Dispensing with safety, Bonner banished his spell with a snap of his wrists, opening his eyes. The sudden severing of the link he’d held for more than twelve hours was reeling, and he fell on all fours to the clearing floor, but that suited him just fine. Even before his vision had stopped spinning Bonner was reaching out, two fingers tracing rapid shapes across the earth, leaving the grass smoking and charred like he’d run over the blades with a burning stick. With the practice of ten thousand repetitions the spell came into being under the dimming gaze of a slowly setting sun. Slamming a palm into the weave he activated it with a pulse of power, feeling his consciousnesssoar skyward like his soul had taken wing. The useless speaker’s charm he always kept on his person slipped from the folds of his robes, and he clutched at it with one hand for comfort. More than ever, in that moment he wished that he could yet have had the comfort of Arathia’s words through the crystal.

  All the magic in the world, after all, didn’t stop Bonner yr’Essel from knowing he would be too late.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “I recall—distinctly—the day my eyes were opened to the harsh truth of my reality. I see my father’s spilled blood in my dreams, smell the fires of my burning home in my nightmares. I thought I was aware, thought I was informed. I was ally to elves, mages, and even dragons. I was the confidant of many, and the friend of more. I thought myself awoken to the strife and hardships of my people, to the desperate needs of the gentry and the jealous desires of the nobility. Forward, always, I looked. Forward at the simple, plain realm I thought was the extent of my world. I never saw the knives that lingered behind us, those cruel, covetous blades which cut my father down before me and cleaved through the veil of blissful oblivion which had previously covered my eyes.

  I do not envy any man who might suffer a harsher awakening to the foulness that lingers in our world…”

  -Amherst Sehren al’Dyor, First Prince of Viridian, c. 350p.f.

  It took them an hour or so to reach the trail Dia had directed them towards as they’d left The Woodsman’s Rest, Ryn galloping back south along the muddy, leaf-strewn road, Declan back to holding the half-elf tight to his chest in the saddle before him. The previous day’s rain had indeed ended, and he breathed easier for it, wondering if his sanity would have withstood another stormy journey. The bright, cloudless day that had replaced yesterday’s grey gale was a welcome change, and the cool breeze that shivered through the trees around them did wonders to dry his still-damp clothes. All the same, he worried the entire time they rode in relative silence, only speaking up occasionally when Ryn queried about some detail or marker Dia had mentioned.

  After all, even when the innkeeper had gone in to dress the half-elf once more in her hunting tunic, she hadn't stirred…

  Finding the head, they turned due east, Ryn taking the uneven path through the undergrowth faster than any horse aught, and before long they were cantering across the denser parts of the woods, deeper and deeper into the maples and pines and oaks. The forest rapidly thickened around them, the sounds of the wind and birds and larger animals crashing through the bushes settling over everything. The humidity of the long-gone rain clung to the air, but an early front of fall chill had overcome the late-summer heat, balancing the staggered beat of the sun through the leaves overhead. It was a pleasant morning, to say the least, and any traveler would have been in his right mind to slow his mount and breathe in the wonder of the verdant, rolling undergrowth around him.

  Declan, instead, couldn’t help but glance down every few minutes or so, taking in the smooth, slack face of the woman whose name he hadn't even been able to catch during their morning’s brief altercation.

  You should worry less.

  Declan looked up at Ryn’s words. The horse was still moving at a brisk pace, sleek head forward, but all the same he seemed to have sensed his rider’s trepidation.

  Indeed, even without looking back, he kept on.

  She woke up once. That’s a good sign. At the very least we can assume she’ll survive long enough for us to find the hermit.

  “You’re awfully confident,” Declan said with a doubtful snort. “I’m still not convinced this old man exists, much less can meet the expectations Brohn was hawking. And where do you get off telling me not to worry?” He eyed the back of Ryn’s mane with a raised brow. “Don’t think I buy for a minute that you weren’t as concerned as me the whole ride yesterday? You checked on her so many times I thought you were going to lame yourself.”

  That was before she demonstrated enough vitality to threaten your life, the horse answered, finally looking back with a teasing gleam in his gilded gaze. With your own blade, I might add.

  Declan grunted, still none-too-pleased with the morning’s events. “It’ll teach me to sleep with a knife under my pillow…” he muttered, half to himself.

  It should teach you not to leave your weapons laying around for anyone to pick up, Ryn retorted, looking ahead again. I thought I’d taught you better than that.

  Declan snorted this argument away. “I hadn't slept in a full day, I’d barely eaten, and I thought this one—” he jostled the half-elf lightly to make his point “—had one foot in the grave. I wasn’t exactly expecting an ambush.”

  Despite his pace, Declan could have sworn Ryn shrugged. Expect the worst, and you’ll be prepared for any situation.

  “I’m starting to feel thirteen again,” Declan grumbled, using his free hand to brush aside the low bough of an oak tree that would have caught him in the head. “Back when you had me swinging at branches with a stick and yelling at me to stand up taller and move my feet more.”

  I never yelled at you, Ryn said indignantly, taking a dipping bend in the path before splashing across a narrow stream. Cassandra, on the other hand…

  Declan winced internally, imagining what his former mentor and superior would have said if she found out he’d allowed himself to be caught with his pants down. The Iron Wind emblem on his chest itched suddenly, and he had to consciously keep himself from scratching at it.

  “It’s a good thing you don’t talk to anyone but me,” he said dryly. “Otherwise I might have had to sell you to a glue maker to ensure this is never spoken of again.”

  He heard Ryn’s light laugh echo in the back of his mind, and he smiled, relaxing ever so slightly.

  They spent the remainder of the morning riding in comfortable conversation, making up for the silence they’d been forced to hold in the lashing storm of the previous day. As the sun crested its peak in the clear sky, they stopped for a quick rest along the edge of a small, nameless lake, breaking just long enough for the pair of them to grab a drink, lunch on several handfuls of nuts and berries Ryn scoured out nearby, and for Declan to try and trickle a little water between the half-elf’s dry lips. Succeeding only in making her choke and cough, he gave up quickly and called for a return to the trail, heading further into the woods.

  As the afternoon came and went, the sunlight sweeping through the shifting branches above starting to dim, Declan’s skepticism began to bloom in full. With no better plan, he’d been willing to follow the trail as Dia instructed, but with night fast approaching he couldn’t help but begin to wonder how in the Mother’s name they were supposed to find the old recluse, much less how he might find them. He considered saying so aloud, but Ryn was very clearly unperturbed by the lengthening shadows twisting and crossing over the path before them. The horse drove forward with an almost-irritating confidence while the forest shifted from bright green to somber orange in the early setting of the sun. As the sun began to slip behind the canopy to the west, Declan studied the land around them, half-hoping that some wizened form might come hobbling out from between the gnarled trunks, beckoning them mysteriously to follow as it leaned heavily on a gnarled walking stick. It was a stupid expectation, he knew, but all the same he couldn’t stop himself from starting to see outlines forming beneath the low-hanging branches, his mind twisting them into being from the descending darkness. He sighed audibly, giving up as they started to run out of daylight, and was about to turn towards Ryn, thinking to suggest that they start searching for a campsite for the night.

  As he did so, a passing shape caught the corner of his eye, and Declan stiffened as they rode on.

  Beneath him, Ryn must have felt the sudden change in his body language, because he looked around in concern. What is it? the horse asked, slowing down ever so slightly.

  “I’m not sure,” Declan answered cautiously, his eyes behind them, back in the direction he’d thought he’d seen the figure. This far in the woods it wasn’t uncommon to run across wolves or deer or even bears, but the outline he’d caught distinctly belonged to none of those animals.

  Still, it could have been anything. Maybe a twisted sapling or a—

  Declan cursed. A second form flit by, half-hidden between the darkening trees, but this time he was sure he’d caught a glimpse of it.

  “Is there anyone around us?” he asked over the clomp of the horse’s hooves. In answer, Ryn reduced his pace even further, dropping from a quick trot to a walk, then finally to a stop. His head didn’t move, his eyes fixed on the ground before him, and Declan knew he was focusing, reaching out to feel the world around them. In the absence of the hoofbeats the stillness of the evening took over, eerie in its silence.

  Its silence…?

  “It’s quiet,” Declan said under his breath, making Ryn’s ears twitch. “Why is it so quiet?” Instinctively he shifted his hips, making sure the hilt of his sword was free of the woman’s hanging arms.

  Beneath him, it was Ryn’s turn to tense, and the horse nodded slowly even as he peered around into the trees. Agreed. But there’s nothing there…

  For nearly a minute they waited like that, Ryn continuing to scan the woods around them, Declan still looking back, in the direction they’d come. Together they listened, taking in the frightening absence of woodland noise as the sun continued to fail.

  Nothing. Just like Ryn had said.

  “Maybe I’m still tired,” Declan finally grumbled, feeling the tautness leave him as he took a breath. “Sorry.” He turned to Ryn with an apologetic look. “Light must be playing tricks on—”

  Declan. Draw your sword.

  The way Ryn gave the order eliminated all inclination to hesitate. Dropping the reins, Declan reached around the women between his legs and drew the blade with a quick tug, wincing as the scrape of steel against cork and wood cut like a bell-toll across the quiet.

  “What is it?” he asked in a low voice once the weapon was free. “I thought you said there was noth—?”

  A noise from behind them, in the direction he’d thought he’d seen the forms, made him stop. A shuffling, scraping sound, like that of feet being dragged through brush and leaves.

  Declan whirled as best he could with the half-elf against his chest, sword held high. Through the deepening red and yellow of dusk he peered, studying the woods as the top of the blade trailed from trunk to trunk before him. At first, yet again, only the empty silence answered his steady eyes. Nothing moved except the leaves in the wind, kicking up and tugging at his long hair. All the same, the sound kept on, growing ever closer, and Declan finally settled on a narrow space between the bare bodies of two pines, some dozen feet away.

  Then the creature dragged itself into view, and Declan recoiled in horror.

  Out of the woods stepped a woman, or what little was left of a woman. The thing was skeletal in appearance, the sharp angles of its frame outlined in old rags, clothing that had rotted and torn away in slivers with time. What skin and flesh remained clung to the body like a putrid sheet, drawn and tight over its form, colorless and decaying. Yellowed bone could be seen clearly where insects and animals had torn into the thing, and its horrible face gaped in what could only be described as a soundless scream, jaw half-hanging from its head, dead sockets filled with translucent, milky eyes.

  A walking corpse.

  Ghoul! Ryn snarled in a very un-horse-like fashion, half-rearing to turn about on the thing. Whatever you do, don’t let it get ahold of you!

  Declan barely heard him. He was staring, open-mouthed, at the shambling, dead woman, his mind unable to comprehend what he was seeing. The cadaver moved towards them with hunched, stumbling steps, like it only possessed the faintest concepts of how to use its limbs. Its gaze was empty, transfixed on the pair of them, utterly ignoring the uneven ground even as it approached. It walked on legs that were mostly bone, feet dragging along the ground with every step it took. As it inched closer, flashes—like someone else’s memories—dashed across Declan’s mind, filling his head with glimpses of scenes he didn’t comprehend. Snowy fields choked with corpses. The bodies of his enemies rising to turn on their former comrades. Iron-cold hands reaching out to—

  DECLAN! BEHIND US! ON OUR REAR!

  Ryn’s mental bellow ripped Declan back into reality. The warning gave him just enough time to turn and block the clumsy blow of a rusted broadsword from a second undead man, one that had come fumbling out of the woods at their back. Their weapons met with a clang of metal on metal, and Declan turned the strike aside with surprising difficulty, the corpse’s swing carrying a strength he wouldn’t have imagined possible. A grinding thrust, and he locked hilts with the tarnished weapon, finding himself staring into another pair of opaque eyes, his stomach roiling as the stench of the creature filled his mouth and nose. Forcing himself into the moment, Declan ripped the sword out of the creature’s hand with a practiced twist, sending it spinning into the trees. Before he even heard the blade hit the ground, he reversed his swing to bring his own weapon about in a horizontal slash from above, aiming at the thing’s neck, putting as much force in the strike as he could, given his awkward positioning. He felt wet flesh give and the remnants of old bone shatter, and he shouted in victory as the steel made a clean blow of it, cleaving the head right from the cadaver’s skeletal shoulders.

  An instant later, the shout died in his throat.

  The undead man still stood, unfazed by its sudden decapitation, and began to reach for him with claw-like fingers, the skin having rotted away long ago to leave nothing but pale tendons clinging at its stained bones. With a grunt Declan sheared off both hands with another blow and kicked out, landing a boot in the thing’s ribs and knocking it to the ground.

  Strike at the chest! Ryn’s urging rang through his head, and he felt the horse sidestepping as he attempted to get away from a third corpse that had appeared off the trail just east of them, cutting off any easy escape. At the chest, Declan!

  With no better advice to go by, Declan brought his sword around reflexively, ramming the better half of the steel’s length through the breast of the first corpse, which had finally reached them. The undead woman’s head jerked back when the blade impaled her, and she reached up, clutching at the weapon with dead hands. An unearthly wail echoed through the trees, tearing at the relative silence of the implausible fight. Looking down at the sword, Declan yelped in alarm, nearly releasing the hilt as blue-black flames licked out of the undead’s pierced flesh, trailing along the weapon’s edge. Wrenching it free of the splintering bone, he watched in horrified fascination as the creature tumbled to her knees, clawing at her chest and the hole from which the inky fire was rapidly rising. The ghostly scream held, rending the air, then pitched. As it did, the cadaver erupted into a dark inferno, collapsing to the ground to thrash violently while the flames consumed it.

  In a handful of seconds, all that was left of the corpse was an uneven, charred patch in the moss and grass of the forest floor.

  By now, though, the shock of the moment had been replaced in Declan’s heart by a cold need to survive, and his eyes didn’t linger on the blackened stain. Turning back to the front, he faced the third corpse. The creature was shuffling steadily closer, empty hands held out, clawing at the air. Letting go of the woman for a moment, Declan grasped the reins with his left hand, sword still clutched in his right, and gave his knees a signaling squeeze. Immediately Ryn reared back onto his hind legs, kicking out at the undead. Though his view was now blocked, Declan heard the distinctly hollow thumps of hooves striking rotten flesh, making out a decayed head flying off into the woods, white hair whipping about it. A heavier thud told him that the creature had fallen to the ground, but before it had a chance to get up Ryn came down hard, driving both front legs through its fragile ribcage. The mournful wail came again, and the stallion leapt nimbly aside as flames bloomed out of where the corpse’s heart might have been, devouring it from the inside out.

  Not bothering to wait, Declan brought Ryn around to face the last creature, the one he had already partially dealt with. The headless undead was struggling to rise now, pushing itself up with the rotting stumps he had left it for hands. When it found its feet, it immediately shambled around and began staggering towards them once again.

  This time, neither Declan nor Ryn were willing to grant it the opportunity to threaten them again.

  Not a word had to be shared between the companions as Declan squeezed his knees again. More than a decade on the road together proved itself when Ryn launched forward at a full gallop, trusting the rest to the man on his back. Declan’s blade flashed downward in a sweeping arc when they thundered past the corpse, hewing its body half-in-two as it ripped all the way through, splitting the stained fabric of its clothes and brittle bones beneath with ease. The flash of blue-black flames lit up the darkening forest once more, and Declan flicked his blade clean of the greyish blood splattered across the steel while Ryn cantered to a stop some thirty feet up the path. Together they turned to watch the creature thrashing about on the ground as the flames consumed it.

  When the vile scream had finally echoed itself into nothingness, Declan turned his attention on his friend.

  “Ryn,” he managed to get out through heavy breaths, “what in the MOTHER’S BLOODY NAME WAS THAT?!”