The Riverswords loosen their weapons without needing orders, some of them swearing over the sounds of hoofbeats. Georgia reins her horse in. “Here we go, darlings. Be ready to stop when we’re in eyeshot, and I’ll signal fight or flee when we see who’s involved.”
“What’sinvolved,” a woman with a blue armband says.
“Wait,” Shae says, anxiety building. He wants to cast a few more spells, so they can see what’s ahead without getting too close. But Georgia has already kicked her horse into a gallop, and her mercenaries follow without another word.
Swearing, Shae nudges Sparrow after them at a trot, as fast he can go without tumbling off the horse’s back. Sparrow’s ears prick forward, and he pulls against the bit, eager to follow the herd. As the Riverswords draw farther away, the cold begins to bite at Shae’s hands and feet. They’re a flash of white and bay in a plume of dark dust, heading towards a collection of broken walls and burning magic.
A horse screams, and someone yells. Hoofbeats clatter ahead, and a bay horse belonging to one of the Riverswords comes galloping back towards Shae, his rider nowhere to be seen. The horse shoots through the rocky landscape like an arrow, heedless of anything besides getting away.
Sparrow shies sideways as the riderless horse races past. The sudden movement knocks Shae’s foot out of the stirrup. He swears, grabbing for mane and trying to rebalance, but he overcorrects. Time seems to stand still as he clings sideways to the saddle, his knee barely hooked over Sparrow’s shoulder.
Then ground rushes towards him.
His thigh and shoulder take the brunt of the impact, and all the breath knocks from his lungs. He rolls away from Sparrow’s hooves and springs to his feet, lunging for the reins, but the horse dances just out of reach. Shae can’t catch the leather before Sparrow spins around and races away after the other horse.
“Fuck,” Shae wheezes, clutching his shoulder. His breath comes back to him in painful heaves. Nothing feels broken, and the pain hasn’t fully set in yet. He can push through the bruises.
Drawing his knife, he staggers towards the dark magic and screams ahead.
He walks into a bloodbath. Men and women and monsters fight in the shadow of a broken tower, surrounded by the remains of an ancient curtain wall and the wreckage of a far more recent camp. There are crumpled tents and still-smoldering cookfire embers scattered beneath the combatants’ feet.
There are bodies on the ground, too. Not Riverswords. They might be bandits, like the ones that killed his parents, but Shae can’t dredge up any anger right now. His stomach is too sick with the scent of blood, the sight of bone breaking through limbs.
One of the Riverswords gallops past him, nearly knocking him over as she rides away from the carnage. A vaidkos leaps from a crumbled stone wall and slams into her, clawing her to the ground. Her scream breaks off when the vaidkos’s jaws tear through her throat. Blood sprays into the air, painting her skin and clothes, including her blue armband.
Shae throws himself into the wall’s shadow and peers around it, trying to see what’s happening. Georgia and two of her people are fighting vaidkos and human corpses alike. The vaidkos wield fangs and claws, and the corpses wield spears and axes and knives—
And teeth as well. One lunges for Georgia, teeth bared, and nearly bites her before she shoves her sword down its throat. A scream rattles from its dead body, and she kicks it off her sword.
None of them see Shae yet. His warding rings are still working, but it’s only a matter of time. There are too many vaidkos and corpses, and too few mercenaries. Guilt seizes Shae in iron claws. He shouldn’t have brought these people out here. This was his mistake to clean up, but all he’s doing is getting people killed.
He needs to do something.
Anything.
As soon as the vaidkos lunges away, Shae darts for the woman with the armband. He falls to his knees beside her and whispers, “Sorry,” as he splays his hand over her mangled chest. His fingers sink into the wounds, and he feels wet bone against his palm. Her throat is gone, but her face is intact, with dead eyes and slack jaw. She was blond and pretty. Shae doesn’t remember her name, and he fixates on that instead of the gore slipping through his fingers.
With a shuddering breath, he lets in the darkness. Power rushes into him like a river of dark fire, and the pain and violence and resentment of the mercenary’s death floods into him. As much as he can take without losing himself. The shadow and light cage shivers around his innermost soul, close to fracturing. Shae takes in as much as he dares, and then a little more, and then searches for a target.
He draws the dead energy like a bowstring, and releases it.
The power arcs through air and slams into the vaidkos fighting Georgia. The lizard-like creature screeches and tumbles sideways, running into one of its brethren. Georgia lunges forward and hacks at its neck, sending up a plume of green-black blood.
Shae turns his attention to the next target, and the next. A rotting farmer’s head explodes with Shae’s stolen power, but it’s too late to save the gutted mercenary falling to his knees beside him. Shae doesn’t pay attention to him. He can’t help the wounded; his magic doesn’t heal. All he can do is kill, and take from the dead.
“Nightven!” Georgia screams from across the wrecked camp, just as every ring on his right handburns.
His concentration breaks, and the next arc of power shatters around him. He barely throws himself to the side before a black sword sinks into the earth where he was kneeling. The hem of his coat tears around the blade. Agony ripping through his hand, Shae scrambles to his feet.
A figure in dark clothing stands above the woman with the armband. With his tattered brown coat and black trousers, he’s dressed just like the other dead bandits scattered across the campsite. Long, blood-matted hair covers most of his waxy, pale face. Both his arms hang by his side. The black blade lifts of its own accord and hovers beside him. The corpse lifts his head, and familiar red eyes bore into Shae.
Shae throws the arrow of death energy, but Izen’s sword spins around and deflects it. Izen walks forward, stepping on the blond mercenary’s body as he crosses it. The ring on Shae’s right forefinger blazes once more, then goes inert, its power spent.
“Shaesarenna.” Izen’s voice is hoarse through the dead man’s throat. “You’re getting better at this. I thought you’d always be too scared to truly use the gift I gave you.”
“A gift?” Shae snaps. “I paid plenty for this.” He backs up slowly, casting around for a better weapon. Another source of power. There are two dead bandits slumped against the wall, if he can get to them—
He lunges, but only gets a few steps before a cold hand slams around his throat. Izen is a blur of dark movement. He forces Shae back against the wall, the crumbled top of it hitting just below his shoulderblades. Shae curves back against the stone, the dead man’s hand like an iron collar. Cold permeates his entire body. He wishes desperately, pathetically, for Arthur’s heat, Arthur’s touch. The comfort of Arthur’s mere voice, to get him through this.
