The flames of the torch cast flickering shadows across the barrow walls as Nessalir descended into the earth. Wooden steps had been fit into the dirt, and wooden supports kept the manmade cave from collapsing. Nessalir walked slow, ready for anything to lunge out at her from the darkness ahead.

  Near the bottom of the steps, her boot slipped on something, but the drakkowar mercenary was able to catch her balance before she fell. Crouching and examining the step, she found that blood had been smeared over it. As she stood back up, she held out her torch, and saw a long and dark trail of it leading deeper into the barrow.

  Here was the place of burial. Long ago, men had dug out a large rectangular chamber, and in the walls they had dug a number of spaces for bodies to be laid to rest. Nessalir imagined that before Balof disturbed the dead's peace, these walls had been full of corpses. Now, however, they were completely empty.

  She walked further into the tomb, following the trail of blood in the dirt. It ended near the center of the chamber, where the soil was disturbed with signs of struggle, and the blood seemed to be splattered all over the ground. Nessalir noticed something shine in her torchlight, and she retrieved from the dirt floor a brass ring. On it was the image of a lion, its mane spread out in seven points like a star. It was the symbol of Redair, and King Kartesk's lineage.

  Pocketing the signet ring, Nessalir walked further into the barrow. There was not a single body entombed in the walls on either side of her, and that fact put her on edge. She had killed only three draugr outside, yet in these walls she could see places for at least a dozen times that number. It was said that King Durnethed had been buried alongside his most prized warriors, so where had they gone?

  For that matter, where was the Vile King himself?

  Nessalir was reaching the end of the macabre hall, and when her flames illuminated what awaited her there, she cursed softly.

  The wall of the cave had been broken through, revealing a tunnel leading deep into an abyssal darkness. Doubtless, the draugr had traveled down that passage. More disturbing, however, was the mass of soft earth on the ground before the tunnel's entrance. It resembled nothing so much as a burial mound.

  "Balof's Folly," Nessalir muttered. "That is what they'll come to call this place. His foolishness will be remembered for generations to come."

  She kicked the mound experimentally, then stepped back as the dirt began to shake and shift. Soil fell away as the form beneath it rose, climbing to its feet and shaking the loose earth from its undead body.

  The draugr exposed now before her brushed more dirt off itself, revealing the shape of a man freshly dead. His brown beard was stained with blood, and his chest had been carved open. A metal scrap was wedged into the wound. Beneath it was a sword stuck into his stomach. As he pulled out the blade, bloody clumps of dirt fell to the ground beneath him.

  "Begone from this place," the draugr said. His voice was hoarse and croaking. "There is nothing here for the living."

  "I'll be the judge of that," said Nessalir. "You don't appear to be one of the Vile King's men. How long have you been dead?"

  The draugr shook his head. "I know not how much time has passed," he told her. "My name is Ralof. I came here seeking to rescue my brother from Durnethed the Vile. But the foul creature has plans for him, and he cut me down. The Vile King carved my heart from my chest, and he replaced it with his crown. Thus now must I serve his whims, until the end of time. Now leave, fair maiden. I am bound by the dark one's will to kill any who attempt to pass through these halls."

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  Nessalir felt a smirk form on her face at the way he'd addressed her. "My apologies, Prince Ralof," she said. "But your father sent me to rescue his sons and slay the draugr. It would be unprofessional of me to turn back now."

  Ralof cocked his head at her. His face contorted strangely, as though the muscles which controlled his expressions no longer functioned in the proper manner. That may very well have been the case, considering. "What is your name, woman?"

  "My mother named me Nessalir," she told him. "Others named me the Red. Until you, however, none have named me a fair maiden."

  The draugr stared at her for a moment, then bowed. "It is an honor, Nessalir the Red," he said. "My brother and I have heard many tales of your exploits. But if you wish to pass me and delve deeper into the dark, then I am afraid I must kill you."

  Nessalir raised her sword. "You are welcome to try."

  Wasting no more time with words, the draugr charged. He swung his bloody sword at her, and Nessalir parried with ease. She danced around him, bringing her blade up to meet his time and time again. No matter how many blows Ralof attempted to bring down upon her, Nessalir deflected them all.

  With a growl, the dead prince changed tactics. He feinted to the left, then kicked out at her knee. Nessalir was caught off guard and stumbled. She righted herself quickly, but the draugr took advantage of the opening and struck. Her sword arm was too far away to meet the blow, and so she was forced to block with her torch.

  The force of his sword knocked the torch out of her hand. The shadows deepened as her light fell into the dirt, and Ralof followed up with another blow. Nessalir raised her gloved hand and caught the blade.

  "What is this?" the draugr asked. "You would sacrifice your hand?"

  "It takes more than steel to cut through dragon hide," the drakkowar responded. She clasped her fingers over the blade and pulled. Her undead opponent cried out in surprise as the sword was wrenched from his hand.

  "How?" he demanded. But Nessalir did not answer. She spun, bringing her own sword up to his neck, and she decapitated the prince in one strike.

  For a moment, the headless body remained standing, even as the prince's face fell into the dirt behind it. Then it collapsed.

  Nessalir breathed out a sigh of relief, and dropped the prince's sword. She inspected the hand with which she'd grabbed the blade, and saw that the glove was in tatters. Annoyed, she pulled it off, revealing the dark red scales and thick talons of her dragonclaw hand.

  "You had potential, prince," she told the corpse. "If you had lived, you could have honed it into talent, and then skill. It's a shame."

  With that, she sheathed her blade and retrieved her torch. Holding the light in her human hand, Nessalir crouched over the body of Ralof and with her dragon's claw reached into his chest cavity. She wrapped her scaled fingers around the metal within and pulled.

  Standing up, Nessalir inspected the crown. It was a thin iron thing, more circlet than anything else, with a black gem set into its front. Yet she could feel a dark power emanating from it. She scowled at the object, stuck the torch in the dirt, and dug her claw into the space between steel and gem. With a roar, she pulled the gem from the crown, and the black thing shattered to dust.

  A breath seemed to escape the neck stump of Ralof, and the body released a tension Nessalir hadn't even seen it holding. She hooked the crown onto her belt, then retrieved the torch with her dragonclaw hand, and drew her sword once more.

  "Rest easy, Ralof of Redair," said Nessalir. "If your brother still lives, I shall save him. And if he shares your fate, I shall avenge you both. Go now to the stars, and know that your struggles are at an end."

  With that impromptu eulogy spoken, Nessalir turned her attention to the tunnel at the end of the barrow, and she continued her descent down into the earth.