(Go back to Part 32)

Chapter 16

“There is only one Cure,

And it is I.

The flame burns my heart.

What delicious madness this is!”

–The Lexicon, Verses of Fire and Death, 72:1

–

Spiders. Spiders everywhere.

Alex could feel them. Tiny legs, feather-light all over her body. They skittered across her eyelids, danced in her belly button, and snaked between her toes. They were under her toenails, climbing into her nose—they were suffocating her!

She had to move, had to shake them off somehow . . . but she couldn’t. She was pinned down, anchored by a flaming brand stuck through her left hand. White hot steel pierced her palm—the pain! The pain was too great. She tried to whimper, but nothing came out.

Something was on her mouth. Something was trying to pry her jaw open. She couldn’t fight it, couldn’t move, anything. She didn’t want the spiders to come in! Not her mouth!

“Alex!”

A voice.

“Alex! I need you to relax!”

Relax? Silly. With this pain in her hand?

“Don’t fight me, Alex! Trust me!”

The voice forced her jaw open. The terror swept up like a dark wave, threatening to engulf her, but instead of spiders a bitter liquid filled her mouth. She swallowed some.

The world receded again. She fell into darkness . . . down . . .

–

Drifting, confused shapes. A riot of sound in her head.

“Quiet!” yelled Alex. She could barely hear herself think.

The pain struck like a thunderbolt, pinning her to the ground. The dark swam up again to engulf her.

“No!” said Alex. “I will stay here!”

The darkness pulled back. In its place came strange images.

Baron Sinclair stood at the edge of the pool, wrapped in horned tentacles. They tore and tore but could not pull him down. He stared, terrified, at Alex.

Headmaster Barrius was drilling them in Goodhollow’s keep. Alex tried and tried but could not pick up her sword. She had to catch up, had to—

McCann was in front of her. His back was freshly flayed, flesh hanging in long strips behind him and dripping blood. He spoke with Sinclair’s voice. “They’re just leverage. The zombii . . . just leverage. Zombii . . . leverage . . .”

A million huge bugs were flying at her. She raised her sword, but spiders swarmed from the hilt, covering her, biting her. She screamed as they ate the flesh off of her skull until nothing was left but bone. The bugs flew closer—she could feel the beat of their wings, the rasp of pincers as they landed on her bare skull. Twin multifaceted eyes stared into hers—a triple jaw unfolded, stretching toward her mouth . . .

She was eating in the hall with Dalia. Her friend laughed at something; Alex reached out to touch her. The moment her left hand touched Dalia—

The pain blasted through her palm. This time the darkness was too strong, and she fell again . . .

–

It was daytime when Alex woke. She was on her back, with rough timbers underneath and a crude tarp overhead.

Her hand hurt. A lot.

But she was thirsty, too. “Sergeant,” she tried to say, but the only noise that came out was a dry rasp.

A dark shape appeared over her. “Ah, she lives.”

“Water . . . please,” croaked Alex. She blinked to try and clear her vision.

“One moment.” A leather drinking skin was pushed to her lips. Alex drained it.

“Is there any more?” Her voice was clearer.

“Soon. I’m boiling more.”

Alex nodded. She could see McCann clearly now, crouched over her. “How long was I out?”

“A week.”

“A week?!?”

“You passed out when I burned your hand, and then you caught a fever . . .”

“My hand—the—” The image of the spiders streaming from her palm burst back into her mind. Alex panicked, trying to reach over and tear her bandage off.

“Hey! Hey! Calm down, it’s all right.” McCann restrained her. “They’re gone, they’re gone! Trust me.”

“You’re . . . you’re sure?” Alex thought of his dream, of the spiders crawling all over her body. If she thought about it hard enough, she could still feel their tiny, soft legs . . .

“I’m sure. But you need to heal. The skin is still . . . pretty bad.”

“You burned it?” she asked.

“Aye. Had to.”

“How bad is it?”

“A healer could’ve done better,” McCann admitted, “but I’ve seen worse. It won’t be pretty, and it will be stiff, but I think you’ll be able to use it.”

Alex digested this bit of information, looking again to her bandaged hand. She had a hard time imagining herself disfigured . . . but now she was. “It hurts a lot.”

“I know. There’s not much for it. When it starts to itch instead, you’ll know the worst is over.”

The thought of itching made her think of spiders again. “Sergeant, what . . . what was that? What happened? Why did they start coming from . . .?” She couldn’t finish the thought.

“That’s the hand you scraped before falling in the pool, right? The hand the water healed?” asked McCann.

Alex nodded.

“Well, you saw how the rest of the place went up when Sinclair dunked the zombii. Life traded for death. I’d guess everything healed with water from the pool went the same way.”

Alex shivered at the memory. “They were coming out of my hand . . . out through my skin . . .”

“Aye. And if you had it that bad, imagine the poor sap who had half his chest put back together. Bet he was a bit uncomfortable.”

The thought made Alex want to vomit. Instead, she asked another question. “How did you know to use the fire?”

McCann looked up at her. “There’s only one Cure, remember?”

“And if the fire didn’t work . . .”

“If the fire didn’t work, I was going to cut if off and burn it again.”

“I’m glad it didn’t come to that,” said Alex.

“Aye, me too. Though it might’ve hurt less.” McCann turned back to the fire. “Who’s Dalia?”

“What?”

“Dalia. Who is she? You kept saying her name while under the fever.”

“I—nobody. She’s nobody—she’s an old friend.”

“Really?”

“Yes! She’s just a friend.”

“The friend you’re going to Antioch for?”

Alex didn’t answer; McCann let the subject drop. They sat in silence for a moment.

“How did you know?” asked Alex finally.

“Hmm?” said McCann.

“How did you know it would go wrong?”

“I didn’t know.” He shrugged. “But I guessed.”

“How?”

“This . . . sort of thing . . . has happened before,” said McCann slowly. “We have records, stories. ancient tools, things that were found and thought to be cures for the Plague.”

“They aren’t, though?”

“It always goes wrong. Very, very wrong,” said McCann.

“Always?” asked Alex.

“Always. Else how could the Ancients have lost?”

“Sinclair said that maybe they discovered the cure too late—”

“What would a million zombii be to the Ancients if they had a cure? Less than nothing. No, the Curate have the right of it—there is only one Cure,” said McCann.

“There is only one Cure.” Alex repeated this bit of information. If it was true, then Dalia was doomed no matter how long Joseph could keep her alive. The terrors of the Weeping Tree supported McCann’s argument . . . but even so, she had to talk to the Grand Master. Maybe there was something else.

“Sergeant . . .”

“Eh?”

“That was a Curate book that Sinclair had, yes?” asked Alex.

“. . . Aye.” McCann answered carefully.

“So the Curate knew about the Weeping Tree. They’d been there before—the directions were written in the old language.”

“. . . They were.”

“Then why was the back of the book missing? It would’ve warned Sinclair not to use the water from the Weeping Tree to cure the undead. Surely the Curate tried it, and failed,” reasoned Alex.

“. . . There’s a bend in the river coming, I need to go steer the raft.” McCann disappeared, and Alex was left alone with the most troubling question of all.

(Go on to Part 34)

(Go back to Part 31)

Chapter 15

“… But the Ancients were deceived.

For even their places of safety were broken open. After consuming the cities, the ravenous hordes turned to the last fortresses of mankind and tore them open. All were consumed.

Even those who thought to put the mighty sea or the height of mountains between themselves and the Plague failed to find safety. For the Ancients betrayed themselves; in their greed, the seeds of the Plague were already sowed deep inside their bodies. And so eventually all but a bare few were consumed.”

–The Lexicon, Leviathans 13:15

–

It was two days before General Clovis returned from the swamp with a suitable specimen. By then, all the wounded soldiers had bathed in the pool, as well as several with other chronic conditions. The burning steam cleaned all wounds and purged all diseases.

McCann refused to, despite the web of scar tissue on his back. He also forbade Alex from returning to the pool.

That evening, Baron Sinclair assembled the army in the Weeping Tree’s octagonal chamber. The soldiers were in high spirits after two nights of plentiful food, rest, and dry feet. The healing miracles helped too, of course, and now everyone was curious to see the tree. Sinclair’s men talked and joked amongst themselves, waiting for the baron to appear. An expectant hum filled the chamber.

“I don’t like this,” said McCann. They were on the steps closest to the exit, at his insistence.

“What?” asked Alex.

“All the theatrics. The baron wants to make this a big show. This is supposed to be his coronation as master of miracles, but he hasn’t tried it on the zombii yet,” said McCann.

“It cured everything else. Why wouldn’t it work on them?” asked Alex.

McCann shook his head. “There’s only one Cure. You know that.”

Alex argued, “Maybe this is the exception. Maybe this will actually work.”

“People have thought so before, many times, and it always goes wrong. Horribly wrong. The Curate knows this because of the records at Antioch.”

“The baron says the Curate—”

“I know what the baron says!” There were a few moments of uneasy silence between them.

“The baron says that with the zombii gone, we can build a new world, and save the infected,” said Alex, finally.

“A brand new world with him as its emperor. Tell me, what do you think he would do if someone didn’t want to be part of his new world? Deny them the cure, maybe? Or even spread the Plague in their lands, knowing that his soldiers would be immune?” asked McCann.

“. . . I didn’t think about that. He wouldn’t actually do that, would he?” asked Alex.

“He would. This man has Curate knights in chains. He has your brothers in chains; remember that, Acolyte,” he spat.

They were cut off by the appearance of Baron Sinclair. Behind him was a naked zombii, tethered around the neck and held by four soldiers with long ropes. Alex was glad she wasn’t one of the men who had to capture it; the undead creature snapped and clawed at them, although at a safe distance.

“Men! Brave soldiers! My brothers!” Sinclair lapsed into the old Southern tongue as his speech continued. At several points he pointed from the pool to the zombii, and the army cheered. Finally he finished and beckoned Minister Turin forward. The minister had a basin of water drawn from the pool; he gave it to the baron.

As they watched, the baron beckoned Turin to take a drink. The minister hesitated at first . . . Alex remembered the old man complaining about an incurable stomach illness and continuous ulcers. Turin took the basin and sipped from the edge; his eyes went wide, and he expelled a large cloud of steam, but appeared otherwise unharmed. The soldiers roared their approval, and Turin rejoined their ranks, shy at the attention he’d received.

McCann’s hand moved to his sword hilt. Alex watched him, wondering what he was thinking, and of the conversation with the baron. As she was about to ask, the sergeant leaned over to say something.

“Be ready,” whispered McCann, “I have a bad feeling about this.”

The baron climbed onto the side of the pool, standing with the basin held over his head. The soldiers jerked the zombii forward, pitching it onto its knees in front of the baron. He pronounced one last, long phrase, and then upended the basin.

There was a flash, as with the wounded man, but much brighter. It was so bright that they had to cover their eyes; when their vision cleared, there was again a great cloud of steam. Inside writhed the form of the zombii, but as the steam cleared they could see that it was not healed. Instead it was wreathed in shooting white flames. They blasted out of the zombii’s gut, consuming it from the inside. The soldiers holding it fled, but with a final bright flare the zombii was consumed. All that remained was a smoldering pile of ash.

A hushed silence fell over the group. Alex’s heart fell—it wouldn’t do to give Dalia that—

A huge black shape exploded out of the ground where the ashes had fallen, scattering them in a puff of white smoke. Its form was indistinct, but Alex caught a glimpse of shining black chitin and empty glittering eyes. Jagged claws scythed out from it on either side, spraying blood as they ripped the nearest two soldiers to pieces. A third man screamed as the beast spat a glob of green acid straight forward into his face. The Southerners recoiled in terror; some screamed, while others reached for their swords—

The baron’s blade came down in a silver arc and crunched deep into the giant beetle’s carapace. He cleaved the head all the way in two from his position behind it on the ledge; it shivered once and died, legs digging furrows in the soft dirt.

The baron pulled his sword from the carcass and spat once on the ground, nonplussed. “Turin! What is this?”

Everyone turned to the minister, but Turin seemed to be having some trouble speaking. His face had gone ash-white and he was clutching his abdomen. It looked like he was in pain.

“Turin? What’s wrong? Speak!” commanded the baron.

The old man opened his mouth to speak, but instead blood frothed out. It spilled from his lips, boiling and smoking in puddles on the ground. It came from him faster and faster, in unnatural quantities . . . the soldiers began to edge away from him as he fell to his knees.

“Turin? Turin!”

It didn’t appear that Turin could hear him.

“Turin, say something!”

The elderly minister jerked backwards, as if his body was being pulled by invisible strings. His face was contorted, skin pulled tight by straining muscles and eyes bulging sightless from their sockets. There was something moving under the back of Turin’s robes, something growing . . . Alex tried to look away, but she couldn’t. Turin opened his mouth again . . .

A piercing, inhuman shriek filled the air like the screams of a thousand birds of prey. Long, black, skeletal wings tore out of his back, dripping with strange fluid as they clacked against one another in agonized thrashing. Soldiers drew swords—everyone was yelling at once—

The inhuman shriek was joined by others from the men assembled in the room. Alex’s gaze darted to this new sound before she could stop himself. Other soldiers were struggling with something—there was movement—strange, fast movement, not human, and coming somehow from inside the men nearby—

“Come on!” McCann grabbed Alex by the shirt. “We’ve got to get the hell out of here! Now!” He started pulling her toward the passage.

“But they need our help!” she said.

“There’s no time—”

A blurred, thick cluster of horned tentacles lashed out from beneath the pool’s surface and stabbed through the baron’s chest, blossoming like a chitin flower from his breastbone. He roared more in rage than pain, still alive somehow, and slashed their writhing mouths into ribbons with his sword as they hauled him toward the ceiling of the chamber. More tentacles stabbed him through again and again until finally the sword spun from his hand into the water.

The entire surface of the pool was foaming with furious teeth and gnashing claws. Sinclair disappeared with a choking scream while more glittering black creatures piled from the water, taking hold of anything living nearby.

“Where—what—how? There’s nothing in the pool—how did they—” Alex didn’t understand.

“There’s no time! Just come! Now!” yelled McCann.

They turned from the room and ran down the passage. Screams followed them, human and . . . otherwise.

McCann didn’t pause when they got outside. He plunged into the grass, which had turned jet-black and brittle. It shattered underfoot like glass. Alex slowed, startled.

“What the—”

“Don’t stop!” McCann yelled back, and they sprinted for the gate.

Most of the torches were out, but the full moon lit their path. Alex could hear yells and the sharp clang of steel nearby as the sentries fought with an unknown foe. She nearly tripped a moment later; the ground was changing, bulging up in places as if earthen bubbles were coming to the surface.

Her boot caught on another mound a moment later, and with a shower of dust a huge buzzing insect clawed its way into the air. With one motion Alex turned, drew, and struck the creature square in the body with her blade. The thick, furry carapace spurted green blood that boiled on the steel of her sword, and the insect crashed to the ground in a writhing heap of claws and wings.

“Alex! Come ON!” yelled McCann, grabbing her arm. “Don’t try to fight them! There are too many!”

McCann was right—the whole compound was writhing underfoot with creatures trying to break through to the surface. Some were huge insects like the one Alex had killed; others were giant soft white worms with round fanged mouths. Alex leapt past one right as a sticky tongue shot out and snagged a flying insect over her head. The insect stabbed furiously at the fleshy skin of the worm until rows of crushing teeth shattered its body. Alex shuddered as the bug emitted a high-pitched death scream.

Other things were coming out of the ground as well—other things even more terrible and disgusting than giant fanged maggots. Her booths crushed carapaces, popped sacs of stinking fluid, and cracked long segmented legs. She didn’t look; she couldn’t look. Alex kept her eyes focused on McCann’s back as the fields around them erupted in an orgy of feeding claws and teeth.

McCann vaulted over the trenches and sharpened stakes set around the main gate. The sentries were already dead—Alex saw movement inside of one man’s shattered red abdomen, but she ripped her eyes away before she could see any more. They cleared the gate, and Alex could see McCann’s goal—the rafts that had carried their supplies through the swamp, tied up now on the river.

They sprinted down the ruined dock toward the water. With a careless jump, she crashed down next to McCann on the nearest raft. “Cut the lines!” McCann already had a long pole in his hands—Alex scrambled to her feet and hacked apart the ropes binding the raft to the shore. As they shoved against the dock, the raft started to move out into the current.

A buzzing filled the air. Alex caught the shadow of more huge flying shapes coming toward them. She swatted them from the air one at a time, sizzling green blood dripping down her sword and onto the raft. Then the river’s current took hold of them and the shore started to recede, although they could still hear the terrible cacophony of death that was tearing the compound apart.

“There. I think we’re safe.” McCann laid down the pole. “Are you all right?”

“Yes—although . . .”

The sergeant began lighting the torches still on the raft. “What?”

Alex clenched and unclenched her left hand a few times. It felt strange. “My hand itches.”

“Your hand—” McCann froze. “The same one you scraped in the pool?”

“Yes, but I don’t know—”

“Give it to me. Now!” He seized Alex’s hand and tore off the glove.

Alex screamed. Her sword went spinning overboard. Tiny spiders were streaming from a ragged black hole in her left palm. Her glove dripped with the blood of crushed arachnids, but more kept pouring out from inside of her body. Some were fighting, devouring each other, while others streamed up her wrist or fell from the tips of her fingers.

She tore at the skin frantically with her fingernails. “Getitoff-getitoff-getitoff!!!”

McCann seized a torch with one hand and clamped down on Alex’s forearm with the other.

“Sergeant! Help! I’m—!!”

“I’m sorry.” And he thrust Alex’s palm into the flames.

The pain was immediate and immense. Alex heard someone scream—the scream filled her whole mind until nothing was left, and she fell down into darkness . . . down, down . . .

(Go on to Part 33)

(Go back to Part 30)

Turin and McCann were still arguing about the nature of the puzzle on the door when Sinclair and Alex returned.

Alex wandered away from the group and found herself drawn to the Weeping Tree. Now that it wasn’t shrouded in darkness, Alex knew that it was the most stupendously gigantic tree she’d ever seen. The trunk sat on an island in the center of the pool and was as big around as Headmaster Barrius’s office, while the lowest branch was at least twenty feet from the ground. It grew up through the steel lattice of the skylight, tearing some beams out of their sockets while supporting and growing through others. The crown was invisible from inside—she would have to climb the wall again to catch a glimpse of it.

And it really was weeping. Fat, clear droplets seeped from unseen pores to go trickling down the thick, wet trunk or splash into the pool below. It wasn’t a heavy flow, but it was constant. The twisted fibers of the trunk were always slicked black with moisture—

Except the trunk wasn’t uniform. Alex took a closer look at the fibers of the Weeping Tree’s trunk. Hundreds of roots came together at the bottom, twisting around clockwise to form the trunk—but some of them weren’t roots. They were darker than the others, and banded like flexible cables. Something artificial; if only she could get a closer look—

Alex slipped on the edge of the pool. Before she could stop herself, she tumbled headfirst into the water. It was only a few feet deep, but slippery on the bottom. Finally she rose, spluttering and spitting water from her mouth. Her scraped hand burned under the bandage.

“Alex! What are you doing?!?” yelled McCann.

“It’s okay, I just slipped!” she called back. Her hand really was burning now—she’d caught herself on the bottom of the pool with it and now it hurt worse than before. “I’ll have to go wrap this up again, though—”

Alex stopped, frozen, as she looked at her hand.

Steam streamed from under the rough cloth tied around her palm. Wisps of vapor trailed from underneath like her hand was a kettle on the stove. When they stopped, the pain was gone. Alex unwrapped the bandage—underneath was fresh new skin. It was pink and raw, but there was no sign of the scrape from earlier.

She eased out of the pool, slowly. Alex shook herself once, sending a spray of droplets out over the dead leaves. Wherever they landed, there was a hiss and puff of steam. Soon the dry leaves were green again. Alex picked one up. It was soft and fresh, like it had just been plucked from the branch.

“Um . . . Sergeant? I think you need to see this,” she said.

A minute later, as the others watched, she picked up a dead leaf by the stem and dipped it into the pool. There was a loud hiss, a cloud of steam, and she pulled it back out—green and alive.

–

Baron Sinclair sent word to bring forward the army’s most grievously wounded soldier. The man was brought in on a litter, moaning softly in a fevered sleep.

“I’m keeping him unconscious, for his own good. It would be a mercy if the fever would let him die,” said the doctor.

“What happened?” asked Sinclair.

“He was speared by a branch in the swamp. The wound has festered since then. Were it an arm, we would cut it off, but the shoulder . . .” the doctor trailed off.

“Remove his dressings,” ordered the baron.

The soldier’s chest was uncovered. As soon as the bandages came off, an incredible stink filled the air; Alex nearly gagged. A ragged hole was torn through the man’s left shoulder, but the whole upper part of the body was mottled gray and black. Skin and flesh were beginning to slough off at the slightest touch, and much of it remained stuck to the bandage. The surgeon applied pressure to the wound, and thick yellow pus spurted from the hole. He wiped it away with a cloth as the man moaned again.

“There is no chance he will live?” asked the baron.

“Not without a miracle,” said the doctor.

Sinclair covered a smile with his hand. “Minister, please.”

Turin appeared over the man with a cup of water drawn from the pool. He said a quick prayer to himself and poured the contents onto the wounded man.

There was a flash, and a billowing cloud of steam blocked their vision. Alex heard the soldier scream, and then everything was silent.

After a minute, a shape appeared through the vapor. The soldier walked out of it, bare-chested, and covered in fresh pink skin. He stared at them, confused, and asked the surgeon a question in the Southern tongue. When the other answered, they both fell to their knees, babbled something that Alex didn’t understand.

“It’s a miracle!” shouted Turin, and he joined them. McCann and Alex followed suit, even the Baron bent a knee. As Turin led the prayer, though, The baron rose again and walked to the pool. Alex watched him from the corner of his eye. Sinclair pulled a dagger from inside his sleeve and sliced open his palm in one swift motion. She winced, but the baron did not; fat red droplets spattered the water.

Using the other hand, Sinclair splashed water onto the fresh wound. A flash, more steam, and the cut was healed. The baron traced the line of fresh skin with a finger, and then sheathed his dagger.

“Alex!” The baron’s booming voice interrupted the prayer. “Get me General Clovis! I need a zombii.”

(Go on to Part 32)

(Go back to Part 29)

They found the baron in front of the gate to the inner complex, along with Clovis and Minister Turin. “Ah, there you are. I have need of you, Curate; I’m opening the gate.”

“Now?” McCann raised an eyebrow. “The men are exhausted.”

“Yes. Now.”

“But who knows what’s inside? What if the zombii—”

The baron cut him off. “According to the book, we have nothing to fear from the chamber inside. I haven’t come this far just to stop now!”

McCann looked at him for a moment. “All right.” He drew his sword. “Let’s go.”

“It’s not your sword we need, it’s your eyes,” said the baron.

“I like to be prepared,” replied McCann.

“As you will.” The baron nodded to General Clovis. “Open it.”

These doors were made of the same steel as the outer gates, but they were still mounted and undamaged. The general pushed against them, and they swung open slowly on hidden hinges to reveal a dark passage. Nothing moved inside.

McCann pulled a torch from where it was driven into the ground and kept it in his off hand. He gave the baron one last look before stepping inside.

The passage was short and straight. It opened into a wide octagonal chamber, sunk into the ground and ringed with rows of steps. The moon and stars were visible through huge shattered skylights. Vines stretched down from the roof, clinging to walls and hanging from steel trusses above. The floor was covered in something—they lowered their torches to see a layer of dry leaves ankle deep. A strange dripping sound filled the room.

As they descended the steps, a black shape loomed in the darkness. Drawing closer, the torchlight revealed a massive tree reaching up through the broken skylights. The dripping was coming from the branches—thick, heavy droplets bunching on the tips of leaves or sliding down the trunk. They fell into a shallow pool around the base of the trunk, marked by a low wall.

“There it is . . .” muttered Minister Turin.

“What?” asked Alex.

“The Weeping Tree,” replied the baron.

They stood, gazing at the strange sight, until McCann reappeared. His sword was sheathed. “The room’s clear.”

The baron stirred himself. “Good. Is there another door?”

“Yes. On the far wall.”

They approached. It was a blast door built two stories high out of reinforced steel and titanium. Vines and creepers obscured its edges.

“How do we open it?” asked the baron.

“I . . . I don’t know.” stammered Turin.

“Well, what does the book say?” asked Sinclair, simmering with impatience.

“Nothing; the last pages are missing. There’s nothing after the mention of the Weeping Tree.”

The baron growled in annoyance. “Well, get looking! My prize is somewhere behind that door. There have been too many delays already!”

McCann found the control panel a few minutes later. It blinked on, a brilliant blue light in the darkness. He scraped vegetation off of its surface. “Here’s something.”

They gathered around, all captivated by the strange artificial light except for the sergeant. “What is it?” asked Turin.

“The way in,” responded McCann. He touched it and text appeared. “A puzzle, left for us by the Ancients.”

“The old language . . . but such a strange dialect,” pronounced Turin, after a few minutes studying the panel.

“Aye.” McCann touched the panel again and the text changed. “You’ll need my help with this one, too.”

“Well, get started!” said the baron.

“What, now?” McCann looked at him, incredulous.

“Yes, now!” he thundered. “I’d do it myself if I could, but barring that I’ll have you two at it until that door is open! No more delays!”

“. . . we’ll need light. Lots of it,” said McCann.

“More torches, then, Clovis!” Sinclair waved away the general.

“Paper, too, and quill—”

“There is no ink,” said Turin.

“Charcoal, then. Sharpened to write with,” amended the sergeant.

The baron nodded. “Yes, yes, I’ll send for it. Just get working!”

–

Alex fell asleep watching the two figures crouched over the panel. When she woke the next morning, buried in the fallen leaves, they were still working, red-eyed and grumpy. Baron Sinclair was gone, but Alex could see a rut worn in the leaves where he had paced all night.

Alex stretched and yawned. McCann heard her. “Get us some breakfast, will you?”

“Sure.” Alex got up and went into camp.

When she came back, the sun was well up and there was no more need for torches. She brought them more bacon, hardtack, half a dozen of the strange fruit, and a wineskin.

“There you are. What took you so long?”

“I tripped on a slab of concrete hidden in the grass. It scraped my palm pretty bad.” Alex held up her left hand. It was wrapped in a bloody cloth and stung badly. The food was held in her right.

“So much for your friendly spirits,” was all McCann said. He ate slowly, head down and shoulders hunched over. Turin looked worse—he rocked back and forth as he sat. Both smelled of smoke and had bloodshot eyes.

“Any luck?” asked Alex.

“No!” they said together. Alex dropped the subject.

When the baron arrived later, Alex expected him to begin yelling about the door again. He didn’t, though. Instead, he came to her.

“Alex. Walk with me.”

“Uh . . . of course, Milord,” she replied. It was the only possible answer.

Alex followed the baron out into the passageway. “What is it, Milord?”

The baron laughed. “You can drop the title, Alexis. I think after coming through that swamp together we know each other a little better than that!” He laughed again and draped an arm over Alex’s shoulders in a gesture that was supposed to seem paternal. Soon they were out of earshot of the others.

“So, um . . . what can I do for you?”

“Alexis—Alex . . . yes, I feel like I know you well by now. You fought well in the pass; I saw you slay more than your share of the monsters. Then you climbed the wall, alone, before pulling that stunt at the gate,” he laughed, “. . . yes, Alex, you remind me a lot myself at your age. I feel like I know you well.”

Alex opened her mouth to reply, but the baron didn’t give her the chance. “The one I don’t know is your father, the ex-Curate.”

“My father?” asked Alex.

“Yes. I don’t know what he’s going to do when we find it, and I need to know now, before we do,” said the baron.

Alex’s chest tightened; this was a treacherous line of inquiry. “What are we going to find?”

“You haven’t guessed? Come on, Alex, you’re smarter than that! What’s worth all this trouble? A dozen ships, thousands of leagues of travel, hundreds dead, incredible risks, and as Turin all-too-frequently reminds me, an enormous expenditure of wealth.” He looked her in the eye. “What could be worth all of that?”

Alex’s blood ran cold. She could barely speak the words. “A . . . cure?”

“Exactly!” The baron slapped her on the back and started walking again without noticing that he had nearly knocked her over. “It’s never been mentioned outright, but when I found that book I knew it could only be referring to one thing. A cure, an end to the Plague once and for all, a power the ancients discovered just too late to save them. But if I had it, if I could use it—”

“But the Curate says that the only Cure is the flame,” said Alex, following him.

“The Curate! God take them!” Sinclair spat on the ground. “That’s what I think of the Curate. Of course they would say that.”

“Are they right?” asked Alex, heart pounding in her chest.

The baron laughed. “The Curate says there’s only one Cure, but they don’t mean the flame, Alex. Oh no—it’s not about the flame at all.”

“It isn’t?” asked Alex.

“No!” thundered the baron, “What they’re really saying is that the only cure for the Plague is the Curate. And at what cost? Taxes, royalties, right-of-passage, right-of-conscription, fealty, emergency powers—it’s a choice, they say, but a choice between what? A choice between death and slavery?!? The zombii or the Grand Master?!? Tell me, which should I prefer flying over my castle, crows or the Red Flame?” He spat again on the ground. “The Curate can take that for my tribute.”

“But they exist to fight the zombii—”

“The zombii are their leverage. The zombii are only there to scare us into submission, a threat grossly exaggerated by old wives’ tales and Curate propaganda. You were there in the pass—you saw the battle! How many thousand fell to our blades? I tell you, they die just as well by our steel as any other. Maybe better!”

The baron was flustered with the heat of his argument. Alex decided not to mention the slow trickle of casualties in the swamp, more than three times the number lost in the battle. She brought the conversation back to the Cure. “But if the cure is found, then it won’t matter. We won’t need to fight the zombii any more—”

“—and we won’t need the Curate a minute longer!” Sinclair slapped her on the back again. “With the zombii gone, the world will rise up to throw off the yoke of the Curate. A new world, in need of someone with vision and strength to guide it.”

Alex could finally see what the baron was asking. “You want to know what my father will do if you find the cure, knowing it will be the end of the Curate.”

“Yes.” The baron turned to Alex and held her with his eyes. “Will he still be loyal? Or will he embrace their destruction? They were his brothers at one point, even if he’s exiled now. I learned never to underestimate that bond a long time ago.”

“What bond?”

“The bond between brothers, Alex. It gave me this.” And he reached for his sleeve.

Alex gasped when she saw the baron’s forearm. An ugly, ragged scar, purple and bulbous, cut through Sinclair’s thick black hair from wrist to inner elbow. It was an old wound, but a large one.

“Your arm—what happened?”

“Some lessons leave their marks, Alex .” The same arm seized Alex by the shoulder, and the baron pinned her to the wall with his gaze. “What will he do, Alex? What will he do when we find it? I need to know; I need you to tell me.”

It will do no good to lie, Alex thought to herself. He will know—he’s too smart. “I’m not sure,” she said, meeting the baron’s gaze. “That’s the truth. I’m not sure what his relationship with the Curate is.”

“I see.” He stroked his chin. “And what about you?”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“A cure . . . would mean everything to me,” said Alex, thinking again of Dalia. It must be cold now in Joseph’s hut, that far North.

“Would it mean enough to fight? Will you fight to protect the cure? Will you fight for me?” he asked her.

“I . . . yes. Yes, I will.” Alex nodded.

“Good. I will count on you, Alex. Serve me faithfully through this, and you’ll see the Plague cured. I promise you that much . . . and Baron Sinclair remembers his promises.” He swept off back down the hallway toward the chamber.

(Go on to Part 31)

(Go back to Part 28)

The world immediately hushed around her. The thick greenery muffled most sounds. She was left alone with the chirp of birds and a cloud of white butterflies disturbed by her descent. The hush surrounded her, thick and heavy as the air, but it wasn’t as threatening as the deadly calm of the swamp. Here the air was laced with the perfume of strange flowers instead of the musk of rotting wood, and the bright colors of foliage replaced the sickly grays and browns of murky swamp water. It was quiet, but Alex felt at ease—protected, even.

Silent buildings with empty windows gaped up at her as she walked along the wall. White tiles, cracked and shattered by time, lay amid piles of rubble inside gaping doorways. Abandoned tools were scattered in the weeds, rusted away nearly to nothing. Here and there a sign was still legible, but the characters were in the old language.

At the southern corner of the wall was a blocky tower. The walkway pierced it halfway up; Alex passed through the arch into the dim interior and a spiral stair. She climbed to the top, where a covered platform ran all the way around. From here she could see far into the swamp—it stretched away in every direction, unbroken except for the river.

A bit of color was visible back the way she came. The baron’s column was hacking their way around the perimeter of the complex. The top of the tower was otherwise empty except for an abandoned bird’s nest and few splinters of cracked concrete. She headed back down and out the other side of the tower to continue along the wall—

—except the walkway had collapsed only a few feet past the tower, leaving a gap that was too large for Alex to jump across. The wall was still solid, but the rampart walkway had collapsed in a sheer slope of rubble. She thought about crawling across; the footing was treacherous, but exposed rebar might be enough to hold on to, and it was better than retracing her steps to the swamp.

Alex took a few steps onto the broken concrete. Stones shifted underfoot, but it held. She took a few more steps . . .

The concrete collapsed without warning. Alex flung her arms out, trying to gain purchase, but the rough stones slipped through her fingers. She fell, swept over the edge, and landed in a cloud of dust and rubble, hands over her head to ward off the debris.

After a moment, everything was quiet again. She opened her eyes. Nothing hurt—in fact, she hadn’t even scraped her hands. Alex’s landing had been cushioned by a patch of tall, soft grass, a strange plant that she’d never seen before. She dusted herself off.

In front of her were the ruins of a series of greenhouses. The trees inside had long since grown out through the shattered glass roofs and their branches hung out over the frames, heavy with unfamiliar fruit. The insides of the greenhouses were packed with descendants of the original plantings—strange flowers, vines, cacti, shrubs, and other things Alex couldn’t begin to recognize. She paused in front of the nearest greenhouse and eyed the fruit hanging within reach. There was a rumble from her stomach, but she hesitated.

It was like no fruit she’d ever heard described by the sergeant, or anyone else. It was a soft yellow in color and about the size of an apple, but the skin was fuzzy like a peach and warm to the touch. The shape was long, thick at the top and bottom but narrow in the center. She had no idea if it was safe to eat.

Alex’s stomach rumbled again, and she had an idea. She picked the fruit and sliced it into a few pieces with her knife. The only seeds were clustered up near the stem, while the rest of the fruit was firm and pale. A clear liquid dropped from its flesh. She tossed the pieces up onto the walkway above.

Within a few minutes, the birds were fighting over the scraps. Alex shrugged. “If it’s good enough for you . . .” She plucked another fruit and bit into it.

The flesh was sweet, but not too sweet. The fruit had a pleasant taste, and a fibrous weight that melted on the tongue. It was delicious. She picked another on her way through the greenhouses.

–

It was late afternoon by the time that the baron and his men reached the gate. Alex sat, perched on one of the ruined steel doors, stomach full of fruit and in need of a nap. She spread her arms wide as they came into view, weary and covered in mud.

“Welcome! Welcome to Port Alexis! I hoped you’d make it before dinnertime.”

McCann was not amused. “Dammit, Alex, if you—”

But the baron was laughing. “Port Alexis! Ha ha ha!” He wiped his eyes. “You are a bold one, aren’t you? Though you were first over the wall,” he mused, “. . . very well, Port Alexis it is!”

“Hungry? What about you, Father?” She tossed a few of the strange fruit down to the baron and the sergeant, emphasizing the word “father.”

“What is this . . . thing?” Minister Turin picked one of them up and turned it over in his hands.

“Don’t worry, they’re safe to eat. I’ve had four already,” said Alex.

“Alex! You at the fruit without—” McCann was turning purple.

“Relax, I made sure that the birds would eat it first.”

“But how can we—”

The baron bit into his with a noisy squelch. He chewed. “That’s good. What are they?”

“I’m not familiar with this particular fruit, Milord,” said Turin. He took a tentative nibble of his own. McCann and General Clovis declined to taste theirs.

“Where did you find these? Are there more?” the Baron asked Alex.

“Lots more. I passed three huge orchards on the way here.”

“Good. The men will appreciate fresh rations.” He motioned the column forward through the gate.

“Alex! What else did you see? Anything dangerous? Animals? Zombii? We need to be prepared if—”

“Nothing larger than a sparrow. No tracks, no droppings, no bones . . . and no zombii. You can relax, Father, this place is safe.” Alex slid down the door. She was barefoot and smiling; there were no thorns inside the compound. “Can’t you feel it? Something watches over this place. Some spirit, maybe.”

“Spirits!” McCann spat once on the ground. “That’s the stock I take in spirits.”

But the other soldiers looked reassured. They nudged and muttered to each other, and relaxed as they passed through the gate. A few even smiled or cracked jokes. Alex could see it in their faces; after the battle in the pass and the endless horrors of the swamp, they were ready to believe that the compound was protected by something.

By nightfall, everything that was left of the baron’s host was inside the walls. Alex and McCann shared a room in one of the empty concrete buildings that was partly open to the sky. There was room for three times their number in the outer ruins alone—no one had yet dared the inner complex’s gate. Most were busy digging ditches and sharpening stakes to guard the gate, as the huge steel doors were beyond repair. “Spirits or no, best we keep an eye on that entrance,” grumbled McCann.

“But look how safe it is! There’s only one way in!”

“Aye. And only one way out.”

As evening fell, torches and campfires appeared around the camp. Soldiers took off their boots and propped their feet as close to the flames as they dared, drying for the first time in weeks. Some seared sweet corn over the fires, picked from a field inside the compound (and strangely in season). Singing picked up here and there from some of the hardier souls, but most that weren’t on duty collapsed and slept.

Alex and McCann were sitting around one of the fires when General Clovis found them. McCann had just cracked a smile, finally, at the mention of ale; “Come to think of it, that’s about the only thing missing right now,” he said as he burned his hands on a bit of bacon still popping and dripping grease.

“You! Sellswords!” Clovis was not smiling. The other soldiers scrambled to attention.

“Yeah?” drawled McCann, continuing to munch on the bacon.

“The baron wants to see you both.”

“Now?” asked McCann, looking at his bacon.

“Now!” said Clovis.

“All right.” McCann sighed and stood. “Here, hold this.” He gave the bacon to the man next to him, who yelped in dismay, juggling it from hand to hand. McCann buckled his swordbelt. “Come on, Alex, let’s see if Sinclair has found any of your spirits yet.”

(Go on to Page 30)

(Go back to Part 27)

The land quickly gave way to a thick swamp. The army left the mules behind, under guard, and spent the rest of the day hacking down trees. The trees were lashed together to make crude rafts, and the supplies were transferred from the pack animals to the rafts. “What about us?” asked Alex.

“We walk,” said McCann.

The next day they started forward into the swamp itself. Progress was slow. The baron kept a group of soldiers at the front of the column, hacking and slashing with axes through the undergrowth. They worked in shifts, rotating when one group tired. The others were set to pulling the rafts through the muck, waist deep in the dark brown water. The soldiers cursed and grumbled at the tow ropes, tripping on submerged roots or sinking through into pockets of mud when the ground disappeared beneath them.

The outriders, though, had a more terrifying task, sweeping the water with long poles for the inevitable submerged undead. Many of the zombii in the swamp were hidden by the water, crawling along the bottom and ready to put their teeth into an unsuspecting man’s leg. Once or twice a day a man would disappear without warning, pulled under by the zombii’s clutching arms. The others would stab into the water, often killing the infected soldier along with the zombii and turning the murk red with blood.

Other zombii floated, usually facedown, buoyed up by gasses inside their bodies. These were easier to spot, although still difficult to kill with a clean blow.

The undead were not the only creatures hunting them. Most larger predators stayed away, although sometimes they heard a snarl and the snap of teeth when a corpse was left behind. Insects were a bigger problem, as they were unafraid of the intruders—huge swarms of flies and mosquitoes buzzed around them day and night, stinging and biting at any exposed flesh. Fat black flies covered their ears, noses, and even eyes at nightfall, filling the air with an angry drone no matter how many times they were swatted away. Orange centipedes and giant spiders fell on them occasionally from the twisted canopy of branches above them.

The worst enemy, though, was invisible. The slightest cut or break in the skin was a huge risk for corruption. One soldier had his arm ripped open by a fierce boar; by the next day his entire arm and part of his chest was gray and oozing pus. The healing skills of the army’s doctors had little power against the dank, rotting stench of the swamp. Other men, foolish enough to drink the clotted water, were struck with dysentery. Fever attacked only a few at the beginning, but every day more of them were shivering under blankets, lying wet on their backs on the rafts.

Alex hated it. She hated the stinking swamp, with its clinging branches and tearing nettles. She hated being wet from the waist down, day after day, feeling her boots rot between her toes as she walked. At night, those men that could climbed trees to sleep, or crowded onto the few bits of dry land. The unlucky slept on the rafts, crammed in with the others and cursing whenever someone shifted the balance and submerged the men on one side. Alex hated the twisted branches, the hanging vines, and the wet forest that stretched all around them, silent except for the scream of a hunting cat or the gentle plop of something slipping unseen into the water.

The losses mounted as the second week stretched on, and each day they moved a little slower with less men to cut the path through the swamp and less men to pull the rafts. Morale had been high after the battle in the pass, but now the men were pale and thin. They walked like the dead that hunted them, hunched forward, shambling foot to foot . . . all of them but the baron.

“What’s he looking for?” asked Alex one night. She and McCann were up a tree near the edge of camp. There were no campfires, just the glow of torches from the sentries.

McCann laid his head back against the bole of the tree. Even he looked tired; Alex took some comfort in it. They’d stopped bothering to dry their clothes days ago. The sergeant said nothing.

“You know, don’t you? It wasn’t the key you were looking for in that book, was it? You wanted to know what Sinclair is looking for. It’s a Curate book, isn’t it?”

“Aye.” McCann said the word slowly, carefully. “It looks like one, at least.”

“What’s in it? Some treasure? Relics?”

“I don’t know,” said McCann, “but I have my suspicions. It’s something very powerful, that much is certain.”

“That must be why he didn’t want the Curate to find out about his plan, right? Is he going to use it against—uh, them?”

“Perhaps.” And McCann would say no more on the subject.

–

They found more cairns as they slogged through the swap. Every few days an outrider spotted one, and McCann was brought forward to translate. The path always led east, through the unrelenting hostility of the stinking swampland. The last cairn had clearly been built by the Ancients; it was a single pillar of rectangular concrete into which the old language was carved. The men marveled at its smooth, symmetrical body.

“Three more days,” said McCann. “East. By the river, it says.”

It took them five days. The first sign that they had arrived was an abrupt rise in the ground, capped with tall cement wall. It ran in a straight line in either direction through the swamp, covered in vines and vegetation but otherwise impassable.

“Could it be?” breathed Minister Turin. Slime and twigs filled the thin white beard that had been so carefully oiled and perfumed on the ship. His legs were covered with boils and inflamed cuts, but the old man was still standing. The same could not be said for a third of their company.

“Yes. It is,” said the baron. He alone remained ruddy-cheeked and energetic, even in the face of fever. “We need someone to climb one of those trees.” He pointed at a fallen trunk, shattered against the concrete.

“I’ll go,” said Alex, before McCann could stop her. She was tired of the endless swamp, and curious what lay on the other side of the wall.

“Then go!” said the baron. Alex dug her fingers into the soft wood. The trunk groaned under her weight, but didn’t move; it was anchored in the corner formed by the wall and a massive pillar. When she reached the crown of the tree, it was an easy jump up to grab the ledge. She scrambled up, avoiding what was left of the barbed wire, and swung one leg over the side.

A huge square compound stretched for hundreds of yards in each direction. Vegetation filled the spaces between long buildings, but it was orderly growth and not as thick as the surrounding swamp. Here and there a tree grew through a window or roof, but most of the structures were intact. Empty windows and doors gaped at her like missing teeth in concrete frames. Another, higher wall guarded something in the center, and a huge, shattered steel gate hung from broken hinges on the opposite side of the compound, guarded by a pair of turrets.

Beyond the far wall, though . . . Alex wasn’t sure what it was at first, as the silver reflection of the sun blinded her. It was only when she was able to pick out the fringe of growth on the other side that he realized it was a massive river, as big as the mouth of the river where they’d sailed on the Lysia.

“A river! It’s huge!”

“Where?”

“East!”

Turin and the baron looked at each other. “The Ro River, Turin?”

“Maybe, Milord. I’ve heard stories, but . . .”

“What else can you see?” shouted the baron up to Alex. She described the compound to him.

“. . . and near the gate, there’s a little lagoon. Maybe some old docks, I’m not sure. It’s sheltered from the river.”

“We’ll take the rafts there, and move everyone inside the walls.” The baron gave his orders, and the column began to snake around the south side of the square compound.

“Alex! Come down!” McCann shouted.

Alex glanced along the wall. There was a walkway cut into the concrete on the inside, only a short drop down. It would be so easy to slip over the side onto the ramparts . . . she could run all the way round, free of the stinking swarm and filthy water. She could even beat them to the gatehouse, at the rate the soldiers were clawing through the undergrowth. Alex’s heart rebelled against the prospect of another minute wading through the muck, every step expecting a bony hand to grab her ankle. They’d lost another one this morning, throat slit and skull smashed by an officer after being bitten by a stray zombii.

“Someone needs to scout the gatehouse and make sure it’s safe. I’ll go fast and quiet, to make sure it’s not a trap. If there’s trouble, I’ll just find another tree and slip back down the other side,” she said to herself.

“Don’t worry, I’ll see you at the gate!” she yelled back, swinging her other leg over.

“Alex—!” but the rest of McCann’s shout was lost as she slid down the concrete.

(Go on to Part 29)

(Go back to Part 26)

Chapter 14

“The plague took the cities of the Ancients, one by one. Their armies were scattered, their empire in chaos. All that remained was death—death, in huge black forms, in swarms of unspeakable monsters. Winged beasts seized them from above. Burrowing monsters attacked from below. The oceans teemed and swirled with death of every kind.

Corruption rained from the skies. The earth cracked open beneath their feet to spew blood, bile, and terrible acids that burned the skin from their bodies. And from inside their companions burst the plague in its many forms, always changing and always hungry.

Despite using their most terrible weapons, the Ancients could not stop the plague. And so they ran, they fled from the horrors, and found many and varied places of refuge.

And—for a time—the Ancients thought they were safe.”

–The Lexicon, Leviathans 13:12

–

The army rested that day and most of the next night.

The next morning they mounted again, following the sigils carved into the stones. Ashes of the undead smoldered in the pass behind them, leaving a dirty smudge on the horizon for most of the day, but they continued north.

The path began to descend again. They’d fought the zombii at its highest point; now it cut back down through the hills and began to bear more to the East. Each step took them further from Antioch and the Grand Master. Alex sighed at the thought, but she dared not say anything to McCann with so many of the baron’s soldiers around them.

A hundred men died or were bitten in the battle. About half of the wounded died as well over the next few days, despite the extra room made on the mules for them. There was not so many, though—the zombii seldom wounded anyone without infecting them. The rest of the soldiers were in high spirits, particularly the young men who had survived their first battle. Ross cornered Alex one night and sang her the first few lines of “The Battle of Stony Pass,” a ballad he was writing. The young man translated as he went, cursing the Anglic tongue at every turn.

“It takes all the music out of a song!” complained Ross. “I wish I’d been in the south pass with you, fighting next to the baron! The north was too easy.”

Alex thought of the man screaming as his limbs were ripped off by the zombii. “No, you don’t.”

The ground grew wet and fertile over the next week. Soon they were walking through tall green grass, leaving a muddy track through the rolling hills. Great trees grew through the undergrowth here and there, and the sigils were carved into their trunks instead of stones. Their passage startled birds from the grass and the occasional snorting pig, but there were no signs of activity, human or zombii.

Each day the grass became thicker and the air more humid. Soon they were circling around pools of green muck and swatting away droning insects. Fallen white tree trunks lay scattered under the brush, tripping up the unwary as they slogged through thick black mud.

One day, around midday, the column halted. “Send up the sellswords,” came the word.

“Says who?” barked McCann. His left boot had sprung a leak an hour before and he was in a foul mood.

“The baron!” came the reply. Alex tried to catch his eye, but McCann wouldn’t look. “Well, I suppose we best go, then.” He picked his way forward, Alex in tow.

The baron was on foot with his advisors, gathered atop a small hillock. His black chainmail no longer glittered; it had burnished to a dark gray in the weeks on the trail, and a patch showed where it had been mended after the battle. General Clovis had the marks of a dent in his breastplate and a long scratch over one eye, but Minister Turin showed the most signs of wear. His voluminous robes were torn and splattered with mud; with his bald head and skinny neck jutting from the collar of them he looked more like a starving vulture than ever before.

The baron turned as they approached, and Alex could see what was behind him. Another cairn was raised on the hillock, similar to the one on the seashore but not as tall. This one was covered in green vines that had likely done more to hold it up than to tear it down over the years. A single flat stone served as its base.

“There they are. You two, come here,” said the baron.

“Yeah?” said McCann. “What do you want?”

“This is a mistake, Milord,” muttered General Clovis, shaking his head. “We can guess well enough without their help.”

“Quiet.” The baron pointed to the base of the cairn. “That, Curate. Can you read it?”
Alex squatted with McCann in the grass, peering at the stone slab. Faint figures were carved into it, aged by the elements.

McCann grunted. “The old language.”

“I know that,” said the baron. “Can you read it?”

“Can’t Minister Barebones over there read it?” McCann gestured at Minister Turin.

The baron glared at Turin. “His understanding is . . . incomplete.”

The old scribe averted his eyes and chewed on his lower lip. “I can read some, but the rest is gibberish. It’s some sort of code.”

“I suggest you make better sense of it than he did, Curate. Do you need encouragement?”

McCann looked at the two of them before turning back to the cairn. “No, no, of course not.”

McCann settled onto his knees and squinted at the stone characters. He circled the monument twice, slowly, tracing his fingers across the etched patterns and muttering to himself. They spent several minutes watching him.

“Well?” said the baron. “What does—”

“They’re directions,” McCann cut him off, “but Turin’s right. They’re in code. I’ll need the book.”

“The book?” Turin was startled.

“Aye. That’s where the key is.”

“But—”

“Give it to him!” commanded the baron.

Turin pulled the heavy tome from inside his robes and gave it to McCann. The sergeant eased it open on the ground next to him and began looking through it. “The key could be hidden anywhere in here,” he said.

“Then start looking!” replied the baron.

McCann paged through the thick book, making a big show of looking from the cairn to the pages and back. Soon he started scratching figures in the mud. This went on for several minutes . . . the baron began to pace. He had just opened his mouth to interrupt when McCann snapped the book shut.

“East.”

“East?”

“East. It says we go east, into the swamp.”

“That’s all?” asked the baron.

“It also says the next sign will be made clear when we see it,” added McCann.

“How did you translate it?” asked Turin.

“Ha!” McCann snorted. “And give you no reason to keep us around? I think not.” He gave the book back to Turin.

“Don’t push your luck, Curate. Serve me well, and you’ll be rewarded. Mislead us and—”

“—and we’ll all die here, devoured by the zombii or who knows what else. Trust me, Milord Baron, this sellsword loves keeping his head on his neck as much as any of you do.” Alex winced; McCann’s tone was insolent, almost mocking.

“Hmph.” The baron snorted at them before turning. “East! Let’s march!”

(Go on to Part 28)

(Go back to Part 25)

They fought against a writhing wall of mottled gray flesh that reached out at them with wasted fingers. A soldier on Alex’s right was seized from behind; her sword bit through the zombii’s arm, taking it off at the elbow before returning to smash its brainpan. Another grabbed Alex as she finished the stroke. Cracked teeth gaped at her for a moment, and then a kick from her boot threw it back with shattered ribs. She slashed at a pair of milky, vacant eyes, and her blade caught halfway through a zombii’s skull. Alex tugged it free as the creature collapsed in a quivering heap; she smashed another’s face in with her sword hilt, feeling the rotten bone collapse inward like an overripe melon.

She bashed a fourth monster with her forearm as it attacked her shoulder, snapping its head around sideways. A backhand stroke decapitated the zombii before it could recover—Alex dispatched the severed skull with her knife as it lay gnawing at the dirt.

And suddenly she was clear again. Fighting was fierce all along the line, but Alex had a few moments to pause and think. She stood, chest heaving, before remember what McCann had told her. “The bonfire. Right.”

McCann and a few of the others were formed up in a semicircle, bonfire at their backs. The bright flames lit the horde well, and their blades flashed with each stroke. A mound of shattered bodies was forming in front of them, piling on top of each other and rolling back down the slope.

The sergeant noticed her. He pulled his blade from a zombii’s brain stem and gave it a hefty kick. It came to rest against the shins of its fellows, causing a few of them to stumble. “There you are! I told you to come to the fire!”

“I got separated!”

“Ha!” McCann laughed once before stabbing a zombii through the eye. He flung it backward from the blade of his sword. “Sinclair, with his fool charges. You can’t scare the dead.”

“I think it was more for us than for them.” They were both yelling to be heard over the noise of battle. “What do we do now?”

There was a piercing scream. One of the baron’s men had pushed ahead too far from the line. The zombii tore him apart, one arm first, and then the rest of his limbs. He disappeared in a haze of blood and flying intestines.

“We fight!” McCann grimaced. “And we don’t end up like him! Here they come!”

The zombii regained their momentum. The gray wall surged forward again, driving the soldiers back to Alex and McCann. Alex stuck to the sergeant, covering his off hand as well as she could. The horde was coming fast now, and she was not as fresh as she had been before. There was not always time to kill—more often she had to disable or decapitate the undead, so great was their advantage in numbers. She knew the loose heads, with their gnashing teeth, would make things dangerous for the soldiers cleaning up after the battle . . . but that was assuming they survived the battle at all.

Alex had no idea how long they fought. All she knew was that the horde never tired, while her arms and legs began to burn. She started to get clumsy; one slashed missed the target entirely and sent her flying off balance. The zombii fell on her before she could recover. McCann saved her; his blade spun through the monsters as quick as ever. Alex felt the corpses stiffen against her before breaking into trembling shivers as they fell to the ground. The sergeant hauled her up by his collar.

“You all right?”

“I think so—”

A zombii loomed behind the sergeant. Alex kicked out with her boot and knocked one of its legs out from under it; teeth snapped harmlessly near McCann’s head. The sergeant laid a boot on its head once it fell and drove his sword down into the creature’s brain.

A horn blew in the pass. McCann kept his hold on Alex’s tunic even as the horde surged again. “Come on!”

“What?”

“Retreat!”

“But—”

There was no time to argue; they scrambled up the hill just in front of the writhing horde, covered in blood, sweat, grime, and sputum. Facing them were another three units of the Baron’s men, swords drawn and ready. Comprehension dawned as Alex threaded her way through the packed soldiers. “We fight in turns?”

“Of course. The next groups go in now. When they get tired, it’s our turn again.” Alex heard the call to charge as the last of the first groups struggled through the new lines. She collapsed against a boulder as the fresh wave of soldiers pushed the zombii back. Most of their group did the same around her, chests heaving. McCann alone looked relaxed, although he was as covered in blood and gore as the rest of them. Only a few men were missing.

Alex’s hands were shaking as she cleaned her sword. She could barely keep it steady; McCann helped her put it back in the scabbard. “You all right?”

“Yeah. Just . . . the rush . . .” Alex shook her head.

“I know. You’ll get over it. Your hands will steady when you need them to.”

She nodded. “There’s a lot of them.”

“Aye.” He nodded.

“Too many?”

“Too soon to tell,” he grunted. “And not much we can do about it if there are.”

A blur of motion caught Alex’s eye. Something fell from the bluff above to land with a wet crunch on the ground. The animals squealed in terror, tearing at their ties. “Sergeant, did you see that?”

“What?” he asked her. She pointed.

Another shape fell from the bluff. They got a better look at this one; it had arms and legs. Alex stood again. “What is this?”

McCann motioned to the nearest group of soldiers. “Find General Clovis.” One of them ran off. McCann nodded to the place where the shapes had fallen, and Alex followed him.

Broken zombii lay thick at the bottom of the cliff when they arrived, and more were falling at a steady rate. Their bodies lay in a twisted heap of shattered bones and broken limbs, writing together in an infernal mass. One had dragged itself free, pulling half an abdomen behind it with its single intact arm. McCann killed it with a single blow after pointing it out to Alex.

“They’re still trying? Even after that fall?” Alex shuddered.

“Not particularly smart, the undead,” McCann grunted as he pulled his sword free, “but dedicated, aye, I’ll give them that.”

Alex tried to tear her eyes away, but couldn’t. The empty faces, naked bodies twisted at impossible angles . . . the nightmarish mass of pulsing, desiccated flesh, squirming hands and feet like giant overturned insects; and worst of all, the continuous crunch of bone as more zombii fell from above. It was all lit by the flickering shadows of the huge bonfires. The Credo priest in Goodhollow had described hell before in his services; to Alex, this was worse.

There was a commotion and General Clovis appeared with the men of the rearguard. He was holding a lit torch in his hand. Taking in the situation at a glance, he gave a quick order and the men spread out to encircle the broken zombii. He saw McCann.

“They can move far? Out of the group?”

McCann shook his head no, pointing to the zombii he’d killed. “The furthest.”

The general nodded, and without another moment of hesitation flung the torch into the pile. A gray hand caught it; soon the flame spread to the zombii’s body, and then to its neighbors. The dry flesh crackled, and before long the entire pile was wrapped in twisting yellow flames. Fresh fuel poured over the cliff, one or two at a time, while the soldiers killed the odd monster that managed to escape the flames.

A low hiss became audible, interrupted from time to time by loud, wet popping sounds, like ripe melons being shattered on cobblestones. “What’s that?” asked Alex.

McCann smiled, his face breaking into the unfamiliar expression for the first time since they’d been with Matthias. “Brains.” Alex shuddered.

A horn blew from the south side of camp. McCann turned. “Come on. It’s our turn again.”

They fought all night. The bodies of the undead mounted at either end of the pass, piling on one another in uneven mounds. The horde became a little easier to deal with as it had to climb over the gory barriers, but the baron’s men were tiring. More of them made mistakes as the night wore on, and were bitten or pulled into the horde and devoured. Swords and bludgeons swung again and again, biting into the gray horde, spilling uncounted gallons of bile and brains, but still the zombii kept coming. The twin bonfires of burning zombii, fed by undead falling from the cliffs, kept the pass full of light and bitter smoke.

Finally, as dawn was breaking, McCann shook Alex’s arm.

“What?” Alex had drifted off to sleep without realizing it.

“Listen,” he said.

“To what?” she asked.

“The moaning.”

The ceaseless, rattling moan of the horde had filled their ears for nearly a day by now. Alex had blocked it out long ago; it took her a minute to hear it again. She listened.

“It’s quieter,” said Alex.

“Yes.” The roar of the flames was as loud as ever, but the moan of the zombii was fading. “Their numbers are thinning.”

McCann was right. Alex picked up her body to look down the slope. Fighting was still fierce, but the horde did not press them as hard as it had before.

By the time the sun was up, the horde was nearly spent. Torches were set to the hills of corpses, and a guard was posted nearby should any stray undead make it through the raging inferno. The rest of the army was assembled in groups near the center of camp.

“What now?” asked Alex as they stood in lines with the rest. She was swaying on her feet from exhaustion, like many of the others. Blood and sweat, mixed with ash from the fires, had covered her in a thick black grime.

“You’ll see. There’s one last thing to do,” said McCann.

At a signal from the baron, men began stripping off their armor. Alex looked over at McCann, but the sergeant was doing the same and so Alex followed suit. Soon they were all standing there in their underclothes.

The Baron moved down the line, flanked by the men of his guard and another in black with an ax and a cudgel. Alex figured out what they were looking for as they inspected each soldier. “Bites. They’re looking for the bitten.” McCann nodded.

A few came forward voluntarily. One old veteran had had his ear bitten off—clotted blood covered the side of his head. Most of the other bites were clean and nearly bloodless. They reminded Alex of Dalia’s wound. Exhausted, and nearly asleep on her feet, her mind wandered to the image of Dalia lying pale in Joseph’s hut. She hoped that Joseph still had as enough potion to keep her asleep.

Other soldiers, not as brave as the volunteers, had to be pulled forward when their bites were discovered. One young soldier hadn’t even noticed the unlikely injury to the back of his calf; when the guards discovered it he collapsed senseless with shock. Another tried to grab for his sword; he was stabbed a dozen times before he could rise.

“Idiot,” spat McCann. The soldiers inspected them; they were both clean.

The bitten were brought forward one at a time by the soldiers on either side of them in the line. The Baron said something in the tongue of the South, and the massed soldiers repeated it. Then they bowed, along with the Baron. The infected men spoke something in return, and then the men on their left held them down. The men on their right drew their swords and raised them high above their fellows.

Alex closed her eyes. There were a terrible few seconds of sound that she wished she could forget.

The heads were snatched as soon as they rolled from the bodies, and then everything was taken to the fires and burned.

The army was dismissed. Water was distributed, but only light food. Most of the men collapsed where they stood and slept.

Alex collected her things and dressed again. The weariness was crushing, a relentless weight that pulled at her limbs and eyelids. Still she dressed, clumsy, and stumbled over to the rock that she and McCann had made their camp. She curled up in the hollow and was asleep in an instant.

(Go on to Part 27)

(Go back to Part 23)

Chapter 12

“The flame takes many shapes, and feeds on what fuel is given. Yet the flame always remains the same.

Be like the flame, Acolyte. Let your appearance and manners change. Use what you are given.

But know that inside, you are the still the flame, constant and unchanging, and with a single purpose:

To burn.”

–The Lexicon, Vorhall’s Letters To The Acolyte 47:3

–

The belly of the baron’s flagship was crammed with soldiers and equipment. Rough hammocks were hung everywhere, and men-at-arms slept in rows on the bare wooden deck. Alex could hear donkeys braying below in the hold between stores and bales of weapons, and the stench of sweat and piss rolled up from the hatches in a heavy wave.

Alex and McCann found two unclaimed bits of decking all the way forward, squeezed between a hull timber and the chain locker. There were fifty mercenaries berthed forward already, and another two hundred of the Baron’s men amidships. The ships sailed as soon as the supplies from the Lysia were aboard.

They headed east.

A few curious glances came their way when Alex and McCann joined the group, but no one asked any questions of the two unaffiliated sellswords from Dunheim. Most of the other mercenaries were quiet men with serious faces and well-used equipment—Alex was the youngest by at least ten years.

The baron’s soldiers were younger and more lively. Many of them were Alex’s age, and they laughed, joked, and wrestled to pass the time. A few even gambled with dice late at night.

Alex didn’t participate in any of these things at first. She hung on the edge of their circles in the evening, listening to the talk without understanding. Most of it was in the rural Southern tongues, but every once in a while someone would say something in Anglic. It was always fast and noisy, with many people trying to yell over each other at the same time. Occasionally one of the older soldiers would break in with a sleepy grumble, only to be subjected to a great storm of laughter and insults. Alex soon learned to recognize those.

One evening after dinner, the boys were wrestling again in the flickering light of a ship’s lantern below deck. The pale circle of light it threw was the unofficial ring—the features of those on the edge were sharp and black with shadow, while the rest were left in darkness. Alex was in her usual place at the edge of the circle, half watching the fight and half watching the dregs of sunset through a side port. She was lost in thoughts about home when a hand grabbed her sleeve.

It was one of the soldiers, this one no more than a boy. He was always scampering around the ship in bare feet, causing trouble whenever the officers were absent. He said something quickly in the Southern tongue.

Alex shook her head. “Sorry, I don’t understand you.”

“Ah, a Northerner!” His face lit up, and he shot a quick jibe back at the others in his native language. They laughed. “Come on, it’s your turn!”

“My turn? For what?”

“To wrestle!”

“No, I—”

“What, you scared?” He turned back and said something else to the others, who laughed again and started chanting something. Alex didn’t understand the words, but she got the meaning.

“Okay, okay, what’s the rules?” she asked him.

“No boots, no belt. No weapons, of course. And no marks that will get us flogged in the morning! Some of us have real duties, you know!”

Alex considered it. She was still sore from the morning’s work with the sergeant, but without the strain of hard travel across the desert breaking her down she was feeling strong. “All right.” She kicked off her boots to wild applause.

Moments later she was at the center of the circle, sizing up her opponent. The young man was a few years older than her, and taller—although that would do him little good in the cramped quarters of the midships deck. Most of them were crouching already, including Alex, to avoid smashing their heads on the ceiling. The other boy had big, strong, callused hands, but he was slow and clumsy. A farmer, concluded Alex, and probably a recent conscript.

He lunged at Alex. She took him gently, using the farmer’s momentum against him and following the boy to the deck. As soon as she had him in a choke hold the farmer gave two quick taps on the deck. Alex released him.

The circle cheered and jibed. “Another! Another for the Northerner! Another for the sellsword!” They pushed another boy forward. Alex grinned and cracked her knuckles.

She lasted several rounds before being beaten by a massive soldier nicknamed Toro. He was muscled and squat, weighed twice as much as Alex, and was deceptively quick—a born wrestler. Toro helped her up afterward, and Alex was applauded even as she massaged her sore shoulder.

“I’m Roslin, but they call me Ross. What’s your name?” asked the scrawny boy who’d pulled Alex into the fight.

“Alex.”

“Alex! Alex!” he shouted to the rest of the group. Alex spent the rest of the night in their company, Ross translating bits of conversation and jokes. They taught her a few slang words and profanities, and got her to sing along to a crude song about barmaids that she only half understood. The night only ended when Alain stomped down the stairs and extinguished the lantern, casting a murderous glance at Alex as he did so.

She had a crop of fresh bruises the next morning, but McCann ignored them. The sergeant only said something when Alex tried the move that Toro had pinned him with the night before.

“I didn’t teach you that,” he said, after blocking it and pinning Alex again on their practice space above deck. “Where did you learn that?”

“I was wrestling with the Southerners last night.”

“Mmm.” McCann scowled. “Don’t forget who you are, Acolyte, and who they are. A thin lie is all that stands between us and two hundred swords.”

“They’re farmer’s sons, Sergeant, and shepherds.”

“Do you think that would matter? Tell me, can you take your hundred alone? Because I might need some help with mine.” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “Have you seen the others? Spent any time with them?”

“No.”

“They’re seasoned. Veterans. I see patches from the Second Coast campaign; it’s lucky no one has recognized me.” McCann shook his head. “Sinclair has bolstered his numbers with mercenaries and levies, but the core of his army is here with him too.”

“Headed east? Why east? It’s away from Dunheim, at least—”

McCann shushed her, suddenly distracted. “Shh! Look.”

Alex opened her mouth to protest, but shut it again when she saw what distracted him. From their spot on the foredeck, they could see the baron emerge from below. He climbed the quarterdeck, followed by General Clovis and Minister Turin. Turin had the book with him again.

“Watch,” whispered McCann.

Several spyglasses appeared among the group on the quarterdeck, all directed at the shore off the port side. Minister Turin paged through the book finally stopping in the middle. He placed it next to the compass and opened his own spyglass. Soon he and the general were in a heated argument, pointing at the coast and down at the book.

The baron settled them with a quick word. He spoke another two words to the helmsman, and a third to his captain. A string of commands were given. The ship made a slight change in course, and signal flags flashed up the mast to the ships stretched behind them. The baron and his advisors went below.

McCann turned to Alex. “So? What do you see?”

“They’re . . . comparing the shore to something in the book. Drawings, maybe, or writing. “ McCann nodded. “They haven’t been here before . . . and they’re looking for something.”

“Yes.”

“But what?”

“And why is he bringing two thousand soldiers with him? And closing the passes, and taking Curates prisoner? Is he hiding something?” McCann shook his head. “We’re lucky that the rest of our gold was enough to convince Captain Tyrus to deliver the horses and the dispatches to Antioch . . . assuming they get there at all.”

“I think they will.”

McCann ignored her and reached for his scabbard. “Let’s see if the Southerners taught you anything about swordplay . . .”

(Go on to Part 25)

(Go back to Part 24)

Chapter 13

“A man killed in battle with the zombii is a loss of one man.

A man infected in battle is the loss of two men, unless he is dealt with swiftly.

A coward infected in battle is the loss of an army, if his infection is hidden.”

–The Lexicon, Mastersbook 119:12

–

They hugged the coast for another two weeks. Progress was slow—often the fleet would follow inlets and estuaries all the way inland before turning and retracing their steps.

The country changed slowly as they went. At the mouth of the river, the soil at the river’s edge was dark and fertile. Thick green foliage had kept the featureless dunes at bay. Here, though, the land was dry and rocky. Tough undergrowth and scraggly trees lined the slopes of the coast whenever they put ashore to refill the water casks. There were no people anywhere; hunting parties returned with the odd goat or quail, but mostly they dined on salted meat, flatbread, and bits of hard cheese.

“The Dry Coast,” McCann called it one day. “Few sail here. No reason to.”

But the baron pushed on. The flagship was alive with rumors as to his reasons; Ross shared some with Alex a few days later. “Some say treasure. Some say weapons or powerful relics. Some say a lost city of the ancients!”

“Whatever it is,” replied McCann when Alex passed on the rumors, “it’s bound to be infected. Heading out this far out into unsettled territory is pure foolishness.”

“I haven’t seen any of them from the ship.”

“They scatter when there’s no prey. We’ll see plenty enough when we land.”

A few days later they came to a long, narrow, windswept headland that stretched far out into the sea. At the end of it was a tall stone cairn, partly collapsed. It was the first man-made structure Alex had seen since leaving Fâl Selim. Baron Sinclair snapped shut his spyglass as soon as they saw it, and they anchored in its shadow. “Tomorrow, we land.”

It took all day to land the baron’s army. Boats plied the waters of the cove in endless circuits, scraping up onto the pebble beach to deposit cargoes of men and material. Soldiers swore at donkeys, while casks of wine and water were floated up onto land. A small stone house with no roof was discovered just inland, overlooking a stream and covered in tangled undergrowth. Men were soon set to clearing and expanding it.

Alex joined McCann at a small fire that evening. “Goddamn, I’m sore. Been hauling around damn rocks all day.” Somewhere in the desert she had picked up McCann’s habit of easy blasphemy. “Sinclair wants a blockhouse big enough for a hundred.”

McCann grunted. “Yeah?”

“He’s leaving that many behind to guard the ships, while the rest march.”

“Not a bad idea. Don’t want to get cut off.”

“Still haven’t seen any of them.”

“We will.” He pulled the rabbit off the fire and tore apart a chunk with his teeth before handing the spit to Alex. “Here, it’s better than salt pork.”

“Thanks.” Alex did the same. “Still don’t know where we’re marching to, though. Nobody does.”

“Well, it’ll be inland, at least,” he said.

“Mmm?” she asked.

“Makes no sense to march when we could sail,” reasoned McCann.

There was a rustle—the men next to them stood. Alex and McCann followed suit, anticipating the presence of an officer. General Clovis stopped in front of their fire and glowered at them.

“Sellswords.”

“General.” Alex let McCann do the talking.

“The baron commands you to join him in the van tomorrow morning.”

“Did he say why?” asked McCann.

“It’s not my habit to question orders, Sellsword, and neither should it be yours.” Clovis did not care for them; that much was clear.

McCann shrugged. “It’s no difference to me. We’ll be there.”

Clovis stalked off into the scattered darkness of campfires on the beach. McCann looked back to Alex. “Looks like we’d better get some rest.”

–

The baron’s column formed up the next morning into groups of a hundred men each. McCann and Alex were in the first group with General Clovis, Minister Turin, several dozen soldiers, and the baron himself. They were the only mercenaries in the group; McCann never lost his careless scowl, but Alex could tell he was worried.

There was no track, but the army followed the streambed inland, shifting from side to side as one was more accessible than the other. Sinclair rode first, with Turin and the book. They paused often to examine boulders and exposed rock faces. Alex paused once to look for herself and found a faint arrow carved into the stone.

They left the stream on the second day, following the markers up into the hills. A great plume of dust rose from the massed feet as they trudged through the dry scrubland up into the pass. Alex missed Brutus as blisters began to rise on her feet.

On the fourth day, there was a long, low moan in the hills nearby that was cut off midway.

“Not fast enough.” McCann cursed to himself. “Dammit, Sinclair’s outriders don’t know what they’re doing.”

“What do you mean?” asked Alex.

“You have to kill them quick and quiet if you don’t want to alert the others. See, listen—”

The moan was answered by others, further away, and those answered by still more. Soon the column was surrounded by the sound. Soldiers fell silent and started checking their swords.

“Detach a rearguard. Order the rest of the column into the pass, double-time,” ordered the baron. “We’ll hold there and take care of this nuisance.” He pointed up to a split in the ridgeline ahead.

General Clovis saluted and turned back to command the rearguard. The rest of the army broke into a nervous shuffle.

Soon the sounds of singing could be heard behind them, joining the chorus of moans. Alex turned to McCann, asking a question with her eyes.

“Clovis has the men singing to buy us time,” McCann panted. “It will keep their attention—they’re slow, so as soon as they catch up the rearguard will come back and join the column. We’ll be ready for them by then.”

“Is it a good plan?” she asked him.

McCann grunted. “Depends on how many of them there are. The ground favors us; I’ve seen worse.”

They reached the narrow pass as dusk began to fall. Most of the moaning came from behind them now, following the noisy rearguard. The Baron’s men circled the supplies and animals in the narrowest part of the pass and tied the animals down.

Alex took a look around. The pass itself sloped down on either side, to the north and south. The bluffs rose up on the west and east sides of the pass, impossible to climb. McCann was right; it was good ground.

“Three groups can hold each approach,” ordered Sinclair, “with three more behind. I want the rest guarding animals and supplies. Get some fires lit—it won’t do to fight in the dark.”

It wasn’t easy to get the tough, scraggly brush to burn well, but soon there were a few passable bonfires in each approach. The baron chose his own group to hold the center of the southern approach, where the attack would be heaviest. The inexperienced units went to the north. Soldiers organized themselves, surveyed the ground, and checked their weapons yet again. They made awkward small talk among themselves. No one had any appetite with the constant chorus of moans coming from the hills around them.

Finally there was nothing to do but wait.

–

Night fell. Alex and McCann sat at the edge of the baron’s unit, leaning on broken rocks. The sergeant had somehow recreated his usual careless slump without the aid of either table or chair. Alex hunched over, reaching for the hilt of her sword with every other movement in the dark beyond.

“Not how you imagined your first real battle, I’d wager,” growled McCann, breaking the silence.

“I thought I’d be wearing different colors,” admitted Alex. She dared not say more with the others so close.

“Yes. Well.” He cleared his throat. “It won’t matter much to them. You’ll be fine,” he added, “just keep your head down and don’t do anything stupid.” McCann settled lower into his slouch. “Wake me up when they get here,” he said, and went to sleep.

Alex marveled for a moment at McCann’s total lack of concern. Soon soft snores were coming from the sergeant’s mouth. It helped make Alex feel a little calmer.

But only a little. The constant moaning still surrounded them, a shattered chorus forced through brittle vocal chords and clinging globs of phlegm. McCann was alone in his complacency; the other soldiers were as nervous as Alex was. It sounded like the horde was right on top of them, but still they were invisible.

Alex wished they would show themselves. Waiting was worse than fighting. One man nearby was holding a charm and repeating the same prayer to himself over and over again.

An hour later, there was a clatter of noise at the bottom of the slope. Alex and the other soldiers reached for their weapons, but it was only General Clovis and the rearguard. They were splattered with blood and bile, but were mostly intact.

“General Clovis!” Baron Sinclair’s voice boomed out through the darkness. He met the General halfway.

“Milord.” Clovis brought a closed fist to his mouth in salute, chest heaving. “They’re right behind us. Many thousands, we couldn’t count in the dark.”

“Very well. Take your men and join the reserve. Treat the wounded and destroy any who have been infected.” He turned to the bulk of the army. “Men! Form up!”

Alex moved to wake McCann, but the sergeant was already up. The soldiers swirled around them, forming lines in their appointed positions. McCann pointed to a bonfire right in front of them. “That’s our spot. Once the fighting starts, meet me there. Don’t stray far.”

“Alright—”the word stuck in her mouth—the horde had arrived.

The first one was old, gray, and naked. Most of its skin was missing due to wear and weather, and the twisted fibers of old muscle were visible down his thighs. One forearm flopped down, useless with bones jutting from the elbow at strange angles. One eye was a black void, but the other was still plump in the wasted face, milky white with no pupil. Both cheeks were torn open to reveal black, broken molars.

The corpse shambled forward, single good arm stretched toward them. It was joined by a second, and another, and another, and another until the pass was full of them. They knocked together shoulder to shoulder, pressing forward, pushing over one another in a writhing gray mass of sightless eyes and dangling limbs.

“Good work,” muttered McCann.

“What?” asked Alex, jolted back into herself. Her heart was racing.

“Clovis. Getting them packed together like this. Makes it easier,” grunted McCann.

There was no smell—only the constant, rattling moan that grew louder and louder until Alex felt like it was filling her eyes and ears. She wanted to run, to get away, but the rolling sigh of a thousand broken voices rooted her to the spot, froze her arms and legs—

“DRAW!” The booming voice of Baron Sinclair cut through the night. The three hundred men on either side of Alex drew their blades in a hiss of ringing steel. Alex found her own blade in her hand without knowing how it got there.

“FORWARD!” The line moved ahead, opening up to give each man fighting space. Alex picked her way over the rocks as the horde approached the bonfires.

“CHAAAAAARGE!” The soldiers of Sinclair’s army broke into a run, screaming wordless yells as they fell upon the horde. Alex screamed along with them. The swordsman next to her cleaved his first victim nearly in two with a massive overhand strike; Alex attacked her own with a more cautious thrust through the eye socket. Both fell in a spray of gray-black brain matter, and then battle was met.

(Go on to Part 26)