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‘What!’ exclaims Trost, incredulous. ‘Are you afraid of a snivelling grave poacher? If you’ll not help me then I’ll do the job alone.’
Before you have a chance to respond he leaves the table and advances towards the stranger. The man remains motionless, seemingly engrossed in his black book. Trost draws his sword and holds aloft the notice of death with his free hand. ‘You are Kezoor the Necromancer, an outlaw in this land.’ The man remains as still as a stone statue. ‘By the authority of Queen Evaine, I … ’
Trost stops in mid-sentence, his commanding voice little more than a stifled groan as Kezoor looks up from his book. His hard grey eyes glow with an unnatural intensity. Trost screams. His face becomes a mass of swelling and erupting boils. He collapses to his knees as the pain grows more intense.
‘I’ll finish this worm!’ snarls Paido, incensed by Trost’s agony and the cruel gloating laugh of his tormentor. He draws his sword and strides across the hold, but before he can strike a blow, the necromancer conjures forth a new, more horrific summonation.
