threw themselves into it.
“What are they doing?” Eryl gasped. He was calling fire too, impressing Tarn, but his hands were shaking.
“They’re dead,” Tarn said flatly. This never got easier. “They can’t reason or weigh up dangers. All they are now is a desire to live again, and so they are drawn by our life force. They hunger for us.”
The dead continued to hurl themselves into the fire, and Tarn kept his sword out in case any of them broke through. The sword alone reassured him; it had been forged to fight this battle, and the sigils etched into the blade were glowing brightly, ready to strike down the work of the Shadow.
He couldn’t see what was happening beyond his ring of flame, but when one fell through the flames with a burning arrow in its back, he sighed in relief and brought his blade down to slice off its head. He hurled the rotting head back out, hoping the reinforcements would understand the message.
The next one came through with an arrow through its brainpan.
It was over quickly then, and when the dead stopped coming, he drew the flames back into himself wearily. His human body was not made to channel such powers, not in the midst of battle.
The dead lay smoldering in a ring around them, piled high. Some were still jerking, though their heads were crushed.
Ia was on the other side of the pile, her face grim. When she saw him, her shoulders sagged in relief, but she only said, “You’re lucky I know my history.”
“Very lucky,” Tarn agreed. “Is there a chirurgeon with you?”
“Tal. Who’s down?”
“Ellia. Landed hard. The rest of us are standing.” He didn’t tell her that was a miracle with inexperienced fighters. Even he’d fumbled, taken by surprise by a horror he had thought long vanquished.
One bellow brought Tal, their apothecary, at a run, and then Ia turned back to Tarn and admitted, “I thought we’d already lost her. I saw what they did to her horse.”
Tarn nodded shortly. He could well imagine. “She loved that beast.”
“Silly, spirited thing,” Ia said, but her tone was regretful. “Is there anything more we need to do here to give these folks peace?”
“A pyre. Give me two or three people with strong stomachs, and we’ll do it quick. Send someone with an ax to check under the rest of the wagons, in case there were any already missing limbs.”
Ia shuddered but rode away to round up a couple of the older guards. She sent them to help Tarn, and they set to the grim search in silence, piling up the cold but still shuddering bodies beside the road. By the time they lit the pyre, it was shoulder-high.
When Tarn got back to the main caravan, smeared in soot, he was furious. Everything he had been able to discern about the dead traders told him that they had been experienced desert travelers. They would have been part of his new hoard, but they had died before he could ever spread his wings over them in protection. He had once roused up the whole of humankind, and every sympathetic spirit, to fight against this very horror. Had it all been for nothing?
He went straight to the chirurgeon’s wagon, but Ellia was still unconscious. Jancis was kneeling beside her, and she looked up as he leaned in, her dark eyes wide and wet.
“How bad?” Tarn asked, his heart growing cold. He would never grow used to losing his friends, no matter how many millennia he lived.
“Broken ribs and a concussion,” Jancis said and rubbed at her eyes. “Tal s-says we won’t know until she w-wakes….”
He could do nothing but put his arms around her and pat her back when she cried. He had never known anything of medicine. He could be a friend, though, so he kissed the top of her head and murmured, “Be brave for her, my treasure. Be brave.”
They drew the wagons into a tight circle before evening, setting torches in an outer ring to guard their backs. It was a flimsy hope, Tarn could have told them, but he remembered the importance of morale and stayed his
“What are they doing?” Eryl gasped. He was calling fire too, impressing Tarn, but his hands were shaking.
“They’re dead,” Tarn said flatly. This never got easier. “They can’t reason or weigh up dangers. All they are now is a desire to live again, and so they are drawn by our life force. They hunger for us.”
The dead continued to hurl themselves into the fire, and Tarn kept his sword out in case any of them broke through. The sword alone reassured him; it had been forged to fight this battle, and the sigils etched into the blade were glowing brightly, ready to strike down the work of the Shadow.
He couldn’t see what was happening beyond his ring of flame, but when one fell through the flames with a burning arrow in its back, he sighed in relief and brought his blade down to slice off its head. He hurled the rotting head back out, hoping the reinforcements would understand the message.
The next one came through with an arrow through its brainpan.
It was over quickly then, and when the dead stopped coming, he drew the flames back into himself wearily. His human body was not made to channel such powers, not in the midst of battle.
The dead lay smoldering in a ring around them, piled high. Some were still jerking, though their heads were crushed.
Ia was on the other side of the pile, her face grim. When she saw him, her shoulders sagged in relief, but she only said, “You’re lucky I know my history.”
“Very lucky,” Tarn agreed. “Is there a chirurgeon with you?”
“Tal. Who’s down?”
“Ellia. Landed hard. The rest of us are standing.” He didn’t tell her that was a miracle with inexperienced fighters. Even he’d fumbled, taken by surprise by a horror he had thought long vanquished.
One bellow brought Tal, their apothecary, at a run, and then Ia turned back to Tarn and admitted, “I thought we’d already lost her. I saw what they did to her horse.”
Tarn nodded shortly. He could well imagine. “She loved that beast.”
“Silly, spirited thing,” Ia said, but her tone was regretful. “Is there anything more we need to do here to give these folks peace?”
“A pyre. Give me two or three people with strong stomachs, and we’ll do it quick. Send someone with an ax to check under the rest of the wagons, in case there were any already missing limbs.”
Ia shuddered but rode away to round up a couple of the older guards. She sent them to help Tarn, and they set to the grim search in silence, piling up the cold but still shuddering bodies beside the road. By the time they lit the pyre, it was shoulder-high.
When Tarn got back to the main caravan, smeared in soot, he was furious. Everything he had been able to discern about the dead traders told him that they had been experienced desert travelers. They would have been part of his new hoard, but they had died before he could ever spread his wings over them in protection. He had once roused up the whole of humankind, and every sympathetic spirit, to fight against this very horror. Had it all been for nothing?
He went straight to the chirurgeon’s wagon, but Ellia was still unconscious. Jancis was kneeling beside her, and she looked up as he leaned in, her dark eyes wide and wet.
“How bad?” Tarn asked, his heart growing cold. He would never grow used to losing his friends, no matter how many millennia he lived.
“Broken ribs and a concussion,” Jancis said and rubbed at her eyes. “Tal s-says we won’t know until she w-wakes….”
He could do nothing but put his arms around her and pat her back when she cried. He had never known anything of medicine. He could be a friend, though, so he kissed the top of her head and murmured, “Be brave for her, my treasure. Be brave.”
They drew the wagons into a tight circle before evening, setting torches in an outer ring to guard their backs. It was a flimsy hope, Tarn could have told them, but he remembered the importance of morale and stayed his
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