The hour was not yet ten when Esarhaddon left Shakh Sandana's feast. The elderly vintner had implored him to stay, but Esarhaddon had begged out of the request, giving as his reason a queasy stomach. Perhaps he had eaten and drunk too much, for the food had been exceptional and the drink plentiful. While the rich food and drink had made his stomach slightly unsettled, he could have stayed had he really wanted. He always found the entertainment at Sandana's feasts far too sedate for his tastes. Some nobles gave large, elaborate feasts which offered many exotic dishes to tempt the palate and entertainment that excited the passions. Dancing girls regularly performed at these feasts, and in the villas of the more debauched noblemen, the night often ended with an orgy. However, Sandana's evenings most always ended with a poetry reading or a lecture given by a visiting guest or one of the scholars whom he mentored. Esarhaddon found such entertainment dull, so he had excused himself early.

He made his way to the courtyard, where he found Zabar playing dice with a group of household slaves. Zabar was a simple man of simple pleasures, Esarhaddon mused to himself. One of five sons fathered by the blacksmith of Blûgund, Zabar had desired a life away from the grueling heat and clanging blows of the forge, and sought a profession which might provide his restless spirit with a reasonable degree of excitement. While being a caravan guard would take him on adventures through distant lands, he had no desire to travel so far afield; Nurn was his home, and he wished to remain there. When he learned that a wealthy merchant had need of a personal bodyguard, he had eagerly applied for the position, and so came to work for Esarhaddon. Zabar faced little danger as a bodyguard, for his employer was well-respected and held in high esteem by the Tower; only a fool would dare attempt to bring him harm. Esarhaddon could tell that Zabar enjoyed the prestige his position gave him, especially among the ladies, who always told him how brave and strong he was. The thought of Zabar flexing his bulging biceps for his adoring admirers made Esarhaddon chuckle softly to himself.

Suddenly aware that Esarhaddon was watching him, Zabar rolled to his knees and was quickly on his feet. His face bore a sheepish expression, and his broad shoulders were slumped forward, giving him a dejected appearance.

"I guess luck has not been with you tonight," Esarhaddon chuckled.

"No, my lord." Zabar bowed his head. "I lost quite a bit."

"Gambling is based on chance and chances are, you will lose more oft than you win, unless you use your own dice that have been altered," Esarhaddon chided.

"That I know for a certainty." Zabar shook his head and huffed out a sigh. "I had not won for so long, and I hoped that luck would be on my side tonight. Alas, it was not."

"The wise will tell you that you make your own luck," Esarhaddon told him.

"I will never play again!" Zabar exclaimed emphatically, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I promise!"

"It is your money, Zabar, and I know you will do what you wish with it." Esarhaddon laughed and clapped the big man on the shoulder. "Now we need to be making our way back to the villa. Fetch one of the stablehands and have him bring the horses."

A mischievous twinkle sparkled in Zabar's dark eyes. "Master, perhaps you might want to tarry a while."

"Tarry?" Esarhaddon asked. "Why should I linger here?"

"Shakh Sandana's slaves are having their own celebration with wine, singing and dancing. If you listen, you can hear the music in the distance." Zabar cocked his head in the direction of the workers' quarters.

"I hear nothing exceptional about that music," Esarhaddon replied, starting to become irritated. While a peasant like Zabar might be impressed by such rustic entertainment, a man of culture such as he had far more refined tastes. Besides, his stomach was ill at ease, and he desired to return to his villa posthaste.

"The music is most unexceptional, that is true, but there is a woman, a new slave, whom all the servants are talking about. From what I have heard, she is a remarkable dancer, and during the short time she has been at the villa, she has achieved a certain degree of fame among the workers and captured the heart of many a man in the process." Zabar gave Esarhaddon a knowing grin. "Perhaps you might want to see her."

"Zabar, you have convinced me. Let us make our way to the farmyard." His curiosity piqued, Esarhaddon had forgotten all about his unruly stomach. Lust had a way of making a man forget about his cares, at least for a time.

The sounds of music and cheering carried far on the night air, and Esarhaddon could hear the celebration near the farm buildings long before he ever arrived in the courtyard. In front of the largest barn, the farm laborers had built a huge bonfire, and the surrounding buildings were bathed in undulating light and shadows. A large crowd had gathered around the fire, eating and drinking, laughing and making merry. Both men and women danced spontaneously to the rhythm of the raucous melodies performed by a makeshift band of laborers who had no formal training but could play an instrument or two. A man juggled several flaming wands in the air, while another man swallowed a torch and hurled out a ball of fire to the delight of the cheering crowd. Such entertainers were often hired to perform at rustic celebrations, where the simple were easily amused. Esarhaddon did not expect to find much of anything to interest him, but he could not help but be roused by the festive atmosphere.

These people had worked from dawn to dusk in the harsh sun and deserved to have a holiday. If they knew who he was, they might not be comfortable in his presence. Pulling the hood of his cloak about his face so he would not be easy to recognize, Esarhaddon told Zabar to do the same. Together they found a place near the back of the crowd where they could watch in comparative anonymity.

The fire eaters kept up their performance, much to the delight of their audience, who cheered and whistled at each outrageous stunt. At the other side of the courtyard, some of Shakh Sandana's farm workers performed acrobatics, doing rolls, handsprings and summersaults. Though they were entertaining, none of them were professionals, and Esarhaddon found himself growing restless.

"Where is the dancer?" he whispered to Zabar.

"Perhaps she grew weary and has already retired for the night," Zabar remarked. "I am sorry that you are disappointed." He bowed his head.

"Wait, what is that?" Esarhaddon gestured with his head to the musicians, who had begun playing a new melody. This song was slower and more seductive, a sensuous beat upon a drum, and then the high, languid strain of a flute that was being caressed to a height of musical lasciviousness. Esarhaddon watched as a raven-haired, tawny skinned dancer walked into the courtyard, her black and red skirt swirling around her legs, her presence heralded by the delicate chime of the bells she wore around her ankles. She tossed her head arrogantly, causing the coins which dangled from her headdress to tinkle.

"I thought you might be impressed." Unable to hide his expression of smugness, Zabar folded his arms across his broad chest and watched as the girl began to dance.

The woman's body undulated to the music of the drums, dulcimer, and reed pipe, the coins and tiny mirrors on her costume catching the light of the bonfire and sparkling in the darkness. Her gaze met Esarhaddon's, and she teased and taunted him with her dark eyes, casting flirtatious glances at him over her shoulder as she danced. "Sandana must be in his dotage not to have such a woman in his bed," Esarhaddon thought to himself.

The music grew louder and the beat more urgent as the woman twirled, her skirts swirling around her. Esarhaddon could not keep his eyes from her body as she slowly moved her hips in a circle, rocking her pelvis forward and back as her arms undulated, her hands gesturing towards him. The sheer, pulsating rhythm had stirred a fire in his blood, and he felt compelled to move closer, easing his way through the crowd until he was at the very edge of the circle. A surprised Zabar followed close behind him.

It seemed to Esarhaddon that the bonfire blazed higher as the woman gazed at him haughtily, mocking him with her eyes and the seductive movements of her body. The crowd began to watch with renewed interest, for they could tell that there was some unspoken challenge between the dancer and the stranger. What difference did it make if the slaves discovered his identity? His dark eyes flashing, Esarhaddon threw back his hood and strode into the courtyard to meet the dancer's challenge. He was no stranger to dancing, having participated in both ceremonial and festive dances in Nurn and Harad. He could not expect to keep up with her, but this brazen slave had dared him, and he would dance with her.

He clapped his hands and moved his body to the rhythm as she danced around him, coming ever closer until they almost touched. She extended a fluttering hand to his, and he grabbed it and pulled her to him, holding her and gazing into her eyes. The drums beat wildly and the melody wrapped around them, seducing them with its bewitching charms. He ground his pelvis against hers as they danced close together, a dance more akin to the fertility rites performed in temples than it was to the usual celebratory gambols held at farm festivals. The workers had seen more erotic displays, however, for this was the season of the harvest, and people often abandoned their usual reservations at celebrations such as these.

Twisting and turning in his arms, the dancing girl slithered all over his body as the serpent hugs the trunk of the tree that it climbs. Holding onto his shoulder for support, she gracefully lifted her leg and slid it slowly up his thigh, the movement causing her voluminous skirt to draw back and reveal her smooth skin. She hooked her leg around his waist and leaned backwards, the undulations of her body pushing her pelvis against his. As the dance grew even more wanton, the crowd cheered and ululated, and several couples even got up and started celebrating the harvest with their own dances of lust. The dancing girl was very acrobatic, and Esarhaddon was both amazed and delighted when she wrapped her other leg around his middle and began rolling her hips against his in slow, sensual circles, her hot femininity pressed against the fire which raged in his loins. As the music drew to a climax, the girl tightened her legs around his waist and slowly bent backwards towards the ground, her arms snaking out over her head in undulating motions until her fingers grazed over his knees. The crowd went wild, with many of the workers jumping up into the air and screaming out their approval. As the band struck up a raucous melody, the whole courtyard exploded in a flurry of singing, dancing, fire-breathing, and acrobatics.

Beaming, Esarhaddon bowed to the assembled people and led the dancing girl away from the bonfire. The dance had left him so fired up that he did not even think about how supporting the weight of the writhing girl had left a dull ache in his back. As the farm workers watched them leave, they shouted and cheered even louder. Other couples began moving away into the shadows, whispering and laughing as they sought their own quiet places to celebrate the harvest.

Esarhaddon reached for the dancer, but she laughed huskily as she slithered away from him. He stood there, disappointed and confused, but soon she returned with a jar of wine. As they lounged upon a pile of straw in one of the outbuildings, they passed the jar between them, but soon they were rolling in the sweet-smelling dried grass.

Later as he pulled on his baggy trousers, he asked, "What is your name, slave girl?"

"Tarzi," she purred, her voice deep with sated passions.

"A lovely name." He blew her a kiss before turning away and walking from the barn.

The hour was late when Esarhaddon and Zabar gave their farewells to the drunken revelers in the farmyard and mounted their horses for the return home. While Esarhaddon had been enjoying his passionate interlude, fog had settled over the river bottom. Zabar lit the lantern that they brought with them, and held it up as they rode ahead, stopping frequently when the fog became too thick.

Esarhaddon had drunk more of the rough peasant wine than he should have, and he shook his head to clear away the fuzziness from his brain. The night air had turned chill and wisps of cold fog passed in front of their faces. The men pulled their hoods low about their heads for warmth. Part of their journey took them near the river, and the more they progressed on that bending, winding way, the more the fog thickened.

"Damn! I can hardly see my hand before my face," Esarhaddon grumbled. His mood had turned sour, and he was sure that he had injured his back during his dance with Tarzi, for it had begun to throb and ache. He was not as young as he once was.

"Master, it is a dank and gloomy night," remarked Zabar. "Perhaps we should have stayed at Shakh Sandana's villa and departed in the morning." He would much rather sleep on the floor of the barn than he would to venture out in this wretched fog.

"No, Zabar, I want to return to my villa tonight. Let us take the shortcut through the Thraqum Wood. Though we seldom take this route, we both know the way, and we have your lamp to guide us." Esarhaddon's head had begun to ache, and he reached for his wine skin to ease the pain. Perhaps the healer at the school would have some sort of potion to ease his discomfort.

"The forest, Master?" Zabar gasped. "Are you sure?"

"Certainly. That way will shorten the journey considerably. I know your concerns, but we will both be safe. I really doubt that there are any highwaymen abroad on a night like this. In the event that they are, we still have our swords." Esarhaddon knew that Zabar had misgivings about traveling through the forest, but he hoped he would see the merit of taking the shortcut. The bodyguard was a huge, hulking man, and usually he was brave, but sometimes he let superstition get the better of him.

Ignoring Zabar's muttered sigh of resignation, Esarhaddon continued onwards, leaving the main road and passing beneath the boughs of the Thraqum Wood. The trees were columns of shadow around them, and as they pressed deeper into the forest, the dense branches above them pressed closer together, almost completely blocking out the sky. The path was a pale ribbon of gray that was barely discernible in the gloom, and the flickering light of Zabar's lantern did little to illuminate their umbral surroundings. Though Esarhaddon had chosen the forest trail in hopes of escaping the thick fog which lay over the swamplands near the river, the damp mists seemed even more oppressive here. Pale tendrils of fog drifted through the gnarled trees like spectres on their way to a tryst, and the air was heavy with the rich, musty scent of damp leaves and decay. An unnatural silence seemed to lay over the forest, the type of silence that is sentient and ever watchful, reverberating in the ears and crushing the senses with its heavy weight.

The grip which the silence held over the two travelers was lessened by a distant sound upon the periphery of hearing: the call of some animal, perhaps. The sound was so faint that it was almost swallowed up by the thick air of the forest, but there was something about that muffled cry which sent an inexplicable shiver down Zabar's spine.

"Master, I do not wish to say any of this, but I could swear I heard the baying of a wolf in the distance," Zabar answered, his voice tense.

"You heard some kind of night bird. There are no wolves in this part of Nurn. Did you drink too much wine at the festival?"

"No, my lord," he returned humbly. "I drank very little."

"I seldom see you afraid of anything," Esarhaddon remarked as the two men slowly rode their horses through the fog. Perhaps he could talk some sense into his bodyguard by reminding him of the courage which he possessed deep within his heart.

"I could ride through this forest in the daytime and think little of it, but at night, it turns dark and evil. Many people say that the woods are cursed." Zabar cast a fearful glance around at their surroundings, but could see little but shadows and mist.

"You are letting your imagination get away from you."

"Forgive me, my lord, but everyone has heard the tales about the Thraqum Wood: stories of the dead that walk, the cultists who worship them, and the shaman who is on no one's side but his own." Zabar's voice was almost a whisper, as though he feared to say the words aloud in the place where they held the most power. Oft was it said that if one spoke the name of evil things, one might summon them forth...

"I have always found that the living pose far more threat than the dead," Esarhaddon chuckled grimly. "Of the three perils that you have listed, the cultists are the only one that concerns me, for they are dangerous men, given over to fanaticism and brutality. As for the shaman, he is naught but an eccentric purveyor of potions, a decrepit elf who has outstayed his time upon Middle-earth."

"Decrepit or no, the shaman still wields great power, 'tis said." Zabar paused, licking his lips nervously. "His hut is near here, but it is far too dark to see the lamp in his window. I am told that he burns that light from the beginnings of darkness each night until the full light of dawn. They say that he does this to attract the spirits."

"Superstition," Esarhaddon scoffed. "What is so strange about burning a lamp in his window? How else would the simpletons who buy his charms be able to find him in the dark? He is nothing but a petty conjurer who makes a living off the gullible."

"If you say so, Master," Zabar deferred humbly. "Still, I do not like this place." He rode slowly, the lantern in his hand barely able to light the path in the thick fog.

Then Ka'adara, usually a sensible mare, balked, planting her feet squarely in the road. One ear twitched forward and the other backward. The mare's nervous behavior made Zabar's horse skittish. The men's eyes searched the darkness, but they could see nothing.

Then they heard, far off in the night, the sound of a shrill wail.

"What is that?" Zabar asked in alarm. "Do you still think it is some sort of wild beast?" Perhaps now the master would listen! Sometimes his mare had more sense than he did.

"No," Esarhaddon replied grimly. "That was a woman's scream. I would wager that the foul cultists are up to some dark mischief tonight. No doubt they wish to spill her blood in one of their abominable rituals!"

"What would you have us to do?" Zabar asked, his eyes wide with fear.

Esarhaddon reflected, calculating the risks of crossing the dark ones. They heard the scream again. "Try to find her," he replied quietly, and touched his heels to his mare's sides, forcing her to jump ahead.