The door swung open, allowing a blast of icy air to escape. The figure waiting outside shuddered slightly at the chill before stepping forward, into the dark interior and stopped at the bottom of the flight of stairs that was beyond.

    He swore mildly before inhaling deeply and starting to climb, complaining under his breath as he slowly ascended. Halfway up he stopped and swore more loudly. After several seconds mopping his sweating forehead with a black silk cloth, he stood up straight and uttered several Words of power.

    A small cyclone responded to the spell, whirling around the black boots the Warlock wore. Spirits from the netherworld cried out in agony as the summoning demanded they surrender their very essence to perform the task demanded.

    Slowly, very slowly at first, the dark wizard began to rise, gliding smoothly up the black marble staircase, cape billowing behind him, until he was deposited gently on the top stair. The spirits screamed and cursed him until dispelled, whereupon the Warlock took the final step and looked around with interest.

    He was in a large, dark stone hall, devoid of furnishings except for a looming throne sitting on a dais in the centre of the rear wall. A shadowy figure sat upon the seat, unmoving.

    As evil as the warlock was, he took a moment to steady himself before proceeding. The floor seemed to be made of ice, and his feet were cold by the time he reached the figure. After several seconds of calculated defiance, he bowed slightly.

    "I am here."

    "Took you bloody long enough. Did you just summon the dead to carry you up the stairs?"

    "I am a dark wizard, how I choose to use my powers is up to me." The warlock sniffed haughtily.

    "Bit of a fat one aren''t you?"

    If it had been anyone else speaking the warlock would have smote them mightily. As it was he bit his tongue and merely shrugged. "Why did you summon me?"

    The figure on the throne leaned slightly to one side and picked up a mug. The warlock could just about make out the words on the side. They read: ''You don''t have to be dead to work here, but it helps.''

    There was a moment of quaffing, and the mug was returned to its rest. Only then did the figure speak once more.

    "I''ve been watching you. Apart from your obvious difficulty with stairs, you''re good. Very good. You even remind me of myself, back in the day. Young, ambitious, evil as hell. I like that. Of course, I wasn''t such a fat bastard, but everyone has their weaknesses. I''m partial to a nice cup of tea myself, so it goes."

    "Is this leading anywhere?" The warlock shifted feet, which were complaining about the load, and the cold.

    The old man on the seat laughed. "Ah, the impatience of the young. Very well. I have a task for you."

    "Obviously."

    "Don''t be cheeky." There was another small delay as the dark figure took one more sip of his drink. When it was back down he made a gesture with one hand. An image flickered into life, hovering in the air between them. The warlock examined the figure portrayed with interest as the man spoke again. "This person is has just set off on a long and significant journey. I want him brought to me. Alive."

    "Very well. Tell me more."

    "You would best avoid a confrontation. Use subtlety to bring me my victim. You shall have a little help if you need it, for I have an agent in the group."

    "There will be no need. I can handle things myself." The warlock stood a little straighter and attempted to suck in some gut.

    "Whatever, just do as I say. They will be some distance away from of an insignificant village named Mudrut."

    "I shall carry out your bidding."

    "You shall need to proceed with care. I have reason to believe that other… parties may be showing an interest."

    "I can handle them."

    "We shall see. Go now." A pale hand waved dismissal.

    Bowing again, the warlock backed away and then turned and returned the way he''d come. Around him the spirits of the tormented dead wailed and pleaded for freedom from their eternal damnation. He ignored them, ???k?n? his lips at the prospect of presenting his sponsor with what he d?s?r?d. Power would be his reward. Power he would use to take revenge on his enemies. Power he would use to crush those that had mocked him as a child. Power that would ensure those pretty maidens who had spurned him would fall at his feet.

    Laughter floated back up the stairs as the warlock set out for a small village named Mudrut.

    ~ * ~

    "I think we lost them," panted Reginald. "Probably didn''t expect such a turn of speed from such overweight aristocrats."

    "Did you see Lucy?" gasped Urt. He wasn''t unfit, but he wasn''t used to running either.

    "Lost her after the first turning," Reginald, still in the form of Mrs. Blame, replied. "You can sure run away fast for a necromancer."

    "I prefer to think of it as a temporary retreat, to regroup."

    "Fair enough," the wolf replied. "Except when regrouping you usually don''t lose half of your party."

    "Between them they are no more than a quarter of the group, at best," Urt countered. "Maybe a third."

    "Even so."

    "Doesn''t look like the best part of town," Mrs. Blame observed. "Probably not the best place for a couple of high flyers like us. We need to hide out or something until your spell wears off."

    "I''m open to suggestions," Urt said.

    "Well, we stick out like a couple of baby kebabs at a werewolf party here," Reginald said. "What we need to do is blend in."

    "Baby kebabs at…" Urt looked at his companion sideways.

    "It''s a traditional thing," the wolf said, waving an illusionary hand. "Hey, how about over there?"

    Urt looked over at where he was pointing. Several streets away, rising above the squat buildings they were surrounded with, was a far grander building. Stone turrets rose above the thatch and slate that adorned the lesser constructions huddled around it. "Looks promising," he said.

    "Perhaps they do decent grub," said Mrs. Blame.

    "If they do," Urt replied, "I''m sure they don''t actually call it grub."

    "I bet they even garnish their rat," the wolf continued, diverted from the real world by visions of cooked vermin.

    Sighing, Urt shook his head. "I see no better option at the moment. Come on, let''s go. Try not to attract any attention."

    "Unlikely," muttered Mrs. Blame, but in a distracted fashion.

    They set off and, with only the minimal of effort managed to arrive outside the larger structure.

    "Looks like we''re arrived at an opportune moment," Urt said.

    The large hall that dominated the area across the road was a scene of hustle and bustle. Carriages came and went, with richly adorned peoples of all sizes and shapes alighting, punctuated with shrieks of recognition and air kisses.

    "Where there''s a party, there''s food," Reginald commented. The drool was almost visible through the illusion.

    "It''s certainly a good setting," Urt replied. "Come on, after that carriage."

    Scuttling in the most undignified way, the pair followed a carriage drawn by four large, dark horses through the gates of the grounds and up the gravel driveway.

    "Nice digs," Mrs. Blame said, head swivelling left and right at the grounds with trees bespectacled with glowing lights of various colours.

    "Don''t start that again," Urt said. "Wait." He held a hand out as a large man in a long black cloak disembarked from the transport in front of them, then, with impeccable timing, swept forward after the owner of the carriage.

    "Name and title?" he sniffed.

    "The Duke and Duchess of Blame," replied Urt.

    The footman looked down at a parchment he was holding and frowned. "I''m sorry your Lordship, you''re not on the list."

    Urt hadn''t come this far to be put off by some random flunky.

    "Of course not you fool, we''re with that gentleman." He pointed at the black cloaked visitor who had preceded them, just as the dark figure disappeared through the door ahead.

    "You are with Count Ronald?" The doorman''s eyebrow twitched in surprise.

    "I just said so didn''t I?"

    "But the count doesn''t have any friends," complained the doorman, who obviously had a good grasp on the social gossip. "And I''ve never heard of Duke Blame."

    "Who said we''re friends of his?" Urt snarled back. "We''re invited guests of his, on a diplomatic mission from the Duchy of Blame, many leagues south of here. I hope you''re not going to start a diplomatic incident. I am also a good friend of Lady Blue, who''s on the council of Groan." Urt glared at the man and hoped his name dropping would help rather than hinder.

    "Please Duke, and madam, accept my apologies. Enjoy the party." He gestured at the doorway ahead of them.

    Urt nodded and, followed by his wife, marched through the open entranceway.