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rot in seconds.”
    “And you wanted to fight it?”
    Eamon paused, realizing the foolishness of the idea. “Maybe tomorrow night, we take it easy on the wine.”
    “Agreed.”
    Eamon took a few steps forward and looked further into the lair. Near the entrance, a strange skull sat atop a small pile of ash. It was decayed and crumbling, as if it had been lying in the same place for centuries. Upon its surface, runic symbols were inscribed.
    The Prince studied the remains further, probing into the pile of ash with his sword. Gathered around the skull were the tattered remnants of a once ornate gown, now withered and stained with the dried blood of countless victims.
    “It’s the banshee,” Eamon said, urging Wrothgaar to come closer. “She’s been destroyed.”
    “Banshees have bones?” Wrothgaar asked.
    “Their undead spirits inhabit the skull, but there are no other bones. Usually only dust. I’ve never seen another banshee, much less a dead one. But the gown and the strange markings on the skull tell me that this is definitely her.”
    “The skull is strangely shaped,” Wrothgaar remarked.
    “Yes. Not human. She never was, even when she was alive.”
    “What could destroy a banshee?” Wrothgaar asked, wincing at the strange sight of the remains.
    “I do not know of anything that could kill a banshee. A powerful Priest, maybe, but very little else. They’re undead, like a wraith or wight. Only magic could kill them.”
    Wrothgaar stared at the remains in disbelief. His fear began to build, and he could feel the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.
    “Let us leave this place,” he said, turning to walk away. Eamon followed, glancing back, still wondering what could have destroyed such a formidable monster. Whatever it was, it was not of this Earth.
    Quickly, the two bounded off into the woods to return to their camp, both agreeing that the trek was a foolish one. Whether the banshee was alive or not was unimportant. Whatever else had passed through the forest was equally powerful, and, apparently, much more dangerous.
     
     
    Chapter Six
     
    The Mordumarc arrived at the burned out village in less than a day. Their journey had been swift, as the Mordumarc were expert horseman, and rode the fastest mounts in the Kingdom, selected from the finest stock in the South.
    Fergis was the first to dismount. The older Captain looked at the grim scene in horror. The charred remains of the bodies lie in a pile in the center of the village, all evidence of their suffering erased by the Northmen who had found them. Better to burn them than to let them lie and rot, he reasoned. Wooden staffs had been carved into likenesses of Northern gods and placed around the pyre in remembrance. Apparently, even the somewhat barbaric Northmen had respect for their kin.
    It was a sad scene.
    Though the Northmen had been enemies in the past, they were now accepted in Eirenoch as settlers and were treated with the honor they deserved. As colonists, they were under the Mordumarc’s protection as well. Fergis grieved the deaths of these innocent people, especially the children, and also grieved the fact that he had failed in protecting them.
    “Brynn!” The Captain called to his First Lieutenant.
    Brynn joined his Captain at the pyre. “Yes, Captain?”
    “Have the rangers search for any tracks in the area,” The Captain commanded. “I want to know how many attackers there were, what direction they went, and if there are anything other than human tracks.”
    “Yes, sir,” Brynn answered, running off to fetch the company’s two hired rangers.
    Fergis himself went hut to hut, searching for anything that would provide the answers he sought. The remains of the huts were filled with broken furniture, shattered pots, and other minor possessions the Northmen might have owned. He found nothing out of the ordinary, but he could tell the huts had been torn apart in a frantic search before they were torched.
    Returning to the pyre, he