undead would do the same.
The undead paused as they plucked arrows and quarrels from their flesh, and then that awful voice rang over the castle's walls.
"Take the castle, my thralls!" thundered the voice. "Kill the defenders, and bring me the Glamdaigyr!"
Romaria grimaced. The Glamdaigyr had been forged by the high lords of Old Dracaryl, and the sword bestowed tremendous power over the undead upon its wielder. It also had the ability to suck away life force, transferring the stolen power upon its master. Mazael had taken the sword after killing Corvad, and it lay locked in a warded vault in the heart of the castle.
Whoever had the power to command the undead was already dangerous. The Glamdaigyr would make him infinitely more so.
"Kill them all!" roared the voice.
The undead raced to the base of the castle's wall.
Besides Romaria, one of the armsmen laughed. "I'd like to see those devils get through the walls."
The sigils upon their foreheads pulsed, and the undead changed.
Their flesh and armor dissolved into green mist and ghostly light, and the undead became wraiths of pale smoke. They walked to the walls, and then through the walls and the portcullis, passing through the stone and steel as if the gates were not there.
Dozens of the wraiths walked into the courtyard.
And then they shifted back into their corporeal forms, and the killing began.
###
Lucan stared at the melee in the courtyard.
He had never seen undead like that before. But Marstan had known what they were, and Marstan's memories belonged to Lucan now.
"Runedead," said Lucan, looking at the sigils of green fire upon their brows. The zuvembies and the ebony dead were bad enough, but the runedead were far more dangerous. Lucan had thought the knowledge to create them lost, destroyed in the cataclysm of dark magic that devoured Dracaryl.
Apparently, he had been wrong.
Or these runedead had survived all these centuries.
He could figure it out later. Castle Cravenlock might fall without his aid.
Lucan pushed away from the window and sprinted for the stairs.
###
The pale undead waded into the massed knights and armsmen, black swords flying. A dozen men perished in the first press. Sir Hagen bellowed commands, and the men reformed themselves into a shield wall, striking with their swords. But the black chain mail turned aside most of their blows, and even when blades struck the undead flesh, they did no damage.
Unless Mazael intervened with Lion, or Timothy or Lucan used their magic, those men were doomed.
Romaria shot a glance to the side, saw Timothy yank a copper tube from his black wizard's coat, saw him start to cast one of his battle-spells. Yet it would take time, and the undead might well have ripped their way through the men before he finished the spell.
Unless Romaria distracted them first.
She returned her weapons to their sheaths and reached within herself.
Her father had been human, and her mother Elderborn. For most of her life, the human and Elderborn halves of her soul had battled. But she had faced herself, faced the beast within, and now the two halves of her soul existed in harmony.
Romaria leapt from the rampart, her skirts billowing around her legs, and changed as she fell.
Her flesh flowed, her bones reshaping, her muscles thickening, her limbs growing longer and stronger.
When she struck the ground, she wore the form of a great black wolf with gleaming white fangs and icy blue eyes. Her senses sharpened until she smelled the sweat and terror of the men, the dusty stench of the undead, heard every scream and cry and shout.
Romaria flung herself into the fray.
She crashed into the undead, her sheer speed and power throwing them aside. Her claws and fangs could not destroy the creatures. But she could throw them to the ground, bull through them as if they were made of straw, and throw their attack into chaos.
Then green light and mist rippled behind her, and another rank of
The undead paused as they plucked arrows and quarrels from their flesh, and then that awful voice rang over the castle's walls.
"Take the castle, my thralls!" thundered the voice. "Kill the defenders, and bring me the Glamdaigyr!"
Romaria grimaced. The Glamdaigyr had been forged by the high lords of Old Dracaryl, and the sword bestowed tremendous power over the undead upon its wielder. It also had the ability to suck away life force, transferring the stolen power upon its master. Mazael had taken the sword after killing Corvad, and it lay locked in a warded vault in the heart of the castle.
Whoever had the power to command the undead was already dangerous. The Glamdaigyr would make him infinitely more so.
"Kill them all!" roared the voice.
The undead raced to the base of the castle's wall.
Besides Romaria, one of the armsmen laughed. "I'd like to see those devils get through the walls."
The sigils upon their foreheads pulsed, and the undead changed.
Their flesh and armor dissolved into green mist and ghostly light, and the undead became wraiths of pale smoke. They walked to the walls, and then through the walls and the portcullis, passing through the stone and steel as if the gates were not there.
Dozens of the wraiths walked into the courtyard.
And then they shifted back into their corporeal forms, and the killing began.
###
Lucan stared at the melee in the courtyard.
He had never seen undead like that before. But Marstan had known what they were, and Marstan's memories belonged to Lucan now.
"Runedead," said Lucan, looking at the sigils of green fire upon their brows. The zuvembies and the ebony dead were bad enough, but the runedead were far more dangerous. Lucan had thought the knowledge to create them lost, destroyed in the cataclysm of dark magic that devoured Dracaryl.
Apparently, he had been wrong.
Or these runedead had survived all these centuries.
He could figure it out later. Castle Cravenlock might fall without his aid.
Lucan pushed away from the window and sprinted for the stairs.
###
The pale undead waded into the massed knights and armsmen, black swords flying. A dozen men perished in the first press. Sir Hagen bellowed commands, and the men reformed themselves into a shield wall, striking with their swords. But the black chain mail turned aside most of their blows, and even when blades struck the undead flesh, they did no damage.
Unless Mazael intervened with Lion, or Timothy or Lucan used their magic, those men were doomed.
Romaria shot a glance to the side, saw Timothy yank a copper tube from his black wizard's coat, saw him start to cast one of his battle-spells. Yet it would take time, and the undead might well have ripped their way through the men before he finished the spell.
Unless Romaria distracted them first.
She returned her weapons to their sheaths and reached within herself.
Her father had been human, and her mother Elderborn. For most of her life, the human and Elderborn halves of her soul had battled. But she had faced herself, faced the beast within, and now the two halves of her soul existed in harmony.
Romaria leapt from the rampart, her skirts billowing around her legs, and changed as she fell.
Her flesh flowed, her bones reshaping, her muscles thickening, her limbs growing longer and stronger.
When she struck the ground, she wore the form of a great black wolf with gleaming white fangs and icy blue eyes. Her senses sharpened until she smelled the sweat and terror of the men, the dusty stench of the undead, heard every scream and cry and shout.
Romaria flung herself into the fray.
She crashed into the undead, her sheer speed and power throwing them aside. Her claws and fangs could not destroy the creatures. But she could throw them to the ground, bull through them as if they were made of straw, and throw their attack into chaos.
Then green light and mist rippled behind her, and another rank of
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