Cries of panic sounded from the left flank.

  “They are too many! We have to fall back!”

  “Yes! To the vault, we’ll be safer there!”

  “No!” A’stoc slammed the Staff against the ground. Green fire engulfed the wood. “There is no safety belowground. The necromancer commands power enough to collapse the tunnels around us.”

  Indecision rippled through Jarl’s men. Nothing in their short service had prepared them for the dread foe before them.

  “HOLD YOUR POSITIONS.” Dacius’ voice thundered through the confusion. “THE FEAR YOU FEEL IS THE ENEMY’S WEAPON. DO NOT SURRENDER TO IT. REMEMBER YOUR CAUSE.”

  The men steadied, discipline and courage rising to fight back the terror.

  Six flashes of blue light arced through the sky. They fell among the skeletons. Two missed their mark, and three more passed harmlessly through cloth and hollow ribs. The sixth shaft landed solidly in the ball of a shoulder. Blue flames flared from the wound. The skeleton’s arm and part of its chest were reduced to cinders.

  The Ill-creature staggered sideways for an instant, then resumed its march.

  “Hold your fire!” Drup shouted. “Save your shafts for more rewarding targets!”

  The skeletons shambled up the hill. Already, they were past the outer battlements.

  “WIZARDS, READY.”

  The Ill-creatures reached the colorful Legion tents.

  They attacked the canvas as if it were a living foe, ripping it savagely into scraps.

  “NOW.”

  Earthpower blazed forth in a flaming shaft. A’stoc swept the blast through the center of the attacking line. An arc of skeletons five deep and twenty abreast burst into flame like dry twigs in a campfire.

  An explosion of red flame demolished a half dozen of the creatures on the right flank as A’valman brought the mandril to bear.

  A’rullen’s magic was less visually spectacular. He simply pointed with his cane. Wherever he pointed, a skeleton collapsed into a pile of loose bones.

  The barrage of magic continued. A score fell before A’rullen’s spells, then a score more. Blasts of green and red fire tore wide swaths through the enemy, littering the field with ash and charred bone.

  The skeletons came on, uncaring. Why should the dead be concerned about death? The hillside crunched beneath their feet as they marched over the bones of the fallen. Their eyes held no fear, no rage, no pity.

  Chentelle looked into those eyes and saw the future, Sulmar’s future. These men were enemies of the Dark One once, and now they danced helplessly on the strings of his minion. And what awaited Sulmar was even worse. These bodies were just empty shells. If her liegeman died while bearing the curse, his soul would be corrupted. “Sulmar, I want you to stay by my side.”

  His eyes widened in surprise. “But, mistress—”

  “That’s an order! I want you here.”

  “Yes, mistress.” His face set in a hard mask, and he turned to watch the battle.

  The skeletons had penetrated to the inner battlement. A’stoc still denied them the center, but by sheer numbers they had pressed through on the flanks. They hit the wall in waves, driving the defenders backward.

  The Legionnaires fought bravely. Glowing swords sliced the night with ribbons of light and destruction. A hundred skeletons fell on each flank before the first scrambled over the wall, but come over they did. The lines bowed dangerously inward.

  “SULMAR, SUPPORT THE RIGHT.”

  The Tengarian turned to Chentelle, eyes hard, muscles tensed for action.

  She looked down, unable to face his stare. Her hands trembled uncontrollably and she felt ill, but she kept silent.

  Dacius crashed into the skeletons on the left flank. He waded through their ranks, rallying the Legionnaires to his side. Not claw nor sword nor ancient spear could pierce his glowing armor. His shield turned every strike. His helm resisted every blow. And his vorpal blade carved a tireless pocket of destruction.

  Ill-creatures swarmed around him, trying to overwhelm him with their mass.

  A’rullen stepped forward and tapped a skeleton with his cane. Lightning erupted from the wood, shattering the creature. Then it jumped to another, and another. Then lightning chained through a score of Ill-creatures, leaving fractured bones in its wake.

  Jarl rallied his men into the opening. They fought their way to Dacius’ side, and together they drove the skeletons back to the wall. Two Legionnaires lay dead among the bones, but they had repelled the assault. And the ranks of the enemy were thinning.

  The right flank was not faring so well. Kruzel’s men had been forced back from the wall. They gave ground slowly, struggling to maintain the integrity of their line.

  A’valman anchored the pivot. He stood beside A’stoc and rained fire upon the Ill-creatures. But there were hundreds of skeletons, and he dared not strike too close to the Legionnaires.

  Kruzel was a marvel of harnessed rage. Bonesplitter howled through the air, decimating its foes with shaft and blade. He held the far end of the pivot, preventing the skeletons from turning the flank.

  But the Legionnaires’ line was stretched thin. A man dropped, his back exposed an instant too long and his comrade a step too far away. The second man fell an instant later as skeletons surged through the gap. Before the Legionnaires realized their peril, two more men had died.

  Their screams rang like an accusation in Chentelle’s ears.

  “FEN, PLUG THAT HOLE!”

  The dwarves ran forward, voices raised in a wordless chant. Their feet fell in perfect unison, and four ranks of long spears snapped forward as one. They hit the breech like a juggernaut, crashing through the line of skeletons without slowing. The shieldmen drove forward, pressing against the mass of Ill-creatures. The rear ranks skewered the enemy with a mass of glowing steel points.

  The dwarven phalanx drove the skeletons from the breach, then continued to press forward. But they were too successful. They gained ground faster than the Legionnaires could support them. They found themselves isolated, surrounded by enemies on three sides. They struggled to realign their long spears.

  Kruzel fought like a madman. Heedless of risk, he pressed through the melee, fighting to the dwarves’ side. His men struggled to stay with him.

  A dwarf died, his throat opened by a skeletal goblin’s claw. The others dropped their spears and fought with their heavy vorpal knives.

  Two of Kruzel’s men reached his side. Together they solidified the dwarves’ right.

  But the outcome was still in doubt. The skeletons pressed the dwarves’ left, trying to drive between them and the Legionnaires. Another dwarf fell.

  Then Dacius arrived, charging from the now secure left flank. He slammed one skeleton at a full run, crushing its skull with his shield. His blade severed another through the waist. A curved blade glanced harmlessly off his shoulder, and he dispatched its owner with his backswing. He drove into the center of the attackers. A dozen blows rang against his armor without effect, and his sword answered with sweeping arcs of blue destruction.

  The skeletons concentrated their attacks on the human lord, leeching strength from their forward thrust.

  Kruzel and the dwarves took advantage of the break to solidify their lines and organize a coordinated counterthrust. In minutes, they had succeeded in pressing the enemy back to the battlements.

  A’stoc held the center by himself. Surrounded by an unassailable inferno of Earthpower, he stood against the horde of Ill-creatures. Hundreds vanished under his storm, and still they kept coming. He decimated thousands, and they kept coming. The power raged around him. He waved his arm, and three score of the creatures exploded in green flame. He swung the Staff, and a cyclone of fire swept a hundred more into oblivion.

  The skeletons, answering to some hidden call, abruptly abandoned the center, committing all of their numbers to the flanks.

  A’stoc let more power flow into his storm. Roaring walls of flame sprang up behind the Ill-creatures. The flames swept forward, crushing the skeletons between the defensive line and certain destruction. The air crackled with the sound of exploding bones.

  Chentelle felt a twinge of panic. The wizard’s face twisted with strain, but was it from the effort of summoning the power or the effort of keeping it in check? If he lost control…

  The wall of flame surged toward the battlements, consigning hundreds of Ill-creatures to oblivion. Then they stopped, again answering to the hidden command, and tried to re-form their line. But the power of the Staff caught them, and they soon flickered into nothingness.

  Roaring in triumph, the Legionnaires drove forward and quickly dispatched the few remaining skeletons.

  “WELL DONE, WELL FOUGHT. BUT HOLD YOUR POSITIONS; THE BATTLE IS NOT DONE. RESERVES, GATHER THE FALLEN AND RETURN TO THE DWARVEN WALL.”

  The rush of elation faded. Soberly, the Legionnaires returned to the walls.

  The dwarves ferried bodies with solid efficiency, laying them neatly in one corner of the fortification. Two of their fellows and six Legionnaires joined the line.

  To Chentelle, it seemed each pair of lifeless eyes stared straight at her.

  Suddenly, a chain of dark force ripped through the orb-lights. One after another, the adartak stones exploded into sparkling fragments. The shrapnel glittered on the hill like a thousand twinkling stars, then they faded into darkness.

  A’rullen shouted a spell and touched his cane to a nearby crystal. Gold radiance shot forth to combat the Ill-Lore. The two chains twisted about each other and flashed into nothingness. Orb-light still glowed within the perimeter, but the hillside was now swallowed by night.

  “LIGHT THE OUTER FIRES.”

  Flames leaped along oil-soaked lines of timber, driving the darkness farther down the hill.

  Hollow laughter dropped from the sky. A flash of lightning seared the air. For an instant they caught a glimpse of the enemy. Companies of vikhors gathered at the foot of the hill. Shadow knights ranged behind them, scurrying back and forth on segmented legs. In the rear, a half-dozen demonspawn towered above them all, iron staves clutched in their claws.

  That army remained motionless at the bottom of the hill, but already the second wave was moving into the firelight: more skeletons. There were many fewer than in the first wave, but these were not the remains of goblins or elves. Giants marched toward them, and misshapen trolls like the ones below. Twice the height of any human, the huge skeletons wielded great hammers larger and heavier than any man. Some carried chunks of stone that they had ripped from the outer walls.

  But most terrible of all were the four smaller figures that led the assault. No skeletons were these, but fresh bodies clothed in flesh not two days cold—bodies clothed in the black and tan of Tel Adartak’s Legion companies. The necromancer had raised the bodies of their fellows against them.

  Stunned silence gripped the Legion ranks as the horror of what they faced became clear. Then a single arrow flashed through the distance. It struck one of the Legion corpses in the center of its stomach. Blue radiance surrounded the shaft as the zombie flesh disintegrated.

  The corpse never broke step. It marched toward them, the bones of its spine and ribs glistening in the flickering light.

  Rocks filled the air, propelled by arms that had long since lost flesh and sinew. Legionnaires ducked for cover as the stones crashed into the fortifications. Walls shook with the impact, and an archer dropped to the ground near Chentelle’s feet. His skull and chest were crushed beyond recognition.

  “No!” Terror and rage whirled through Chentelle’s heart. So many deaths, so many graves, and even that was not the end. The necromancer would defile everything. She ran forward, letting the Gift swell within her. She didn’t care how much it hurt. She had to do something.

  “Chentelle! Stay back!”

  She ignored A’stoc’s call. Agony burned through her. She had to release it. She crashed into something hard—the battlement. Grimacing in pain, she scrambled over the low wall and dropped to her knees in the dust and bones beyond. Death surrounded her, reaching through her Gift with icy fingers. She threw back her head and screamed.

  Death! Her voice ripped through the air, filled with the power of her Gift. She didn’t sing; she wailed. The anguish of this dead land poured through her, and she shaped it into a keen of mourning. Her cry rang through the animated bodies, filling them with echoes of dry bones and cold graves.

  The skeletons were the first to fall. The hand of death had been long upon them, and the memory returned quickly. The Legionnaires’ bodies crept onward, clinging desperately to their last vestige of life. But Chentelle’s lamentation would not be denied. It pierced the shield of Ill-Lore that drove them. One by one, the bodies fell. The field was empty.

  Chentelle let her howl fade. She had released much, but the torment of the Desecration was endless. The world spun in a haze of anguish, and she was cold, very cold. She lay down on the cushion of bones and curled into a ball.

  A high-pitched whine filled the air. She knew that sound—shadow knights, calling to their vikhors. A chorus of roars and yelps followed. They were coming.

  Strong arms lifted her from the ground. Immediately, the pain receded. “Mistress, we must move.”

  Sulmar carried her back inside the dwarven wall. The instant he set her down, the agony returned.

  “Oooh!” She swooned against the wall. Sulmar reached forward to help her, but she held him away. Her mouth trembled uncontrollably, but she made herself speak. “No. Go on, Sulmar. Fight, die, do whatever you must. I’ll be fine.”

  Indecision showed on the Tengarian’s face. The roar of combat filled the air, but he hesitated, searching her face. Then he spun and ran toward the walls, his vorpal sword shining like a steel sun.

  Chentelle forced herself to stay upright until he was out of sight, then she slumped to the ground. It would be so easy to shut the pain away, to suppress the Gift again. But that was like denying a part of her soul. She couldn’t do that again. Already, too many good creatures had paid the price for her cowardice. Sulmar was right, she had to find the strength in who she was.

  She opened herself to the Gift, letting the pain wash through her. She was dimly aware of the battle: screams of rage and pain, magic thundering in the night, the ground trembling beneath her. But these things faded into a haze. The Desecration filled her world.

  The gray agony was endless. It extended to the core of the world. The Creation was shattered; no life remained. No, that was wrong! The dwarven wall pulsed steadily at her back, giving warmth to push back the chill of the land. There is life, our life.

  She grabbed onto the revelation, fixing it in her heart. The cold gray of the Desecration was endless, but not hopeless. As long as life remained, hope remained. Slowly, the pain dissipated. She still felt the torment of the land, but it no longer consumed her.

  She climbed to her feet, searching the battlefield for Sulmar.

  Vikhors snarled through at the perimeter. The inner battlements had been overrun, and the retreating lines were in danger of collapse.

  The center was dominated by an inferno of Earthpower and Ill-Lore. Four demonspawn were arrayed against A’stoc, their iron staves joined together to counter the power of the Thunderwood. The wizard’s green flames were slowly gaining ascendancy, but he could offer no help to the flanks.

  A’rullen and another demonspawn dueled on the left, but the old wizard was obviously overmatched. He did not attack. All of his energy went into maintaining a shield, but even that was failing. The demonspawn’s magic ripped into his wards, creeping ever closer to the exhausted mage.

  Vikhors and shadow knights harried the retreating Legionnaires. Without magical support, the line could not hold. Only steady fire from the archers kept it from becoming a rout.

  “FOR LEGION!” Dacius waded into the mass of attackers. He cut the legs from under a shadow knight and severed the creature’s head as it fell. His armor glowed like a beacon in the chaos as he strove to rally the line.

  He leaped forward, sword sweeping in a great arc. Two vikhors flashed into oblivion.

  Another Tenebrite rose before him, and he took its blade on his shield. His own counter found only air as the monster danced backward on insect legs.

  A vikhor crashed into his flank. His shield blocked the creature’s fangs, but a long claw raked his leg. He staggered to one knee, then pivoted and thrust upward. The vorpal blade drove through the vikhor’s chest, and the Ill-creature vanished with an earsplitting howl.

  A glowing red blade sliced through the air. It struck Dacius in the back, driving him face first to the ground. Vikhors swarmed over him as the shadow knight moved forward for the kill.

  A bolt of lightning shot through the melee, incinerating three of the vikhors. It caught the Tenebrite full in the chest. For an instant, the Ill-creature withstood the assault, burning with blinding intensity. Then sword and master both exploded into flames.

  A’rullen spun back to face the demonspawn, but he was too late. His protective shields collapsed as the Ill-creature took advantage of his distraction. A bolt of force splintered the cane in his hand and hurled him backward against the inner wall. He slumped to his hands and knees, unable to stand.

  The demonspawn marched forward, lightning crackling around its iron staff.

  “FOR HONOR!” Dacius pressed past a vikhor and charged the demonspawn. The Ill-creature brought its staff crashing down against his raised shield. Lightning surged around the glowing steel, then vanished. His sword radiated into brilliance, leaving a trail of blue flame as it cleaved the air in an overhand stroke.

  The demonspawn raised its staff to block the blow. The sword sliced through the iron stave without slowing and buried itself in the demonspawn’s skull. The Ill-creature fell, swallowed by blue fire.

  “FOR CREATION,” Dacius shouted, crashing back into the mass of vikhors.

  Chentelle turned to the right flank, searching the madness for signs of Sulmar.

  Kruzel’s men fought desperately against the tide of Ill-creatures. The dwarven reserves stood next to them, already committed to the battle. Together, they were managing to hold the retreat, but the line was thin. Every man who fell threatened to strain it beyond hope, and too many men were falling.