"He has accomplished much," the Hunter granted.

"We should not measure him by age or appearance," the Beaver said.

"He seeks no knowledge," the Crone murmured. "No divination is required. What say you, Kattituyok?"

The proud face who had spoken first answered in a booming voice. "The evil behind the Alder Door has plagued us for many summers. The youth has named the four who control the Alder Door. This seems a good omen."

"He may not return," the Dancer said. "He should leave us tokens."

"The sword and the shield," the Hunter said.

"And the magical items from his bag," the Crone added. "The tower and the fish."

"Won't I need my sword to fight?" Seth asked.

"Your sword and shield are well crafted from fine material, but they will avail you nothing beyond the Alder Door," Kattituyok said. "Leave behind the requested items to seal the pact."

"And I can reclaim my things if I succeed?" Seth verified.

"Purge the evil lurking beyond the Alder Door," the Crone said, "and you may depart in peace with Vasilis and the rest of your items."

"I say the same," the Hunter stated.

"I say the same," the Beaver echoed.

"I say the same," the Dancer sighed.

"Do you accept?" Kattituyok asked.

"I accept," Seth said, unbuckling his sword belt.

"The pact is made and sealed," Kattituyok thundered. His resounding words made the stump vibrate.

Seth set down his sword and shield. Then he fished out the onyx tower and the agate leviathan. He set the items down. A previously unseen door swung open near the bottom right of the wall. The Crone's withered face filled the center of the door.

"Can I go?" Seth asked.

"Away," Kattituyok said. "Good hunting."

Seth climbed down from the stump and walked to the doorway, conscious of the many eyes of the Totem Wall scrutinizing his movements. Cold air wafted from the dark corridor beyond. A primitive torch on the wall ignited spontaneously. Stepping through the door, Seth pocketed his flashlight and picked up the torch. Behind him, the door swung shut with the finality of a coffin lid.

The crude, rounded corridor sloped gradually downward. No beams or stonework supported the crumbly walls and ceiling. The air grew colder as Seth progressed, and he held the torch close for warmth.

The Singing Sisters had warned him about the Standing Dead. He was unsure what exactly to expect, but he imagined they might be like the revenant. He lacked a sword, but perhaps the fiery torch would serve him better. The Sisters had told him that he could pass the Standing Dead only if he remained without fear. He knew that magical fear would fail against him, and tried to prepare his mind to resist the more natural variety.

The corridor stretched onward, deeper and colder. He walked briskly, partly to stay warm, partly hoping that haste might help keep him from freaking himself out.

At last the corridor opened into a rectangular room where the top of his head almost reached the ceiling. Despite the great width and length of the room, the low ceiling gave it a claustrophobic feel, like a sprawling basement.

The frigid air suggested the presence of magical fear, although, as expected, he felt no paralysis.

As the light from his torch revealed the scene, the hair stood up on Seth's arms, and goose pimples erupted on his skin. Row after row of standing corpses filled the expansive room. And not just any corpses. They were bony and dry, as if their ancient remains had been mummified. What meat remained on their discolored bones looked like black jerky. What skin survived looked brown and stretched and utterly dehydrated. Evenly spaced, the cadavers stood upright, arms at their sides, like an army at attention. Rank upon rank of empty eye sockets stared vacantly.

Seth had been prepping himself not to react with fear. He had told himself that no matter what he saw, or heard, or smelled, he would shrug and continue onward. After all, if the Standing Dead only preyed on fear, he didn't need to fret about them. He just needed to maintain control of his emotions.

But despite his intentions, Seth felt his control slipping. The sight of the torchlit bodies surprised him. It was creepier than he had imagined. This was how corpses looked when they had been buried in the desert for centuries. They should not be standing in orderly rows and columns, deep underground.

Some of the nearest corpses began to twitch. The movement made Seth gasp, and a few of them took steps forward. Rustling movements rippled through the entire assemblage. Doubt fully awakened inside of Seth. He became scared that he was becoming scared. Dry bones scuffed against the dirt floor. Desiccated arms reached toward him.

His mind scrambled. What was his problem? Why was he losing his grip? Was it being alone? Was it self-doubt? Was it the thought of walking through the undead crowd? Was it the cold? Was it the low ceiling? The quantity of corpses? The inhumanity of their appearance? The way their joints creaked when they moved? The fact that he had lost control enough to start them moving? Some snowballing combination of all these factors?

Perhaps he had been too overconfident, too assured that his immunity to magical fear would prevent natural fear. Like anyone, he still got scared.

He realized that he couldn't hear their minds. He had gotten used to hearing the undead. For some reason, these were silent. That had helped them surprise him and made them feel more foreign.

Entire rows of mummified bodies shuffled toward him. The nearest had almost reached him. He could see stringy ligaments and tendons working. Was he about to die? What about his family? Who would save them? Would they ever learn he had perished because he was afraid?

Shame blossomed in his breast. He could almost hear Kendra disbelieving that cowardice had killed him. Courage was supposed to be his best attribute!

How could he change his feelings? When he had nightmares, the experience was always worst when he was alone. If there was ever a friend in his dream, somebody to protect, the fear lost potency. At this moment, as fleshless fingers grasped for him, he needed somebody to be brave for, somebody to not let down. He struggled to summon images of his family--his parents, his grandparents.

What came was the memory of Coulter. He saw his friend pinned under a beam, heard him gasping his last breaths. Coulter, who had saved him in the grove with the revenant, when magical fear had frozen them. Suddenly Seth no longer felt alone. There was no way he was going to let Coulter down. He had promised.

"Stop!" Seth yelled, swinging his torch angrily. The corpses paused. "I'm not afraid anymore! You just startled me." As he said the words, he realized they were true. Apparently the Standing Dead could sense it as well. None of them stirred.

"You guys have got to be the shabbiest dead people I've ever seen," Seth accused. He strode forward, passing between the unmoving corpses. "You're what's left after the vultures give up. You make zombies look healthy. If you want to scare people, you better pool your funds and rent a wraith or something."

Making fun of them helped his spirits, and the Standing Dead didn't seem to mind. He saw them with new eyes, pathetic puppets without wills of their own. Slaves to his mood, unable to harm him if he simply refused. Decrepit, frail, pathetic. He hurried past them, too full of purpose and new confidence to leave room for doubt.

A black door stood at the back of the room. It had no knob, no keyhole. When he pressed on it with his free hand, the door swung inward.

The torch went out immediately. One instant it was blazing, the next not a spark remained, leaving behind impenetrable darkness. Trying to keep his courage steady, Seth stepped into the room and closed the door, relieved to have a barrier between himself and the Standing Dead. He dropped the torch and pulled the flashlight from his pocket. He switched it on, but no light came out.

"Why have you intruded on my privacy?" a weary, male voice rasped from further in the room.

"Who's there?" Seth asked.

"It took courage to pass the Standing Dead," the voice said. "Especially after you initially lost your composure. Yet they are nothing compared to me. I could slay you with a word."

"Who are you?" Seth asked again.

"I am one of the undead," the voice answered. "Aren't you supposed to be a shadow charmer, Seth? Can't you probe my thoughts?"

"How do you know my name?"

"Your mind was open to me the moment you entered the Alder Door. More open than most would be. What do you suppose your parents are doing right now? Dying, perchance, like your friend Coulter?"

Seth squeezed his flashlight. "I don't care what you are, you better shut up."

"Careful," the voice warned. "Down here, I am judge, jury, and executioner. Why do you want Vasilis?"

"Well," Seth said, gathering his thoughts, wondering what the voice wanted to hear.

"Don't bother with words," the voice said. "I just needed to get you thinking along the right track. Zzyzx is really so close to falling? And Graulas is running the Society?"

"Yes. You know about Zzyzx?"

"Perhaps I should introduce myself." A sword appeared toward the back of the room, standing vertically, blade in the ground, visible only as a black silhouette, but surrounded by a corona of pristine white light that illuminated the entire chamber. It was not a large room, round with a domed ceiling. One other person inhabited the room, off to one side, a strange, decaying zombie. Every part of his body except his head and one arm had turned to stone.

"What happened to you?" Seth asked, aghast.

"I am Morisant," the zombie answered. His voice seemed very lucid considering how corroded his head and arm appeared. "I can tell the name means nothing to you."

"Sorry," Seth said. "Should it?"

"I was the chief architect of Zzyzx."

"What? I thought wizards made Zzyzx."

"Precisely," the semipetrified zombie answered.

"You're a wizard?" Seth asked.

"I am all that remains of a once powerful wizard. Ages ago, some might have considered me the most influential wizard in the world. I see you know Agad. I am glad to know he is well. He assisted me with Zzyzx."

"How did you end up here?" Seth asked.

"There is more than one answer to that question. I am here because Agad put me here. That is an accurate response. I am here because I was master of Vasilis. Also accurate. Best answer? I am here because of hubris."

"Hubris?"

"That unhealthy variety of pride which leads a man to destroy himself. You see, sometimes, when a person gains too much power, he believes he is above the rules that apply to others. You're aware that wizards live a long time."

"Right."

"I was the eldest of the wizards who created Zzyzx. The eldest by far. Wizards age slowly, but nevertheless we age. To a human, we may seem immortal, but death still awaits us in the end. Even enormous quantities of time inevitably pass. When my end drew near, in defiance of the wisdom my long life should have granted, I opted to cheat death."

"What happened?" Seth asked, fascinated.

"I turned myself into one of the undead," Morisant said with regret. "I wove a complicated spell of my own design, a spell so complex and potent that I believed I could fully preserve my mental faculties and continue my life in an undead body."

"Sounds like it failed."

"Something was lost," Morisant said. "I did manage to sustain most of my intellect. But certain sensitivities abandoned me, unforeseen appetites wakened, and my sword, Vasilis, began to lose its luster. I found ways to ignore the changes. I refused to admit my mistake, particularly to myself. Over time, I became a different person. Indeed, I became a threat to the safety of the world. My most trusted colleagues were forced to capture me and bind me here in this prison, changing most of my body to stone in the process. I vowed they would never take my sword, and, as they lacked the power to do so, they chose to hide me away with Vasilis, making me the guardian of the blade I had wielded in life."

"Wow," Seth said. "You seem to be back in control of yourself."

"Do I? Centuries trapped in this cell have provided ample opportunity for reflection. I have recognized my mistakes and mastered my inability to slake my appetites. But don't be fooled. I am no longer the same man I used to be. My nature is fundamentally corrupted. I fought against darkness my whole life, only to become everything I despised. My only hope for atonement is to undo the perversions I sired and submit to the inevitable."

Seth glanced at the sword. "So what now? Do I have to pass a test?"

"I have waited a long time for the arrival of one worthy to wield Vasilis. Some candidates have been slain by the Standing Dead. The rest were slain by me, after I examined their minds. Your need is just, as are your intentions. Should you fail, Vasilis will have been honorably employed. Should you succeed, the Singing Sisters will serve as suitable guardians. They will certainly never wield it. The sword is yours under one condition."

"What?"

"You use it to dispatch me, then put to rest the Standing Dead."

Seth stared at the pathetic zombie. He had almost forgotten that part of his mission was to rid this area of evil. "But you're nice."

"Many would disagree. I prolonged my life unnaturally. Please remedy this mistake, or I will have to slay you and wait for another. Believe me, Seth, you will be killing me in self-defense. My death is the only way for both of us to get what we need."

"What about the Standing Dead?" Seth asked.

"I created them," Morisant said. "A mindless undead legion, loyal only to me. After my capture, I turned them into effective guardians. It will be a mercy to unmake them. Not to mention, you must keep your promise to the Totem Wall, or you will never escape with your life. Will you do as I ask? Don't lie, I will know."