the Grim Marches.”
“The floor didn’t shake itself,” said Mazael. He strode toward the door, intending to find out what had happened.
“Do not walk away from me!” said Toraine. “I am your liege lord.”
“Not yet,” said Mazael.
A column of darkness swirled, and Molly appeared before him.
Her sword and dagger were in hand.
“Father,” she said. “You need to come, now. The earthquake opened a cave at the base of the hill. Some sort of undead came out, and they’re attacking the castle. Go!”
She disappeared in a swirl of inky blackness.
“How the hell did she do that?” said Toraine.
“She has some magical ability,” said Mazael, repeating the story they had concocted to explain Molly’s Demonsouled ability to travel through the shadows. “Not enough to join the wizard’s brotherhood, but enough to do that little…trick.”
Something trembled against his hip, and Mazael drew Lion from its scabbard.
The blade had been forged in ancient times to fight dark power, and it burned with an azure flame when confronting creatures and wielders of dark magic. Now threads of blue light glimmered in the steel, and tiny blue flames danced at the edges of the blade.
Toraine had his own sword in hand. His curved saber had been made from one of the talons of the dragon he had slain, and its black edge glittered with deadly light. “You draw steel against me?”
“Don’t be a fool,” said Mazael, voice hard. For a moment the impulse to kill Toraine was almost overpowering. But, no, not now. These undead were threatening his castle, his people.
And Romaria was out there.
“The castle is under attack,” said Mazael. “I doubt those undead will discriminate between your men and mine. If we don’t fight, we’ll be butchered.”
Toraine’s hard expression did not change, but he gave a sharp nod.
Mazael hurried from the chamber, Lion glowing brighter in his fist. Dread and eagerness stirred in him with equal intensity. What new horror had been unleashed upon his lands? Hadn’t the San-keth and the Malrags already brought enough suffering?
Yet how Mazael had yearned to fight, to slay.
Another chance had come, it seemed.
###
Romaria lifted her bow.
She had left her composite bow, a mixture of horn and yew fashioned by the skilled bowyers of the Elderborn, in her bedchamber. She cursed herself as a fool, but the short bow she had taken from one of the armsmen should serve well enough.
“Close the gate!” roared Sir Hagen, pacing before the barbican. “Close the gate, now! Don’t let those damned things in to the castle!” The armsmen hastened to obey. "Bows to the ramparts, now! Move, damn you! Move!"
The portcullis slammed down with a clang, and armsmen hastened to the walls, crossbows and short bows in hand. Romaria hoped the walls could stop the pale undead. Corvad's zuvembies had been able to scramble up stone walls, using their talons to climb...
Then the charging undead were in range, and Romaria's musings fled as her focus narrowed.
The front rank of the pale undead drew closer. Romaria saw each link of their black chain mail, the pulse and flicker of the sigils of green light upon their foreheads. The creatures had no eyes, she saw, only pits filled with swirling green flame.
She drew and released in one smooth motion, and around her the armsmen loosed their arrows and bolts. Romaria's arrow drove into a pale throat, and the undead creature staggered. The creature stopped and looked up at her, its bloodless face empty of any expression.
It reached up, yanked the arrow from its throat, and kept going.
"Damn it," muttered Romaria. Just like the zuvembies, the pale undead were immune to weapons of steel. She remembered standing atop the walls of Morsen Village, trying to hold back the waves of zuvembies boiling up the hill. Without the azure fire from Mazael's sword, the zuvembies would have killed them all.
And without Mazael's sword, it looked like these pale
“The floor didn’t shake itself,” said Mazael. He strode toward the door, intending to find out what had happened.
“Do not walk away from me!” said Toraine. “I am your liege lord.”
“Not yet,” said Mazael.
A column of darkness swirled, and Molly appeared before him.
Her sword and dagger were in hand.
“Father,” she said. “You need to come, now. The earthquake opened a cave at the base of the hill. Some sort of undead came out, and they’re attacking the castle. Go!”
She disappeared in a swirl of inky blackness.
“How the hell did she do that?” said Toraine.
“She has some magical ability,” said Mazael, repeating the story they had concocted to explain Molly’s Demonsouled ability to travel through the shadows. “Not enough to join the wizard’s brotherhood, but enough to do that little…trick.”
Something trembled against his hip, and Mazael drew Lion from its scabbard.
The blade had been forged in ancient times to fight dark power, and it burned with an azure flame when confronting creatures and wielders of dark magic. Now threads of blue light glimmered in the steel, and tiny blue flames danced at the edges of the blade.
Toraine had his own sword in hand. His curved saber had been made from one of the talons of the dragon he had slain, and its black edge glittered with deadly light. “You draw steel against me?”
“Don’t be a fool,” said Mazael, voice hard. For a moment the impulse to kill Toraine was almost overpowering. But, no, not now. These undead were threatening his castle, his people.
And Romaria was out there.
“The castle is under attack,” said Mazael. “I doubt those undead will discriminate between your men and mine. If we don’t fight, we’ll be butchered.”
Toraine’s hard expression did not change, but he gave a sharp nod.
Mazael hurried from the chamber, Lion glowing brighter in his fist. Dread and eagerness stirred in him with equal intensity. What new horror had been unleashed upon his lands? Hadn’t the San-keth and the Malrags already brought enough suffering?
Yet how Mazael had yearned to fight, to slay.
Another chance had come, it seemed.
###
Romaria lifted her bow.
She had left her composite bow, a mixture of horn and yew fashioned by the skilled bowyers of the Elderborn, in her bedchamber. She cursed herself as a fool, but the short bow she had taken from one of the armsmen should serve well enough.
“Close the gate!” roared Sir Hagen, pacing before the barbican. “Close the gate, now! Don’t let those damned things in to the castle!” The armsmen hastened to obey. "Bows to the ramparts, now! Move, damn you! Move!"
The portcullis slammed down with a clang, and armsmen hastened to the walls, crossbows and short bows in hand. Romaria hoped the walls could stop the pale undead. Corvad's zuvembies had been able to scramble up stone walls, using their talons to climb...
Then the charging undead were in range, and Romaria's musings fled as her focus narrowed.
The front rank of the pale undead drew closer. Romaria saw each link of their black chain mail, the pulse and flicker of the sigils of green light upon their foreheads. The creatures had no eyes, she saw, only pits filled with swirling green flame.
She drew and released in one smooth motion, and around her the armsmen loosed their arrows and bolts. Romaria's arrow drove into a pale throat, and the undead creature staggered. The creature stopped and looked up at her, its bloodless face empty of any expression.
It reached up, yanked the arrow from its throat, and kept going.
"Damn it," muttered Romaria. Just like the zuvembies, the pale undead were immune to weapons of steel. She remembered standing atop the walls of Morsen Village, trying to hold back the waves of zuvembies boiling up the hill. Without the azure fire from Mazael's sword, the zuvembies would have killed them all.
And without Mazael's sword, it looked like these pale
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