The Carols of Sanders Crossing

“Never underestimate the power of cheer and good will. Unity among beings can carry communities through even the hardest of times.”  

—Grand Sorceress Apriza

People stood on every street corner, their voices raised in four-part harmony. Thousands of incandescent lights adorned the fronts of shops, giving the cold air a small degree of warmth. High above the sky was overcast, threatening to snow but refusing to commit to it.

Edrik stepped into the frozen mud of the street, taking in the sights of downtown. Main Street housed the only large buildings in the entire realm: a line of three-floor brick stores set along a dirt road. It was no more than a hundred yards from one end to another, ending abruptly at the railroad tracks on one side and a barber shop at the other. Beyond that point, a network of streets crisscrossed as they stretched away to the river. Houses were spaced widely apart, in some places no more than one per block. It seemed to have once been a more densely settled community, as heavily settled as any Realm of its size. But that had been long ago, and time had erased many of those buildings, leaving no evidence except the odd placement of what remained.

Sanders’ Crossing was small for a Commonwealth Realm, no more than three miles across. Population 208, it housed only a single small town. The rest was a scattered collection of houses and farms, wrapping around a small lake where the residents still cut ice in the winter. Most of the residents walked or traveled by horse and cart. Compared to most Realms in the Commonwealth, it was woefully old-fashioned. Not that it had been intentional; its people did not seem resistant to change, more that change had simply passed them by. There was a quaint charm to it; a relic of the pre-war Driscarian colonies.

A bell chimed merrily as he opened the door of the general store. The man behind the counter took one look at Edrik and immediately shuffled over to him. “You’re the Wayfinder who arrived this afternoon, aren’t you?” At least the man’s accent was not stuck in the past: he spoke unaccented Commonwealth Driscari.

“Word travels fast,” Edrik commented.

The man gave a warm smile. “It’s a pleasure to have you here in our little realm. I’m Jebidiah. If you need anything, just let me know: this little store is mine.”

Edrik nodded his thanks.

The general store was not overly large, so the two continued their conversation while Edrik browsed the shelves. Normal Commonwealth goods were interspersed with tinwork and wrought iron tools that Edrik had not seen in over two centuries.

Jebidiah withdrew an ivory pipe and small tin of tobacco from his pocket, filling the bowl. Withdrawing a single match from an otherwise empty matchbox, he struck the match against the counter with a quick motion. It produced a spark, but nothing more. Irritated, the store owner struck the match again, with the same effect. Jebidiah slashed it across the counter at an alarming speed. The match snapped in half.

“Oh by the Quay!” he huffed. He held up his pipe. “Might I trouble you for a light, friend?”

Edrik extended his hand, focusing his mind on the sensation of warmth and forcing it down through his fingers. A tongue of fire, no larger than a candleflame, leapt up above his index finger. He touched this to the bowl of the shopkeeper’s pipe until the tobacco smoldered.

Jebidiah puffed on the pipe, contentment clear in his expression. “Thanks!”

Edrik nodded in response. Simple forms of magic were just a matter of willpower; a sentient creature willed for a thing to happen and the world responded. Edrik barely gave such simple effects any thought; they were mere tricks compared to what he used in his profession.

Edrik was a wayfinder, an itinerant guide who lead travelers through the chaotic and ever-changing Outlands. For Realms on the Commonwealth’s road and rail network, travelers needed only board the nearest train, or drive their car down the correct road to reach their destination. But for destinations beyond its infrastructure, requiring trips through a space whose very geometry changed by the hour, his services were indispensable.

“What brings you here?” Jebidiah asked, taking another puff on his pipe.

“I was on my way back to the Commonwealth from a long trip,” Edrik replied, “This was the closest Realm with a train station.”

“Will you be staying with us long?”

“At least a day or two,” the Wayfinder replied, “It doesn’t seem like I’ll find a lot of work, but I could use a short rest. I’ll probably head on to Driscar, and from there I don’t know.”

“Be sure to take some time to look around then,” The man said. “We may not have much here, but we’re proud of what we do have.”

“It’s a nice Realm,” Edrik replied, “it reminds me a little of my own childhood.”

“I can’t imagine living anywhere else,” Jebidiah told him, “Everyone knows everyone else here. We don’t even have a police force, just the one sheriff and a night watchman.”

The Wayfinder looked out of the store window as he heard the omnipresent singing draw closer. A group of four women in long, dark dresses walked by, each holding a small black book.

“There seems to be a lot of singing,” Edrik commented, “Is it always like that?”

“Caroling is a tradition around this time of year,” the man replied. “Has been for over a thousand years.”

“Why is that?” he asked. “The winter festival isn’t for another month.”

“It’s a long story,” the store owner said. “The pageant is tonight, and it should explain everything far better than I can. Six o’clock in the Hall of Ceremonies. Left two blocks as you head toward the river, you can’t miss it. Why not stop by?”

Edrik gave the offer serious consideration. The situation intrigued him, and he had nothing else to do. If it was a local holiday, there would likely be no other form of entertainment apart from returning to his room and re-reading his travel novel. Being in such a time capsule of a Realm was a rare treat, it would be a waste if he did not take in some of its culture.

“Thanks!” he replied, “Chances are you’ll see me there.”

The Hall of Ceremonies was indeed easy to find; the tall wooden building sat alone on its block. Built of whitewashed planks over a timber frame, it was another lovingly-maintained relic of prewar colonial culture.

Edrik arrived promptly at six. Sunset had been almost an hour prior, and the inside of the hall was lit by small wall-mounted gas lamps. Above the door at the rear of the hall was a small box seat, no doubt for the use of the Realmlord—the “Sanders” of the Realm’s name. The expected rows of benches filled most of the floorspace, with the only open area at the front. A large painted backdrop was set there, depicting the Realm’s countryside in rough brush strokes. The only other fixture of the room was an upright piano set to one side.

The human need for rituals and ceremonies was universal, going far beyond that of any other creatures. Even the Commonwealth calendar was built around its ceremonies; six throughout the year, spaced at two month intervals. They brought closure to seasons and ushered in changes, giving time a comforting cycle. Every Commonwealth community kept at least one Hall of Ceremonies, whether it was a colossal stone structure or a humble space for small gatherings. Even the most primitive of Realms kept a lodge, or at least a ring of stones, where they marked special occasions. The spaces also served an arguably more practical purpose, providing a place for community meetings other than the Realmlord’s residence.

Choosing a seat close to the rear, Edrik sat down as the residents of Sanders’ Crossing filed in. Their dress had changed very little from the colonial standard: breeches and jerkins for men, ankle-length dresses for the women, all in dark or muted colors accented with white.

As always it was Edrik, dressed in a wayfinder’s usual hodge-podge of styles, that was out of place. His profession led him to many strange Realms vastly different from the Commonwealth. As his clothing and gear wore out, he replaced them with whatever local equivalent was on hand. The result was a collage of clashing garments from dozens of different cultures—here a belt buckle from Zindir, there a pair of Lochland sealskin boots. No matter where he was, he looked just as much an outsider.

The entire hall immediately fell silent as a man stepped out from behind the backdrop. He was dressed in the finest of colonial gentleman’s style, complete with knee-length coat, cravat and tricorn hat.

Raising his voice just enough to fill the hall, he began. “Many years ago, before the rise of Alire and the foundation of the Commonwealth, the people of Sanders’ Crossing were not as they are now. By day, they were polite and welcoming. Yet their heart of hearts was dark, and most had little love for their neighbors.

“One year, winter came early. The ground froze hard before the autumn crops could be gathered. It was a harsh cold, and all too soon the people found themselves tightening their belts and counting the days until spring. Weeks passed, and the darkness within their hearts grew. It is that which first drew the shadow to our community.”

A person in a black robe and veil walked out from behind the backdrop, immediately crossing to the front of the stage area. Not even the figure’s eyes could be seen beneath. In the dim light of the gas lamps it was almost shapeless.

“The first victim of the shadow was Kran, the night watchman,” the narrator said.

Another actor emerged onstage, holding a lantern and wearing the mask of an old man.

This new actor declared, “I am Kran, night watchman of Sanders’ Crossing, deputized for the good of the community. Those who creep through the dark are my business. Man or woman out for a walk? No doubt a thief fleeing with their ill-gotten gains. Child returning home? A delinquent for sure. Guilty until proven innocent—proven by crossing my palm with silver—that’s my motto.”

The narrator continued. “On the first night of terror, Kran began his usual round.”

The robed figure walked up next to the night watchman.

Kran gave an exaggerated shiver. “By the Quay, this air is cold! Certainly no decent folk would be out on such a night. Even the ne’er-do-wells are holed up in their homes, in bed beneath blankets or huddled by the fire.” Cocking his head, he seemed to notice the robed figure for the first time. “But what is this shadow that crosses my path? Perhaps another for the Realmlord’s justice. Out at midnight on a night like this, he had best have a pocket of coins, else he’ll feel the wrath of the law. You there! Stop in the name of Lord Sanders!”

The shadowed figure clapped its hand onto the other actor’s shoulder, and with a theatrical cry, Kran slumped to the ground.

After a moment of silence, the narrator said, “They found him next morning, a block of ice with a look of fear frozen to his face.”

The robed figure crossed its arms, remaining above the now collapsed form of Kran.

In an ominous tone, the narrator continued, “None were fond of Kran, and his passing was little mourned. Yet it was but the prelude of things to come.”

The entire audience, as a single body, rose. At the front, the pianist began to play. The hall was filled with a song. It seemed to be familiar to all of the attendants, as they knew the lyrics without any prompting.

Edrik was not certain if he should join in or not. On one hand he was an outsider, and it might be viewed as an intrusion on their ceremony. On the other hand, he was in their realm and observing, and it might be rude not to participate. After all, he had been openly invited to attend. He stood and began to hum along with the tune, figuring he could at least give some degree of respect to the pageant, even if he himself did not know the rituals involved. The song seemed to retell the story of Kran’s death, subtly chastising the man for his greed.

As this carol ended, the audience sat and the narrator began once again. “On the second night of terror, the banker Augustus was returning home from a late night at the office.”

Another person emerged onto the stage, dressed in a waistcoat with a heavily padded stomach. The actor’s mask was that of a fat man.

“Business is business,” the new actor said, “And my business is the realm’s. I have no time for the petty concerns of small folk, and no room in my heart for charity. If others suffer, it is merely from their own poor head for business.”

The robed figure walked up next to him.

Augustus continued. “Business is business, but none could have business right now on this frigid night. But hold, what shadow is this that approaches? You there, from whence are you coming and to where are you going? Best be gone to whoever will take you in.”

The robed figure clapped his hand onto Augustus’s shoulder, causing him too to cry out and collapse.

As the cry faded, the narrator announced, “The death of Augustus left Sanders’ Crossing more concerned than bereaved. The townsfolk began to whisper that a dark force walked amongst them.”

The audience rose once again, beginning a second song. This too seemed to summarize the events just described, though it expressed a sense of pity for a life spent without kindness rather than the disdain of the first carol. Edrik was beginning to get a feel for the character of the songs, if not their lyrics. Four parts, with a simple melody which could be sung with or without accompaniment. Easy for anyone to follow along.

At the end of the song, the narrator spoke once more. “On the third night, the barber’s wife, Molly, had ventured out, claiming she wished to borrow a cup of flour from her neighbor.”

A woman in a grey wig and a mask of an old woman entered the scene.

“The small doings of this Realm are my sole preoccupation,” she said. “Hearsay, rumor, gossip, these are for me the essence of life. My eyes and ears are everywhere at once—it is no crime to stand and listen! If they did not want me to eavesdrop by windows, they should not have made their garden walls so climbable.”

“None know what truly drew her out on that cold evening,” The narrator explained. “Perhaps she wished to uncover the secret of the creeping dark by herself. Her husband begged her not to go, begged her to wait until the morning, but she was insistent. The last he saw of her, she was pulling on her hat and venturing into the night.”

The woman playing Molly mimed the motion of searching for something as the robed figure walked up behind her. It clapped its hand on her shoulder, causing her to slump to the ground like the others before.

Another carol—this one strangely upbeat and almost humorous—began. Its lyrics described a person obsessed with gossip, so interested in listening to others’ lives they forgot to live their own. While shorter than the first two, Edrik found its bouncing tune the most enjoyable.

Once more the narrator continued. “Beyond that night, all were fearful. Farmers and townsfolk alike boarded their windows and locked their doors, children were shut away inside. All were afraid what the next night would bring.”

A man dressed in fine clothing emerged onto the stage. Despite the crude nature of the pageant masks, Edrik received the distinct impression of a strong jawline and a cleft chin.

“Hiram was a leader of the community,” continued the narrator. “His lineage traced back to the first son of lord Sanders, and unlike so many of his fellows, his heart was kind. Many looked to him as a symbol of strength and stability. On the day of the fourth night of terror, he called together all able-bodied men and women in the Realm, gathering in his own home.”

The actor playing Hiram announced, “I cannot allow such a terror to stalk my beloved Realm. For three nights it has beset us, and before me now lie three no longer living. Shall this repeat itself, one death every night until none are left? I say no! I will go in search of its source and destroy it if I can. I welcome all who would come with me, but if none shall be my companions, I shall go on my own.”

The narrator spoke. “Many were afraid and begged him not to go, more ready to dissuade him than aid his hunt. In the end, only five companions would join him.”

Five people carrying candles emerged, standing in a line behind Hiram.

The actor playing Hiram spoke once again. “One alone might find himself prey to his force, but we together are six. Remain united, and have no fear! We are men and women of Sanders’ Crossing.”

“Long through the dark hours, Hiram and his companions patrolled the streets,” the narrator announced, “The shadow seemed afraid of their unity, as they found nothing for a time. As they passed the middle of the night, however, disaster struck as Hiram found himself separated from the others.”

As the five followers took a step back, the robed figure moved forward once again.

“You there!” Hiram shouted. “I see you now, dark shadow that threatens my home. Be you creature of flesh or construct of magic, I command you to leave our Realm in peace! Have at you, infernal creature!”

With a quick motion, the robed figure struck him down the same as the others. The five followers gathered around where he lay slumped on the floor.

When he spoke next, the narrator’s tone was solemn. “His death cry was heard by the others, who rushed to their hero’s side. He was dead, though not five minutes had passed since he had last been seen.”

This time the carol was a slow, somber piece, which seemed to mourn the man’s death. Edrik could see several people beside him that almost seemed on the verge of tears. He felt even more out of place, as if he had intruded on someone’s funeral. It was a touching display of emotion, even though it was for a man who had died over a thousand years before.

This time the others did not sit back down. They seemed to be anticipating something, waiting for the next part of the story.

For a final time, the narrator spoke. “None slept on the fifth night of terror, and not an able-bodied man or woman remained at home. They emerged with lanterns, candles, and torches. Watchers were placed on every street corner, none wholly alone. It was the greatest vigil ever held in the Realm.

“Tradition holds that it was Anthony, son of the blacksmith, who encountered the shadow first that night. As it approached him he was gripped by fear and, in an act of panic or foresight, began to sing. First one, then another, then another joined him, until the voices of the entire realm were raised in song. Never before had they been so unified, their wills turned toward one single goal, and the shadow could not bear it.”

As the audience began to hum a tune, the robed figure retreated behind the backdrop, disappearing from the scene.

The narrator concluded, “Their foe had gone, and the people remained. Never again would they have reason to fear the dark and cold of winter. Through the nights of fear the hearts of the people had become united, as their voices were in song. And so at this time every year we remember when we were brought together against the shadow. Go now in peace and brotherhood, now and always.”

The humming became singing. This final song was loud and triumphant, shaking the windows of the hall. The actors of the pageant who had slumped to the floor stood up and joined in as well, as did the narrator. Even the robed figure, having removed her mask and hood, emerged from behind the backdrop and sang. It continued even as the audience filed out of the hall, the creaking of floorboards and the trudging of feet completely lost beneath its volume.

Edrik joined the general crowd streaming into the night. According to his watch, barely half an hour had passed. In that time, however, the temperature had dropped considerably from its already frigid level. Even through his coat and wool cloak, he shivered. Exerting his will, he tried to force heat into his body through magic, with only limited success.

They spread out as the procession reached the frozen mud of the street, many still singing. Small groups peeled off from the general body, moving toward nearby houses, or to wagons headed out into the countryside. The vast majority, however, traveled back toward the center of town.

Edrik was still mulling over the meaning of the ceremony. It seemed to be such a grim event to be the center of a celebration. He had seen a number of ceremonies from many realms, some of which were just as morbid in character. However, it was rather unusual to find something of this nature in the Commonwealth, and most of those other ceremonies were tinged with fear.

As to how much of the story was true, Edrik could only guess. The actual events had likely been buried under so much time and so many layers of mythology that it was impossible to tell the truth. In the timescale of the Outlands, a thousand years was virtually nothing, but to the average people of the Realms it was a remote and barely remembered past. For the purpose the story served, however, it did not really matter. It had become a morality tale, a story that expressed the community’s values.

Main street was brightly lit when the crowd reached it. It seemed to be the only block in the Realm with electricity, and the glow of its countless incandescent lights was welcoming amid the winter’s night. There was a warmth there, despite the frigid air which turned Edrik’s breath to steam.

Edrik felt a hand tap him on the shoulder, and turned to see Jebidiah dressed in a dark coat and top hat. “Well, friend, did you enjoy our little pageant?”

The wayfinder nodded. “It was fascinating! Thanks for letting me know about it.”

The shopkeeper withdrew his pipe once more, refilling it with fresh tobacco. “There’s not much here in Sanders’ Crossing, nothing like the bigger Realms, but we’re proud of what we have. This holiday more than anything.”

“Has it always been like this?” he asked. “Unchanged for hundreds of years?”

The shopkeeper shrugged. “Ever since I was a boy, at least. That would be, oh, forty or fifty years. From what my grandpa used to say, I think it was the same when he was a boy too.” Setting the pipe in his mouth, he leaned forward for the Wayfinder to light it. Edrik obliged him, creating a small flame at the tip of his finger and touching it to the bowl. Jebidiah nodded his thanks. “I take it you haven’t had dinner?”

Edrik shook his head. “Not yet. I could go with something to warm me up.”

Jebidiah motioned toward a small restaurant a short distance down the street. “Come, let’s have ourselves a hot meal and a pint of eggnog.”

It was another two hours before the celebration died down, with the last of the merrymakers headed out of town or to apartments on the upper floors of town buildings. Jebidiah excused himself, wishing the wayfinder well on his train journey. By the time Edrik turned his boots back toward the guild station, the street was almost empty.

The guild station was built next to the railroad tracks, near the downtown buildings. It had all the comforts of a Colonial-era hotel, with a spacious common room which acted as lobby, lounge and dining room. Its floors were hand-scraped planks, painstakingly sanded smooth and varnished. A large wood-burning stove took up the center of the room, its cast-iron body radiating warmth. To one side was the obligatory corkboard for guild contracts and messages between wayfinders. This was currently bare, save for a few yellowing notes along the bottom. Narrow stairs along the back led up to a second storey.

Keys hung from a short line of pegs behind the front desk, showing five rooms for the use of guild members. Only one key was missing from the line, the one currently in Edrik’s pocket. It was a testament to how small of a Realm Sanders’ crossing truly was; most guild stations had at least twenty or thirty rooms, some running into the hundreds, and were half full at any given time. But as small as it was, the Sanders’ Crossing station was cozy and well maintained, which was more than he could say for some places he had been. The people of the Realm clearly cared, and Edrik could not complain.

The man stationed behind the desk had a steaming glass of what seemed to be mead, and was singing a carol horribly out of tune. He nodded to Edrik as the Wayfinder entered, before returning to his singing and drink.

At ten o’clock, Edrik finally sank into his bed. He was exhausted, but the trains woke him up at intervals, thundering past just as soon as he was about to drift off. Sanders’ crossing was not on one of the main railroad lines, but it was a frequently-used branch for goods traffic. Finally, around one in the morning, he drifted to sleep.

He awoke to a deep humming sound which took him a moment to realize was out of place. Opening his eyes, Edrik checked his watch. The luminous dial read 2:34. Early morning, far too early for him to be awake. He settled back in the bed. The sheets were Kemettan cotton, soft and freshly pressed. Except for the mysterious sound, he was as comfortable as a cat on the hearth.

He tried his best to ignore the humming, but it pressed into his mind. It seemed to be coming from all around him, and no matter what it would not go away. It could have been a person chanting, or a single note played on a pipe organ. Finally giving up, Edrik rose from his bed. The cold floorboards shocked him awake as soon as his feet touched them. Clearly the stove had not been stoked in hours, and the fire within had died down.

Crossing to the window, he looked out, trying to see what was causing the sound. Frost had formed around the edges of the windowpanes, a testament to the chill outside. The street was still lit in the warm amber glow of a thousand tiny bulbs. He squinted into the light, trying to make out anything which might be making the noise.

Main street was completely deserted and absolutely still. Time itself seemed to have frozen, leaving Edrik alone in the endless cold of the night. He wondered if anyone else was awake at that hour, looking out at the street, or if he was the only one. Surely the Realmlord at least had to be awake; the Realm would be physically breaking apart if his will was not still focused on maintaining it. But that fact did not change how empty the Realm seemed.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw flicker of movement. A small patch directly below him was several shades darker than it should have been. He looked down at it, half convinced the movement had just been his imagination. When he saw what it was, Edrik felt a chill which had nothing to do with the cold.

There was the shadow walking down the street. It was difficult for him to see; with it directly below his window the angle was not good for viewing. Even when it moved far enough down the street for him to have a clear line of sight, he was not sure what it was. The Wayfinder remembered the shadow described in the pageant story. That was an accurate of a description of the thing—he was not certain if he should call it a being yet—that he was seeing.

It was very roughly in the shape of a man, and seemed to be three-dimensional. But it was almost completely transparent, a local darkening of the light rather than a tangible shape. The portions which corresponded to its arms and legs faded to nothing, leaving it without hands or feet. It seemed to be moving at a slow saunter, headed away from the train tracks and out toward the suburbs.

Edrik’s curiosity was piqued. Pulling on his pants, coat, cloak and boots, Edrik made his way back down into the common room. His host was slumped across the desk in a drunken stupor, several empty mead bottles in front of him. The Wayfinder stopped just long enough to check the fire, making a mental note to bring in more wood on the way back.

Steam streamed from his breath and clothes as he made his way into the night. He caught sight of the shadow just as it was exiting the range of Main Street’s lights. Keeping as close to the ground as possible, Edrik drew closer to it, trying to get a good look.

As he left the amber glow of the electric lights, it took a few moments for his eyes to adjust. Whatever night sky the Realmlord had created was still obscured by thick clouds, leaving the countryside almost lightless. The figure ahead was an undefined shape, a slightly darker patch against the already dark night. More often than not, Edrik found himself relying on his ears rather than his eyes. This shape seemed to be the source of the humming which still pressed in on his brain; as he drew nearer it grew louder and as he fell back it faded.

Edrik followed thirty feet behind the figure, trying to stay quiet and unseen. He was not sure what sort of senses it had, but he was confident no ordinary human would know he was there.

It was unsettling, walking along outside and alone save for his strange companion. If this was in fact the shadow from the story, it was lethal to people traveling alone at night. But Edrik was no stranger to that sort of risk. Leading people through the Outlands put him in just as much danger, and he could not walk away until his curiosity was sated.

It did not seem to have noticed him, fortunately. In fact, the figure did not seem to be searching for anything or to be headed anywhere in particular. After more than half an hour, the shadow had wandered all over town, looping back on its path several times. Sometimes as it reached a house it would stop for a minute, standing by the front steps, before moving on. At these times Edrik thought the creature had faded away, but inevitably it began to move once again.

The Wayfinder was no closer to understanding what the creature was, let alone what purpose it had in the Realm at this time of night. He was certain that the shadow could not sense him, or was at least ignoring his presence.

Just following was not giving him any new information. He wanted answers, and he needed to watch with more than just his eyes. He needed to stretch out magically, to find out whether it was an intelligent being, or even a living creature at all. The same arcane sense which allowed him to be a Wayfinder also allowed him to feel the effects of other creature’s wills, and most times the creatures themselves indirectly. He stretched out his awareness, probing the area around him.

He found something interesting after no more than a few seconds of searching. Besides the expected ambient effects from the sleeping residents and the near-blinding will of the Realmlord, the night was empty. There was nothing, not even the low-level will which all living creatures had. As far as his Wayfinder sense was concerned, he was alone in the night.

The shadowy figure had no life of its own, no independent will. It was a magical construct, a projection of some other consciousness. As with so many things, the answer came down to will. That mysterious force which gave thinking creatures sentience, which had the power to reshape the very fabric of the world around its wielder, was the underlying answer to so many mysteries of the world. It was what gave magicians the ability to fly and create fire, it allowed Realmlords to create the stable pockets of reality which were the Realms, it allowed Wayfinders to navigate through the Outlands, and it was what gave existence to this mysterious shadow.

The creature stopped, and Edrik’s stomach turned over. It was hard to tell in the dark, but the figure seemed to be turning around, searching for something. Edrik stayed perfectly still, hoping that the darkness would be enough to hide his presence. The shape began to move definitely toward him, slowly closing the distance. Edrik had to fight the urge to bolt or fly; this creature could probably outrun him on the ground or through the air, and doing so would certainly draw its attention. Edrik held his breath as it reached out its arm. The volume of the humming was painful to his ears, splitting into his skull. It was so close that, even in the darkness, he could see the rough shape of fingers probing the air toward his face. He sensed waves of cold and malice radiating from it.

Perhaps it was intuition, or perhaps it was panic, but Edrik’s response most likely saved his life. He took a deep breath, and began to sing. It was a bawdy tune he had learned during his school days in Academe, an insult to the carols which the Realm’s residents sang, but it was the only thing he could think of at that moment. He had to almost shout to hear himself over the humming. Even still he did not stop.

The shadow reacted as if it had been burned. Its form blurred as it shrank away from him. In the blink of an eye it was ten yards away, the next heartbeat at the street corner. It disappeared against the night, headed out toward the edge of down. The humming faded and, for the first time since Edrik had woken up, finally disappeared.

There was nothing more for him outside; the entity was gone, the hum had faded, and he was alone in the night. He was suddenly reminded how cold it was outside. A warm fire and sleep sounded good.

On the way back to main street, Edrik pondered his strange experience. He needed to make sense of what he had experienced, at least for his own curiosity. He had no doubt remaining: whether or not the rest of the story was true, the shadow itself was real enough. But what was it, and why was it repelled by music?

He thought back to the pageant, to where the narrator had said the shadow had come from. An early winter, a season of fear and doubt, a people with cold hearts toward one another. The collective wills of many people working in concert could produce an effect just as well as a single powerful mind. This shadow, this night killer, it had been a manifestation of the people’s collective unconscious. Stressed by the onset of an early winter, afraid they would not live until the thaw, their petty grudges and jealousies had permeated the Realm and manifested as this creature.

Even a millennium after the nights of terror, the residents’ wills still caused it to manifest. The shadow remained, just as the people of the Realm still held grudges and petty jealousies. But the story of that first horrific winter had been passed down, as had their carols. In the coldest part of the year, the community gathered together, reenacting the events of those five nights and singing away their fears.

The Carols of Sanders’ Crossing were more than just songs. They were the shadow’s polar opposite. Many parts sung in harmony, they expressed their collective unity, good will, and desire to survive. They changed the emotions of the people who sang and heard them, weakening the shadow and driving it away. Whether it was two hundred and eight voices raised in a chorus or a simple, bawdy tune sung by a traveling Wayfinder, the shadow could not stand against it.

White flakes began to drift down as he reached the lights of main street. After half a day, the clouds had finally committed to snowing. Their presence seemed to take the bitterness from the cold as they sparkled in the amber glow.

Slipping back into the guild station was a relief, although it was only marginally warmer. The man behind the counter was still snoring; he did not seem to have moved at all. Everything was as it should be. Just as he was about to head back up to his room, Edrik remembered the stove. He found the back door, returning with two armloads of wood. The fire was no more than a handful of embers, but with careful coaxing and more than a little magic, it slowly returned to life. A minute later he was rewarded with tongues of flame.

The clock read 3:09 when he slumped into bed once again. The room seemed a little warmer than it had been when he left. The Kemettan cotton sheets were impossibly soft, like sleeping on a cloud.

Edrik decided he was in no hurry to move onto the next Realm and pick up a new contract. Sanders’ Crossing was a pleasant place, and its people were friendly. He could always catch a train to Driscar, Nathar, or Heartdeep Warren. A few more days would not matter.

Outside his window, the snow was beginning to fall more heavily, almost blocking his view of the buildings across the way. By the next morning, the entire Realm would be covered in six to eight inches. A soft, gentle blanket for the land.

The Wayfinder closed his eyes, relaxing back into his bed. Somewhere below, in the lobby of the guild station, a single drunken voice began to sing.