Experienced travelers, merchants who have visited all the major cities along the Eastern Trade Route, know of one key difference between Gal Darrack and all other towns, villages, and metropolises in the land. By decree and custom, there are no Hallow's Eve celebrations in Gal Darrack. While the last night of the tenth month finds every other city in the East seeped in revelry as they rejoice their continued survival and growing power, all is dark in Gal Darrack. It is a night of mourning and reflection; the taverns close by dusk, and no man may wear a mask that day or set foot on the street after full dark, under penalty of death. The night is far from silent though, for every house, large and small, hangs ringing bells over their doors, and many of the huddled population hold smaller bells in their hands, ringing them furiously when the church bells set to tolling, every hour on the hour.

Few citizens remember the origin of this custom, or why their town must pass Hallow's Eve hidden in terror, while every other city celebrates it with great costume balls, revelry in the streets, and celebration in the face of coming winter. The people of Gal Darrack know there was a tragedy, a curse that befell them over two hundred years ago on Hallow's Eve, but who remembers what the events were? All the people can say is that the catastrophe forever blighted this happy day, and that it came near the end of the Reaper Wars, when humanity gained full domination over the surface world and banished the invading demonic hordes to their smoking hells.

Let us travel back, back through the centuries, to see Gal Darrack as it was two hundred years ago. The city was smaller then, and many of the buildings in the heart of town were still brick and mud, for no merchants had time or money to build stone manors in those troubled days. The outer walls were higher, the sentries walking them grimmer, and the sprawl of West Town, a great hive of commerce that now stretches along the main road for more than five miles out of town, did not yet exist. The very concept of it would have been laughed down, in those dangerous days when no man could sleep securely outside of Gal Darrack.

Hope was growing in the city though, hope that had grown over the two years since a great band of mages and Necromancers had fought their way to the great Hell's Gate in the Jagged Mountains to the south and joined their power to seal it. Since that time the demon attacks had grown much less frequent, and just a month past word had come of a great victory over a demonic horde to the west, and the sealing of two more Hell Gates. No one dared declare victory over the demons, not yet at least, but there had been no organized assaults upon Gal Darrack since shortly after the near gate had been sealed, and even the slow trade caravans from the west had passed unmolested for a year and a half.

With the gate sealed and no hope of reinforcements or escape, the demons who had been on this side were trapped, and every day brought more heroes, treasure-seekers, summoners, and fools to Gal Darrack, all eager to slay a demon for its treasure, capture one for exhibition, or at least appear on the rolls of the demon dead. Though most men found nothing but thirst and empty expanses of rock, half a dozen caged demons had been exhibited in Gal Darrack over the past year, each one small and badly wounded, but even dying in a pool of their own stinking ichor the demons had drawn huge crowds to gawk through the thick iron bars of their cages. After so many decades living in fear, the citizens of Gal Darrack were at last beginning to feel a bit bolder, and their bravado grew with the sight of every caged, crippled Imp.

No one had yet brought in a larger demon alive, but many a Necromancer had enriched himself by tagging along with a war party and Reviving the dead demons. These dead and ensorcelled beasts were mindless, blackened by the spell, and unable to remain ambulatory for more than a quarter hour, but for the five great Necromancers of Gal Darrack it had become a sport and a competition to find a demon corpse, wheel it back to Arlant Square in the heart of Gal Darrack, and then Revive it once a sufficient crowd had gathered. Reputations were built by this, and staked on it as well, as each Necromancer sought to find larger and more powerful demons, and struggled to keep them Revived for longer periods of time. The citizens of Gal Darrack followed the struggles of the rich and powerful Necromancers closely, and as Hallow's Eve and the demon-taunting spectacles for which it was known approached, wagers flew as to which of the Necromancers would unveil the greatest surprise. Rumors had Lord Jhomadal hording corpses, Lord Koretak caging a pair of Imps in his keep, Lord Geminil hunting the Jagged Mountains with a dozen archers and a bird cage designed for winged Imps, and Lords Balazard and Desmaldo locked away in the seclusion of their manors, perfecting new enchantments for the occasion. No one knew the truth of it though, and the rumors changed daily, as did the wagering odds.

Finally the night arrived, and with Hallow's Eve came streets filled with costumed revelers both young and old. Every citizen joined in the celebrations, but only the rich and powerful were allowed into Wing's Round, the largest theater in Gal Darrack and annual host of the grandest of the Hallow's Eve balls. Everyone of any importance attended, and on that night the nobles who had planned to arrive fashionably-late received advance word of the astonishing display to be found at the Round. Spurred by the rumors, the rich and powerful raced to arrive the moment the gates opened, some scarcely taking the time to slip into their costumes.

Awaiting the nobles inside, once their wagons squeezed through the crush of milling citizens, was a most incredible sight. One of the Necromancers; no one knew which, had Revived eight mighty demons and arranged them throughout the theater. Crowds surged around each, though the people kept back out of reach, just in case. Revived monsters had been known to move suddenly and unexpectedly, and no one knew how complete the Necromancer's control was, stretched to hold an amazing eight monsters at once. Still, even from two strides away the nobles and merchants were joined in wonder as they peered closely at the demons' furled wings, ridged spikes, curved tusks, and rippling muscles. If not for their blackened skin and glazed expressions none would have dared such a close approach, for demons such as these possessed magic, tremendous strength, and great cunning, and could single-handedly rout a company of soldiers. Many a noble saw their enemy up close for the first time that night, and stepped back in astonishment, vowing to increase their contributions to the city's defense fund. No wonder the mages and knights who battled such monsters so often failed!

As amazing as the sight of the demons, was the longevity of the spell that animated them. Everyone knew that Revives never lived for more than a quarter hour, and often lasted considerably less time than that. The Necromancers kept close the secrets of their trade, but their ongoing competition was common knowledge, and any informed citizen could recite lists of their varied accomplishments. When it came to Revives though, most agreed that Lord Jhomadal was the master. He held the current longevity record, having recently won a public contest with Lord Balazard by keeping a rooster hopping about for more than an hour, while Balazard's chicken had fallen motionless just three quarters of an hour into the duel.

None of the Necromancers had arrived at the Hallow's Eve ball, which was yet another surprise. One of them had clearly made some great breakthrough in Revive technique, to keep these mighty demons standing for so long, and there was great wonder in the crowd as to which Undead Lord had managed it, and why he was not making himself known to bask in the adulation.

Hours passed as the theater grew only more crowded, and when each new arrival forced his or her way through the throngs and gazed in wonder at the demons, the conversations began anew. "Where are the Necromancers?" "Which Undead Lord has achieved this miracle?" "Why does he not make himself known?"

At last, less than two hours before midnight, the five Lord Necromancers entered the theater as one, sweeping all questions and questioners before them with a wall of silence. The Undead Lords were resplendent in their bone armor, crowns, and flowing cloaks, and as expected, none of them had donned a costume. Their own armor was costume enough, bones woven into leather or soldered into metal; runes and inscriptions etched into the skeletons they wore. Each man had a unique helm, all fashioned from the skull of a different creature and decorated with gold and jewels. Though all were impressive, Koretak's, fashioned from the skull of a demon nearly as large as the eight standing inside the theater, was the newest and most impressive; the bone etched a deep blue, the tusks and horns wound round with molten nuggets of raw gold.

What the Necromancers thought of the waiting Revives was impossible to say, since none betrayed even the briefest flash of emotion as they spread out and strolled around the room, ignoring questions and congratulations equally. One of them was keeping the demons Revived, and the fact that whichever Necromancer was responsible could keep calm enough to hide the secret was even more impressive. Did the other four know? Or were they as mystified by the power as the citizens of Gal Darrack, and as curious about which of their fellows had achieved this feat? None could say, and as an hour passed during which the five Undead Lords strolled through the theater, hardly even seeming to see the demons, the whispered conversations in their wake grew ever more intense.

Eleven o'clock was announced by dozens of waiters bearing hundreds of glasses of champagne, and Malk and Tyrall, the two richest merchants in Gal Darrack found themselves side by side in an isolated alcove on the second level of the theater. Below them, standing on the decorated stage, were three demons, all now standing on low pedestals with their arms stretched out and wings unfurled. The creatures had remained upright all evening, slowly moving their arms and heads from time to time as if to prove that whichever Necromancer was animating them still retained full control of his pets.

"What say you, Malk?" asked Tyrall in a low voice. "Are they the work of one Necromancer?"

Malk coughed, running a finger over the side of his neck as he pushed back his ruby-encrusted mask to take a sip of champagne. "I think they must be; our five Undead Lords could not work together if they held buckets and a fire threatened the last whorehouse in town."

Tyrall laughed, trying to hide it by swallowing half of his champagne at once. "Yes, but who? Which of them has found this new strength? I find their silence on that matter more surprising than the Revived demons."

Malk nodded. "Modesty has never been their strong suit, it is true. Could a sixth Necromancer have entered the city? One from a distant land with spells our Lords have yet to learn? There are many strangers here tonight, concealed by masks and cloaks."

Tyrall shook his head. "I do not know. Would not our Lords sense his power? I spoke with Koretak and Desmaldo not half an hour past, and both seemed quite willing to let me think they were responsible for this enchantment."

"Both?" exclaimed Malk, scratching his neck again. A buboe had been swelling up there for the better part of a week, and he was dying to get home, take off this scratchy costume, and set to scratching it. Perhaps it had developed a head at last, and he could begin the pleasurable process of draining it, one slow squeeze at a time.

"Aye." replied Tyrall. "I spoke to them separately, each time inclining my head towards the demons while saying, 'That is impressive work, Necromancer.'"

"And what did they say?" asked Malk, stuffing his hands into his pockets to keep them away from the tempting lump on his neck.

"Very little. Each nodded his head with a half smile that I could have taken as agreement or thanks. Desmaldo muttered something about it being 'a most inspiring enchantment' while he kept nodding and looking past me."

Malk frowned, then finished his champagne and set the glass on the handrail at the edge of the balcony. "Geminil is just around that corner," he said, turning and scratching his neck in distraction. "I shall ask him and see what he says, then hunt down Balazard and Jhomadal. Surely a wise man can discern the truth of this from their expression?"

"Wiser than you or I." said Tyrall with a snort. "Necromancers are ever inscrutable, and these wish to hold onto their secret. I expect they'll reveal all come midnight. Perhaps one has mastered the technique and promised the others his secret if they stay silent and allow him his moment of midnight glory?"

Malk nodded, but walked up the stairs anyway, seeking Geminil. He knew these Necromancers too well to believe they would cooperate like that; they were too proud and far too covetous of their magics to share secrets at less than threat of death. No, Malk was sure that one of them knew the truth and the other four were bluffing, too embarrassed to show their ignorance in public. He thought Tyrall was correct though; whoever had authored this masterpiece would step forward at midnight, when tradition held that all disguises were removed and all wagers settled. He could have just waited an hour... but he hadn't grown rich sitting around waiting for other men to reveal their secrets in their own time.

Downstairs, in a corner of the front lobby, half a dozen guard captains were standing in a small ring, drinking heavily and convulsing with laughter as a young noble by the name of Thommas crept forward, a chocolate-coated creme puff held in his trembling hand.

"Do it, lad!"

"Have at the beast!"

Thommas flinched at the loud cries from the soldiers. Though the red-faced men were just a few feet behind him, they seemed miles away as he inched closer to the huge demon, the bit of pastry held out like a ward against evil. The demon was motionless and expressionless, as it had been all night, but that didn't make it easy to move so close to it. This was all the fault of his big mouth; as always he'd spoken before thinking, and as the soldiers drank and laughed at the demon, Thommas had tried to impress them by shouting out a daring idea.

"Someone should stick a tart on that horn on its chin!" he'd cried, hardly expecting to be heard over the din of the party. Yet he had been heard, and before he could protest, the soldiers, huge men in battered chest plates and helms with the metal shields lowered over their eyes had seized upon his idea and upon him, forcing him forwards and thrusting a bit of dessert into his hand. Now he was trapped, forced to live up to his words or slink off to their laughter. And it was not just the soldiers now, their shouts had attracted a crowd. If he refused this, if he used his birth rank to keep any from calling him a coward, he would not be harmed, but his father would hear of it. And his father already had a low enough opinion of his fat second son.

So Thommas took another short step, moving easily within the demon's reach. He knew it was Revived, knew it could not move without the command of the Necromancer who controlled it, but who was to say that Necromancer wasn't watching right now? It was said they could see through the eyes of their pets! What if Lord Koretak or Lord Desmaldo were looking at him right now, watching through the demon's eyes and waiting until just the right moment to order the monster to whirl and strike, or merely snap at him? Thommas knew he was not very brave, and he knew that if this demon moved, he would leap backwards with a girlish shriek. His only consolation was that his monk costume included a long brown robe, so that even if he soiled himself in fear, no one would see.

Pushing those thoughts away, concentrating on the demon in front of him, Thommas took another step forward and reached up, amazed at how large the monster was, chest to chest. He was a tall boy, tall and wide, but he could scarcely reach to the thing's face, and only by standing on his tiptoes was he able to skewer the bit of half-melted pastry on a needle-sharp horn that grew forth from the right side of the demon's chin.

Sure it would move then, knock his head off or bite the face from his skull, Thommas backed quickly away, unaware he was licking the melted chocolate from his fingers and holding his breath until the guardsmen seized him, roaring with laughter and clapping him on the back in approval. A tall glass of brown liquor was forced into his hand, and he drank it too quickly to taste a drop, though it smelled like cheap brandy and burned the back of his throat.

All around him the soldiers and other party-goers were in a riot of celebration, as amused by his clever prank as by his obvious fear in executing it, and the laughter of beautiful women was what spurred Thommas to seize a larger pastry from a waiter's tray and march boldly back to the demon. Looking back and winking at the crowd, Thommas jabbed the tart up a horn that grew straight down from the demon's jaw, trusting the rough ridges of bone to hold it there. They did, and Thommas backed out of reach before turning around and thrusting his hands overhead, as the cheers and laughter washed over him. Turning back, he eyed the demon as it stood motionless, raspberry filling dripping down its door-wide chest, and thought for an instant that the eyes had focused on his face, before they returned to their glazed, distant stare. Before he could ponder it the vision vanished from his head as men pounded his back in congratulations and half a dozen pastries were pressed towards him by howling, drunken revelers.

Half an hour later the band burst into the traditional midnight celebration music, and as four men carried Thommas through the doors into the main auditorium, a mug in his hand and his head spinning from drink, he joined them in song. Behind them the demon was left abandoned in the emptying lobby, half a dozen pastries skewered on its face and whipped cream and syrup dripped to its chest.

As the band continued their wild play, Malk and Tyrall met once again on the balcony, their heads close together as they strained to hear each other without being overheard by the gathered crowd. As the time for the unveiling neared, everyone crowded into the main theater or gathered in the balcony, eager to see the faces of their fellow party-goers, and especially to discover which of the Necromancers was the master of these remarkable demons. Five of the monsters were visible from the main auditorium; three standing on pedestals on the stage with two more back in the wings, behind the seating area. Two others were at the sides of the main lobby, one of them covered in pastries, while the eighth and final demon stood on the second floor, its back to the main lobby and its face towards the doors to the upstairs seating area.

"Did you track down the other Undead Lords?" Tyrall shouted into Malk's ear, cupping his hands to keep the sound from traveling.

"I did." Malk shouted back, then paused a moment. "Geminil nodded and smiled just as you said. Balazard bowed low when I credited him with such a display, but his eyes were troubled when I met them. And Jhomadal kept his face neutral, though he looked worried."

"Worried?" Tyrall asked.

"Yes. As if he'd been wondering the same thing all night, and was growing concerned that he had not yet figured it out. Based on what you said earlier I do not believe any of our Necromancer Lords Revived these creatures, and I do not believe any of them know who did."

Tyrall lifted his mask and looked into Malk's eyes, the shock obvious on his face. Malk removed his own mask to show Tyrall a similar expression, and the men moved as one as they turned their heads down over the balcony to stare at the motionless demons and the throngs of costumed partiers before them. Three of the Necromancers were visible around the sides of the room, each with a knot of admirers around them, and though Malk and Tyrall were too high to read their expressions, the two merchants wondered just what the Undead Lords were thinking at that moment, and where the other two Necromancers were.

Sidling up close beside his rival and sometime friend, Lord Jhomadal nodded to Lord Balazard and received an identical nod in return. Sometimes Jhomadal grew tired of the endless formalities of rank and pedigree he lived under in Gal Darrack. Nodding was the principle form of greeting, but when two men of rank met, it was as studied as a combat form. The speed at which a man raised and lowered his chin was very important, as was the angle of it, the thrust of his jaw, and especially how far down he dipped his head. Jhomadal enjoyed watching younger nobles struggle to master it, especially when they nodded at him and realized they'd showed a bit too much throat, or moved too quickly, as if they were dismissing a servant. Yet at other times the whole custom disgusted him, as it did now when he desperately wanted to speak honestly with Balazard, but felt shackled by the slow formality of their required greeting.

The instant Balazard's chin returned to rest, Jhomadal leaned in close enough that the horns of their headgear bumped, and spoke into his fellow mage's ear. "Let us be frank, Balazard. I did not Revive these demons. We both know that Geminil lacks the control to keep a rat Revived long enough to walk from here to the Plaza, and that Koretak could not Revive eight mice at once, much less demons. That leaves Desmaldo, and I know he has not left the city since late summer, and has no one he trusts enough to find and bring him eight Demons for Reviving."

"I can not argue any of those statements." replied Balazard, his tone neutral. "I do not believe you have the power to maintain so many Revived creatures for this long either." He paused then, drawing a long breath while the music played in the distance and curious citizens walked past, none daring to interrupt two Necromancers who were so deep in conversation. "Nor, unfortunately, do I."

With this both Necromancers paused, waiting for the other to speak. At that moment the band fell silent, and after a brief cacophony of shouts and howls from the assembled guests, the countdown began, as always, at twenty.

"Twenty!"

"Nineteen!"

"Eighteen!"

"If none of us Revived them, who did? Another Necromancer? A stranger to Gal Darrack?" Jhomadal had no reply to Balazard's question, and both men turned to look down the stairs towards the lobby and the exit beyond, as the crowd around them continued counting.

"Seventeen!"

"Sixteen!"

"Fifteen!"

"It is too late to run." said Jhomadal, nodding in approval as Balazard conjured his Bone Armor into existence.

"Fourteen!"

"Thirteen!"

"Twelve!"

Down in the mob on the theater floor, Thommas was still perched on the shoulders of two soldiers as they counted down the seconds until midnight. A crowd had gathered around the soldiers and their cargo, and those who could hear over the din were convulsing in laughter as Thommas waved a cream-filled chocolate twist around, pantomiming the actions he'd taken in decorated the demon. Shouting "Eleven!" along with everyone else, he waved the pastry like a sword, cutting a figure-8 through the air while raising his mug and spilling as much ale as he swallowed. It hardly mattered at this point; though he'd gotten a late start he was nearly as drunk as the soldiers who were carrying him, and only the sheer crush of people kept them from dropping him or falling down.

"Ten!"

"Nine!"

"Eight!"

As he bellowed out "Seven!" in chorus with the rest of the room, Thomas felt blinked his bleary eyes in surprise. For an instant he'd thought one of the demons on the stage in front of him had moved, if only slightly.

"Seven!"

"Six!"

"Five!"

People began pulling off their masks and raising their helmets, while shouting in surprise at the faces revealed around them. The unveiling was largely a tradition at this point, with the days of actual subterfuge and disguise long past. Aside from the mystery of which Necromancer was responsible for the amazing Revived demons, there were few mysteries at the costume ball. Everyone who mattered dressed in a costume that would not hide their identity, and it was only servants and guards and lesser merchants and their wives who really believed it mattered if they remained in disguise until midnight.

"Four!"

"Three!"

At this the throng turned towards the stage, eager to see the display.

"Two!"

Surely the mystery Necromancer would reveal himself at last?

"One!"

"Midnight!"

"Reveal!" shouted three thousand voices, and Thommas just had time to see the three demons on the stage leap forwards, their spiked arms cutting a trench through the front row of citizens as screams of panic filled the air and the shoulders beneath him vanished all at once. Falling backwards, he lost sight of the stage and focused on the pastry he still held as he dropped towards the floor. Just before he hit, his vision was pulled upwards as a demon vaulted off of the balcony, human heads tumbling from it like rain from a cloud. Unable to believe what he was seeing, Thommas opened his mouth to scream... and lost consciousness as he hit the floor and the crowd surged over him.

Up on the balcony railing, Malk was just getting up to his knees, painfully aware that he was simply soaked in hot blood. Beside him Tyrall's body was leaning back, halfway over the railing. He knew it was Tyrall's only because he knew what the man had been wearing. His head was gone, taken by the demon that had burst out of the second floor lobby and soared over the crowd, sharp-edged wings cutting through necks like a scythe through a patch of mushrooms. Malk had kept his head only by losing his feet in surprise when the demons on stage leapt forwards and began cutting through the mob of people below, and he could still smell the stench of brimstone and singed hair left by the demon that had passed so close overhead.

It had only been a few seconds and the beast had not gone far. Remaining on his knees, Malk watched as it banked left and hooked back over the balcony thirty feet to his left. Hundreds of people were crowded into the doors, desperately fighting to get through them to the outer lobby, and as the demon screamed over them, wings extended to cut, claws rending everything his wings didn't reach, Malk counted at least fifty heads flying through the air. Seconds later the demon returned, flashing back through the door and claiming another dozen victims while the bodies of the first group were still upright, headless and pressed forwards by the crush of the panicked crowd.

Malk was sure of his tallies; though he was one of the richest men in Gal Darrack, he'd started off as a stock boy, and risen so high entirely due to a ruthless character and a supernatural ability to quickly and accurately count up anything at a glance. Once his word was accepted as law it was easy to start skimming, and when he'd bought out his own boss less than three years after starting at the bottom, the old man hadn't even seemed surprised.

Malk mostly counted gold these days, but his skill remained. He was a fair hand at estimating times and odds as well, and as he measured the demon's speed, figured how many people were between him and the exit, and envisioned the crush of dead bodies on the stairs below, he made a calculated decision. Sitting down, Malk squeezed beneath the crumpled bodies of two dead women, pulled Tyrall's body on top of them, and waited for rescue. As his fingers crept back to the lump on his neck he shrugged, pushed down his collar, and gave in to the desire to squeeze it. It burst almost at once, and Malk shivered in pain and relief as a splat of pus covered his fingers. Wiping them on Tyrall's bloody cape, he went back for more. It would bleed, but so what? At least he'd have something in common with his less fortunate neighbors.

Thirty feet below and several minutes later, Thommas sat up and shook his head, dazed. He had no memory loss, though he wished he did when he looked around and saw enough bodies to fill a graveyard. Just standing up was a struggle, with the jumble of limbs and heads all around him, and he tried to ignore those that rolled freely when he touched them. Staggering to his feet, he began to pick his way up the aisle, stepping around, over, and on dozens of people. A few groaned, and others lying off to the sides were weeping or moaning. Thomas kept his eyes on his business though, and soon reached the wide doorway out into the lobby.

The doors were standing ajar, blocked from closing by dead bodies. They were blocked from opening for the same reason, and with a sigh Thommas squeezed through the narrow opening, grunting and holding onto the door frame as the body he stood on shifted under his weight. Something sticky was in his left hand, and he looked and grimaced at the sight of chocolate. It was worse than blood, somehow, and as he remembered the pastries he'd festooned that demon's face with, Thomas shuddered again. At least the creatures were gone, and while he felt a bit stupid for not realizing the demon he had taunted all evening was not actually a Necromancer's Revive, he tried to console himself with the thought that no one else had realized it either. He had no idea why the Necromancers had betrayed them, but rumors he'd heard all his life returned: how the Undead Lords were too close to the demons for comfort; how stray cats, dogs, and children tended to vanish around their demesnes, how they never took wives, and more. Thommas was not the man to lead the investigation, but he knew many of his father's friends were eager for any chance to take down the powerful Necromancers, and he knew enough of the manner of Nobles to know it would not be a bloodless inquisition.

Lost in thought, Thommas stumbled out into the lobby, squinting in the darkness. The front windows were broken and the wind had blown out most of the candles and lanterns, leaving the stone-floored atrium filled with shadows. Looking down at the corpse-strewn floor, Thommas realized the darkness wasn't all bad; not when it kept him from seeing the wounds and the dead as clearly. The lobby was cold as well, and for the first time Thommas realized how tired and sore he was. He still felt no trace of the alcohol though; the terror of seeing demons come to life had left him more sober than he'd been in ten years. He'd have to get home and get drunk as soon as he got out of this sepulcher. Let his father and brother deal with this situation and let the soldiers hunt down the demons. He was neither a leader or a warrior.

Moving around a pillar, Thommas wondered where the soldiers were. Hadn't the town been warned? There must have been other survivors ahead of him? That thought was driven from his head as the breath vanished from his body when a fist like stone crashed down on his back. Whoofing in pain, Thommas landed on a body and bounced to the side, landing on his back and looking up into the face of a monster. The cream and chocolate covered face of a monster.

"Hello, boy." it said, the voice like grinding stone, and as Thommas fought for enough breath to scream, the demon gripped him by the throat and lifted him to his feet effortlessly, the bones and horns on its hands digging painfully into his chest.

"You like cake?" the demon rasped, shaking Thommas hard enough to make his head bobble back and forth as his hands pawed helplessly at the demon's body. "I like dessert." it added, then pulled a tart off of a tray and stuffed it into Thommas' face.

Gasping, Thommas kept his teeth clenched as the demon rubbed the tart over his face, forcing icing into his eyes and nose. Leaving the tart stuck to his cheek, the demon shook him again as it grabbed another pastry. Thommas watched, knowing he was dead, and cocked his head at the strange smears across the demon's chest. Just as he raised his hands high enough to see the smears of black paint across them, the demon's hand blocked his view as it crammed a fruit tart into his face, drawing back one fist, then jabbing Thommas in the mouth just hard enough for the bone ridge on one knuckle to shatter his front teeth. Screaming in pain, Thommas found his air blocked by a fistful of tarts. He gagged, trying to spit them out, but the demon was too quick and it forced another handful in, its scaly fingers and claws gouging his tongue and cheeks as it stuffed more pastries into his mouth.

Last came a cherry tart, and as the sickly sweet juice mixed with the blood running down his chin, Thommas clawed desperately at the demon's arm, doing nothing but scratching the black dye off of its scaly hide. They weren't Revives at all, he realized at last. They were real demons, painted in disguise. Thommas almost laughed at the irony of it all, but he could do nothing but cough and choke as the demon held his mouth shut.

"Oh yes." purred the creature, smearing chocolate over Thommas' face as it leaned in close enough to kiss him. "I love dessert." it snarled, and those were the last words Thommas heard as the monster turned his head sideways while its jaws gaped open and a sewer stench wafted out. Sobbing, Thommas felt the demon's teeth sink into his head just in front of his ears, and then all went red as the demon bit down, taking off his head from just behind the jaw to the bridge of his nose.

Half a mile from the theater, standing shivering and blood-soaked in Arlant Square, four of the five Lord Necromancers of Gal Darrack stood in a pack, their circle bounded by a larger one made up of swordsmen, summoned golems, and archers, all facing out, their bows trained on the sky. No one had seen any of the demons since leaving the theater, but the Necromancers were taking no chances. Their guards were as much for protection from the townspeople as the demons, since the fifth Necromancer, Balazard, had been seized by the mob as he ran from the theater, his bone armor marking him as clearly as his distinctive gold and black costume.

"Necromancer scum!" one man had screamed. "They brought their pets here and set them upon us!" shouted another, and when the cry was taken up by more blood-splattered survivors, Jhomadal had thrown his decorative helm away, pulled his cloak tight, and run the other way, dashing down a dark alley. Balazard had been slower to realize the situation, and by the time he started to run it was too late. The last Jhomadal had seen of his fellow Lord was a tide of furious soldiers dragging him down, their daggers flashing as they chopped through Balazard's decorative bone armor.

While the actual events at the theater are only now remembered as legends of a demon attack, and the black dye found on the skin of the only demon to be slain that night exonerated the Necromancers, it was a generation before their kind were again tolerated in Gal Darrack. Of the seven surviving demons, none were ever seen again in Gal Darrack, though some legends say they will return again on Hallow's Eve. If not in one hundred years than in two hundred. Or three hundred. Or five hundred.