31
The memory of the dead woman’s face flashes into your mind as you stare into Roark’s eyes, glitteringly black beneath his wide-brimmed hat. The resemblance is so striking—the same aquiline nose and sallow flesh—that they must be related.
Suddenly, the riders appear and spread out in a semicircle to surround you. A voice shouts, ‘Arla is dead—the Northlander killed her!’
The lordling’s face is transformed into a mask of trembling hatred. Madness flashes in his eyes as he rips open the front of his tunic and tears an amulet from a black chain around his throat.
‘Come, come, Tagazin, I summon thee. From the pit of eternal pain I summon thee!’
The skin on your arms and neck prickles with fear as you hear Roark’s terrible invocation. You cast your eyes around you for an escape route; only the churchyard offers a way past the lordling and his men. However, as you spur your horse through the stone gateway, you are frozen with terror by what lies ahead.
