Everyone knows about the Lich on Covenant Hill. His tale is older than the town that has grown up in its shadow, more ancient even than the forest that surrounds them both. For hundreds of years he has walked the nearby beaches, searching for the bodies of shipwrecked sailors. Yet the Old One has never ventured toward the village, and nothing disturbs his silent hermitage. The land is at peace, though soft moans still whisper on the long shadows of night and the peasants of Heathwyck tell tales of ghosts and spirits that walk the ancient garrison's barren grounds.
But on recent nights, the old tales have begun to come true. Once the tales of undead were no than moans in the wind. Now, dead rise from the graves of Heathwyck, marching one by one into the night. The people of Heathwyck are frightened, and it seems that the Old One turns his eyes at last toward the town below. The peace that has existed for centuries has been broken, and peasants who stay too late in the fields are slaughtered by undead while the moon shines brightly above. More graves open, and the dead stumble toward the ancient garrison as if drawn by some unknown force - a command they cannot resist.
Something terrible whispers in the wind of Covenant Hill...