivious of its surroundings, he would quickly send its body the way of its senses.

Then the creature stopped, and slowly turned its eyes on him.

Those eyes!

This Undead had eyes! No Undead had eyes with actual sight -- but this one did! Cedrig's own widened in surprise as his torchlight reflected from the creatures deep dark sockets. Eyes! Filled with such vehemence and hatred as if to strike one dead using gaze alone!

The eyes bespoke a self-awareness and intelligence too. Was the creature merely malign and hated all living things? Or was its hatred directed upon itself -- knowing what it once was and now had become? What an awful Fate, he decided, to be Dead and conscious of your condition. Destroying such a creature would be an act of mercy, nearly of kindness. There could hardly be a worse existence.

He stepped forward and raised the morning star . . .

And as the floor collapsed beneath his feet, Sir Cedrig realized he might be horribly, horribly wrong.

Devin ran through the deserted town, screaming for help. None heard, since none were there.

He sprinted next to Malcolm and Kurk's household. As he dashed inside, he stopped, jaw dropping. The hut was empty! Not only was Malcolm not there, the entire place was devoid of signs of human habitation. Malcolm had packed and left!

There was no other recourse, Devin realized. He'd have to run for the farm and his father. He knew that it would mean a beating -- admitting he disobeyed his father's orders and went into the dungeon -- but he also knew it was his last hope.

He knew his father would be out in the fields! He knew his father would help!

He knew it would be too late.

Although the impact from the fall jarred his every bone, Cedrig did not lose consciousness. "Another sinkhole, just smaller", he thought. "Damn my luck." Then again, he amended his last statement -- nothing seemed broken, and with two climbs ahead of him and an enemy still to deal with, a broken leg or hip would certainly have spelled his doom. The torch sputtered weakly on the ground next to him, and as he tried to reach for it he groaned in agony. His ribs burned like fire! "So much for nothing broken," he mused.

As a pale yellow glow seeped over the sinkhole lip, he silently cursed himself for having made so much noise. And indeed, a pale yellow form peered over the edge, eyes gleaming. Lying on his side and glancing from corners of his eyes, Sir Cedrig stayed still as death and willed the creature be gone. "Go away, God damn you! Go away, you foul fiend!", he wished. He'd never known a Black Death to climb stairs, but he'd never known a beast like this one. He prayed he'd not find out one way or the other about its scaling skills this day.

After what seemed like ages, the creature seemed to make up its mind.

It reached up. . .

. . . and peeled off its face!

"Ain't you dead yet, Old Man?", said a disgusted voice.

Kurk tore through the small abode like a Vandal. He knew that he had only a little time.

"Where is it?" he shrieked. "Your gold? Your precious gems! Your treasures! You old fart, you didn't spend all those years in the dungeon to come up empty-handed! You had to eat, too! Where did you hide your damn loot?"

Nothing. Kurk stopped, panting, looking about. Nothing. He had spent a quarter of an hour ransacking the entire place and had come up empty handed. He shook his head in disgust.

His eyes turned to the chest at the center of the room. He walked to it, having emptied it of minor articles of clothing and weapons earlier. It was the only thing that looked out of place in the room -- well-crafted and well-tended, rather than second-hand and cheap like the rest of the furnishings.

He rapped his knuckles on the lid. Solid. Then the bottom.

It returned a hollow knock.

Damn! A false bottom! He looked about and spied a dirk lying on the floor nearby. He snatched it up and began hacking at the wood. Forget finding the hidden latch! I want to see what's in there NOW!

After a particularly forceful jab, the knife's blade stuck to the chest bottom. When Kurk pulled upward this time, the entire floor of the chest lifted also. He grasped it, then set both aside and peered in, eyes gleaming.

It was Malcolm! His voice was unmistakable.

"Crap", he exclaimed. "Ain't you dead yet?" He exhaled in exasperation, then sneezed. Removing the mask had set adrift a new cloud of pollen and mold spores.

"Just gonna have to help you, I guess." The yellow glow began to fade.

Malcolm. Sir Cedrig had never liked that boy, growing up only with his younger brother and unattended by parents. No one had been there to raise them properly, and now it seemed the trouble-making youth had grown into a malicious young man.

As if to confirm Cedrig's worst fears, Malcolm returned, a heavy piece of masonry in both hands. He leered down at the fallen form, then heaved the block above his head. "Goodbye, you old shit," he sneered.

A young man bent on murder it would seem.

Kurk frowned. An embroidered cloak lay within. Just a damn cloak! He yanked it out and threw it on the floor. His hands frantically pawed the bottom of the chest, seeking latches, hollows, loose slats. He rapped his knuckles again and again.

Nothing!

"Goddamit!", he shouted in frustration. "Just some old bloody rags!" He kicked the rumpled garment against the hut's wall.

There came a distinct ping from the cloak's impact against the wall.

And another muffled one as it fell to the floor.

Kurk's head swiveled like a snake's, greedily searching.

With nearly his last bit of strength, Sir Cedrig jerked his head to the side. The masonry smashed where only seconds before his head had been. The pain of his ribs and pure fear cut through his clouded mind. He had to act!

"Dammit old man, lie still and die!" Malcolm grumbled his discontent and went searching for another piece of rubble.

Cedrig's hand groped to his belt. The healing potion was held in a wineskin rather than a bottle, and was largely intact. He loosened it and brought it to his lips and began drinking. He felt the balm course through his veins and his ribs began to knit. With difficulty, he propped himself into a sitting position and finished the potion. The fallen torch was within reach, and he grasped it and slowly blew on it, rekindling the flame. It would make him a clearer target, but it might also be his only hope. This old warrior was going to go down fighting!

Malcolm re-appeared and took stock of the new situation. Then he shrugged, and lifted the heavy burden above his head.

"Wait!", cried Sir Cedrig.

Malcolm paused, lowering and shifting the rock to his hip. "What now Old Sack?" he intoned.

"All what I have is yours. Everything. In the chest. The secret drawers, the hidden pockets -- everything. I can show you! Just let me live.", the knight pleaded.

"Already thought of that. My brother's going through all your stuff right now. We've picked up a thing or two in our hard years. We'll find whatever it is you've tucked away."

Sir Cedrig's mind raced. "But what of my body? Murder most foul! The townspeople will call for your head. You'll be hunted men the rest of your lives!"

Malcolm scoffed, then sneezed again. "Nobody's IN town, everyone had some sorta business today. Searchin' for herbs to make potions, healin' a sick friend, checkin' out a new source of iron. . . . Griswold, Pepin, Adria, Ogden . . . . all gone right now. And when they come back, what a tragedy! A monster set loose by the farm boy, and that old man tried to play hero! Looks like he fell down a hole and busted his head. Sad, but not like it ain't never happened here before, yah know."

The buck continued. "Never mind that they can't FIND the monster, it just 'disappeared' down into the dungeon. One brother got killed and the other gone run off, well, who can blame him?

Nah, no one will come lookin' for us."

Cedrig felt his hopes dimming. "And what of my home? Surely they'll see that someone . . . unwelcome . . . has been there.

Malcolm grinned. "Remember how you were makin a meal? There was smoke comin' out your chimney. Looks like a spark fell out and caught the whole place on fire while you were gone. Burned to the ground! Another small tragedy, really, but Fate is fickle, huh?"

Malcolm shifted the rock to his other hip, preparing to lift it. "Oh, and thanks for all the stories about the dungeon and how you found all that great stuff in there. I'm sure you made me an' my brother rich men. And with your tales 'bout the Undead ones you fought and with the witch's lessons about glow-grass and things, well it was just put one and one together, dontcha think? Make the costume and bide our time, waitin' for 'zactly the right moment. And speaking of moments, I think this one's yer last . . ." Malcolm lifted again.

"Wait", cried Sir Cedrig. "Glow-grass, did you say? Didn't the witch warn you about it? Didn't she tell you the danger?

The youth stopped short, lowering the stone. "What danger? She never said nothing 'bout no danger. What you talkin about, old man?" Malcolm sneezed again, let the rock fall at his feet, and wiped at his nose. He checked the back of his hand for blood. Something glistened wetly, but in the glowlight it was difficult to tell what. "This stuff poisonous or something?" he growled suspiciously.

"No, no, not that." said the warrior. "It's just that . . . well, here. It would be easier to show you than to explain." Cedrig began a silent, imploring prayer.

Malcolm looked down in question.

Sir Cedrig looked up, smiled, and nodded.

Then he carefully tossed up his torch.

"Catch."

By reflex, Malcolm seized the torch. For a moment nothing happened.

He looked down dumbly at Sir Cedrig. The idiot was cowering, hiding his face.

Then . . . .

Kurk's hand kneaded the cloak's fabric, stopping at a smooth small lump. There was no egress to free it until he took the dirk once again and slashed. Then a golden ring dropped to the floor. It struck heavily, with a loud and distinct tone.

Kurk sucked in his breath. "Gods", he whispered, picking up the item. It was large, solid, heavy, and incredibly beautiful. He turned it over and over, looking for magical glyphs and such, but none stood out. Still, it was enormous in and of itself, and radiated power.

Finally, he slipped it on his finger. It fit . . . perfectly, as if made for him. Actually, he would have sworn it was going to be too big as he handled it, but now, now it fit incredibly well. Kinda snugly, as a matter of fact. Strange. Almost as if . . . .

Kurk exhaled as he admired it. "This must be worth a FORTUNE!"

"It is", said a tired voice from the window behind him.

Kurk whirled and threw the dagger in one fluid motion. As if expecting the action, the head in the window dodged -- but a tad slowly -- and the weapon glanced off the cheekguard of the helm.

"Thief" spat the old man. Then he was gone.

"Shit!" cursed the youth. Malcolm was supposed to have finished that stupid git! What went wrong? He quickly cast about the room -- no weapons were left! He ran out the doorway and to the window where he found the fallen knife. A sidelong glance showed the old man hobbling toward the sinkhole again.

"Ah, sweet Fate!" smiled Kurk. "That's just where I'd like you, you dumb old coot. Some place dark and quiet and out of the way. Where I can stick you like my sweetheart without anyone hearing us." He grinned to himself and loped after the elder slowly, not wishing to catch him too soon -- not here, not out in the open. His mind raced as his body jogged. Kill him. Dump the body somewhere deep in the dungeon. Burn the hut. Find Malcolm and GO!

Kurk watched the old man disappear down the entrance, counted to ten, and scanned about to be sure no one was watching. Then he followed.

At the bottom of the debris it was much darker than he had remembered. "Hell! No time to go back for a torch, and that kid's candle blew out. Well, if I can't find and kill some old geezer in the dark, then I ain't fit to try and become a master-thief."

He carefully began stalking his way through the level. His eyes and ears were alert for the slightest clue.

It was his nose that informed him first though.

The blackened form was vaguely human. Only a few fragments of unconsumed glow-grass remained to light the scene. The flesh had burned all the way down to the bones, the skeletal jaw open in a silent scream.

Kurk's howl of agony nearly matched that of his brother.

"I'LL KILL YOU OLD MAN!" he screamed. "I'LL KILL YOU!" Kurk lapsed into a tirade of curses and obscenities, and then knelt by his brother's corpse, weeping. He groaned and then let the sobs wrack his entire body.

"We'll see," came the faint response from the darkness.

Kurt leapt to his feet. His intentions had first been merely murderous. Now they were more. Now that old man would have to PAY first. Kurk mentally listed the body parts that would be removed and in what order. Toes first. Then fingers. Nose. Ears. Eyes. Testicles.

Make him eat each one in order, too.

But first he'd have to find the freak, and that might prove difficult. The monastery's first floor was huge! But if he could just keep the old man talking. . . .

"YOU'RE GONNA DIE, YOU KNOW THAT!" he screamed into the darkness.

"We all die," came the distant reply.

Kurk immediately focused on the sound's direction and strode into the darkness.

"Yeah, well, you're gonna die _today_," growled Kurk grimly.

Interestingly, Cedrig was thinking exactly the same thing.

But it was like playing hide and seek in the dark, and even an old man could elude a young searcher. For a while. Walking down a longer corridor, Kurk spied a small light in the distance. He crept toward it.

He paused, puzzled. The small candle the farm boy had left was relit, and sat on the ground.

Beside it ran a long, grated fence. And on the other side of the fence . . . a torch and the old man!

Kurk started as he realized the older man had been watching him silently for quite some time. Had the cretin a bow, Kurk could have been maggot-food by now. As it was, the two eyed each other warily.

At last Kurk broke the silence. "What you staring at, old man?"

"My enemy", came the response. "A good warrior studies his enemy to find weaknesses and exploit them."

"I'm gonna eat your liver, you wizened shit", snarled the youth.

"I don't think so", came the calm reply.

Kurk contemplated the grillwork and realized he couldn't pitch the knife through it. He paced it, trying to find ingress. After a good dozen meters he found an oaken door set in it, and although the elder had tried to jam it, he soon pushed his way through.

But by the time he arrived at the old one's resting spot, the gent was nowhere to be seen.

Retrieving the candle, he paced throughout the room and discovered a back door. His quarry wished to play, it seemed.

"Peg-leg Jack gonna FIND you!", crooned Kurk. "Peg-leg Jack gonna EAT you!"

He passed through the far door snickering.

Holding the candle aloft, he walked. The old man's footprints were easy to see in the floor's dust. This was going to be too easy.

But why was he feeling weaker, almost faint? Kurk stopped while his head swam. What _was_ this? Some foul miasma in the air? Some poisoned gas pocket? Then why hadn't it affected the old man?

He forced himself onward, through door after door, until finally he found himself in another large corridor. He tracked the footsteps -joined by others?!? -- to a long, grated fence, then puzzled at a mark in the dust the old man had made. He had written "Look" and there was an arrow drawn pointing inside the room.

And there was a torch and the old man! It was the same room, the same corridor, the same place where they had started!

He had been led in a complete circle through the dungeon!

"I helped during The Scouring, remember? I KNOW this maze" droned the warrior.

"You only prolong the inevitable", slurred Kurk. Why was he feeling so tired suddenly?

"Agreed. As a matter of fact, that's my intention", replied the old man.

"I'm looking at a dead man", glowered the youth.

Cedrig shrugged. "I'm thinking the same about you. And soon."

"Ha!" swaggered the rake. "It'll take an Evil more powerful than some old fart to put me down!"

Kurk thumped his chest to prove his point. He felt something wet spatter his face, and looked down at his chest.

Blood.

"Unfortunately, just such Evil still exists", countered the knight.

Kurk felt his body sway, and brought up his hand to feel his forehead. Was this some fever?

Some spell? His forehead felt cold and clammy, and when he withdrew his hand something wet and sticky came away with it. He looked at his hand. It was covered in blood.

"What the hell . . . ?" He slumped against the grating, then slid down to the floor. The dagger clattered uselessly beside him.

"Greed and Evil are a bad combination. In your case, they're deadly." The old man now squatted on the opposite side of the fence from Kurk. He looked on with mild concern.

Kurk's vision began to fade in and out. Strange sparkling filled its edges. What was going on?

"Help me!", the youth weakly cried out.

"I'm sorry. It's too late." replied the old man.

Indeed it was, for Kurk was dead.

Armed with a hayfork, the farmer ran into the town, but slowed as he saw Cain and the elder warrior in deep conversation by the fount. As he approached, he looked back over his shoulder at his hurrying son.

Catching his breath the father gasped. "The lad . . . my son . . . said that . . . evil walks anew . . ."

Cain turned and responded. "Your son spoke the truth. And if not for the actions of our brave knight here, that Evil might still threaten us. But the danger has passed."

"Thanks be the Gods", panted the farmer, grateful for what he would now NOT be called to do.

Wandering about some dark dungeon seeking fiends was not an experience he wished to undergo.

The young boy quickly joined the men. "What of Kurk?" he implored.

Cain turned sad eyes upon him. "Alas, the Evil below consumed both Kurkus and his brother, Malcolm. Let that be a lesson to you, and heed your parents' warnings." As the father and son turned to leave, Cain quietly beseeched the man: "Be light upon him, for although he disobeyed, he then took the responsibility and did the right thing afterwards. He may yet grow up to be a fine man."

Watching them leave, Cain then turned to Cedrig. "And what for you now? Tristram owes you a debt of gratitude; you would be welcome to stay as long as you like."

Cedrig watched the youngster and his father disappear. Then he shrugged.

"I've been thinking. Time to let younger hands do such dangerous work. Fighting Evil is not an old man's sport. Yet I can still serve, teaching what lessons I can in the service of Good." Cedrig heaved a sigh. "I think I'll open a school for those seeking the Path of Swords."

Cain nodded, but queried. "Such starts can be expensive. I do not think our township will be able to support you much in such an endeavor."

Cedrig reached into his pocket and pulled out a Constricting Ring. He turned it over and over in his hands. "I don't think I'll be needing this any more", he finally said. "It served me for a time when the dungeons teemed. Its sale may help again now that the dungeons are empty."

"Indeed it should", agreed Cain. He clapped Cedrig heartily on the back. "I know you will be a superb teacher. Learned. Patient. Wise. You'll do an excellent job."

Cedrig nodded, barely listening, thoughts elsewhere.

Cain smiled. "Pass the torch of knowledge from one generation to the next."

Pepin was needed to minister to the old warrior's severe coughing fit.

The End