—<FOURTEEN>—

North, East and West

 

 

Redwane paced the firelit interior of the temple of Ulric, a pulsing vein throbbing at his temple as he listened to Myrsa’s pronouncement. Renweard stood at the count’s side, the sword of the Warrior Eternal held loosely over his shoulder, while Bordan sat on a block of dark stone yet to be hoisted to the temple walls. The flame of Ulric burned cold in the centre of the stone-flagged plaza, white and stark against walls that rose daily to enclose it as the temple neared completion.

Ar-Ulric and his wolves circled the flame, their black eyes reflecting its glow and regarding Redwane as a fox eyes a wounded hen. The temple had changed a great deal since Sigmar’s defeat of the daemon lord, all traces of the battle cleaned from the stonework and paved over with polished granite hewn from the quarries of the Middle Mountains. It had been a magnificent battle, yet no one wanted a reminder of that dread avatar of the northern gods to befoul a holy place of Ulric.

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” said Redwane. “You’re really not going to march out?”

“I have made my judgement, Redwane,” said Myrsa. “And my decision is final.”

“But Sigmar needs us. You heard what Ar-Ulric said—the armies of Nagash are closing on Reikdorf. We have to ride south.”

“We need to keep Middenheim safe,” said Myrsa, clutching the hilt of the runefang tightly. The count of the northern marches walked towards Redwane and laid a hand upon his shoulder. “I know you and Sigmar are close, but the Emperor has entrusted me with the safety of Middenheim and I cannot let him down. If I ride south with my army then this city is doomed. Surely you must see that?”

“All I see is that we’re abandoning the Emperor when he needs us most.”

“You are not thinking straight, my friend,” said Myrsa, concern written across his features. “The deathly champion on the causeway wounded you deeper than you know.”

Redwane shrugged off Myrsa’s hand, angry at the other man’s pity. Two days had passed since Ar-Ulric’s arrival, and his strength was only now beginning to return. The icy numbness and frozen chill that had stilled his heart still clung to his grey flesh. No heat warmed Redwane now, yet neither cold nor fear touched him anymore. His body was alive, yet he felt no sensations of life. Food was tasteless, beauty meaningless, and all that remained to him was the pain of his many scars.

He turned to Ar-Ulric, his tone accusing. “You agree with this? You crowned Sigmar, remember? You would cower in this mountain city and leave him to his fate? That is not Ulric’s way, or if it is, I’ll have no part of it.”

The wolves at Ar-Ulric’s side growled, baring fangs of ice and obsidian, their yellowed eyes boring into him with cunning beyond that of beasts. Redwane met their stare unflinchingly, daring them to gainsay him. Ar-Ulric crossed the temple towards him, his aura of frozen winters leaving Redwane untouched. Behind the great wolf-skull helm, Redwane saw piercing eyes like those of the wolves, one pale as a winter sky, the other blacker than a moonless night.

“You are soul-sick, Redwane of the Unberogen,” said Ar-Ulric, placing his glittering axe between them. Chill wisps of icy air wafted from the blade and haft, but Redwane felt nothing of the cold. “You do not see the passage of time as I do. I roam the wild places of this world, following the breath of Ulric to the forgotten sites of primal power. I seek to follow the wolf god’s path and instruct men in his ways of honour and courage.”

“Really?” said Redwane. “Then why do we never see you? It’s been over a decade since you’ve shown your damn face amongst the tribes. That doesn’t sound like you’re doing much in the way of instruction. That sounds a lot like hiding to me.”

“Redwane!” barked Myrsa. “Hold your tongue!”

Ar-Ulric held up his hand to silence Myrsa. “My days of wandering are over. From this day until the coming of the Red Eye, he who brings the End Times, Middenheim shall be my abode. But the Heldenhammer must face the dread Necromancer without the warriors of the north or he is not fit to be Emperor.”

“Why?” demanded Redwane. “Tell me why.”

“Because if the Flame of Ulric is ever extinguished, then the Empire dies with it. Do you understand that, Redwane of the Unberogen?”

“I understand it, but I do not accept it,” said Redwane. “And if that is the word of Ulric, then I spit on him and curse his name with my last breath!”

Gasps of horror spread through the temple at Redwane’s blasphemy, and more than one hand found its way to a weapon. Renweard swung the sword of the Warrior Eternal down, and Myrsa’s face flushed in anger.

“You dare speak such words in this place?” cried Myrsa.

“You’re damn right I do,” Redwane shouted back at him. “You’re deserting your Emperor and your friend because this madman who roams the wilderness on his own tells you to. For all you know he’s as mad as Torbrecan’s lunatics. Well I won’t abandon Sigmar, and if you won’t march to Reikdorf, I’ll go alone.”

“Then you’ll die,” said Myrsa.

“So be it,” said Redwane. “The gods don’t seem to care one way or another.”

He spun on his heel and marched towards an archway to the city beyond, feeling dead inside yet filled with fresh purpose and determination.

“Damn you, Redwane, I forbid you to go,” said Myrsa. “You are a warrior of the White Wolves! Sworn to the defence of Middenheim.”

Redwane turned and tore the wolf pelt from his shoulders. He dropped the cloak at his feet and unhooked the heavy warhammer from his belt. He let it slide from his grip, and it fell with a clatter of finality to the flagstones.

“Not anymore I’m not,” he said.

 

The streets of Middenheim were cold, colder than he remembered them, but it didn’t touch him. Redwane saw men and women huddled in doorways, pulling threadbare blankets around them as the breath misted before their mouths. Sunlight couldn’t penetrate the oppressive gloom that pressed down, and it seemed as though the warmth was being leeched from the world day by day. Once again, the city was filled with refugees, and Redwane wondered what manner of gods could leave their people to suffer such an endless parade of misery as the people of the Empire were forced to endure.

Redwane walked the streets at random, keeping to the shadows and losing himself in the maze of stone structures. Faces passed him, men in armour and men in rags. He no longer knew where he was going, and he no longer cared. Men he had trusted and called friend were turning their backs on Sigmar, the hero who had given them everything. Now Sigmar was in mortal danger and they did nothing to help him. The certainties of loyalty and honour upon which Redwane had built his life were crumbling, and all that was left was the coldness in his heart that knew there was only one path open to him.

He passed through the streets as a ghost, numb to the world around him and feeling the pain of his scars as if they reached down through his skin and into his bones. The wound in his chest throbbed like a second heartbeat, one that pumped ice around his body instead of blood. People were looking at him strangely, but he paid them no mind, walking ever onwards as he unbuckled plates of his armour, shedding iron as a serpent sheds its skin to be reborn.

His path became clearer with every plate that hit the ground, his steps surer and more certain. His head came up and he saw the world around him, bleached of colour and life, and knew that this was its true face. Love was a lie and struggling against the pain and misery that life threw up was pointless.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see a face he knew, but couldn’t place.

“What in Ulric’s name are you doing, you fool?” said the black-haired man clad in red armour and wrapped in a wolfskin cloak. Another man stood behind him, one with a sour face that made him look like he’d swallowed a mouthful of vinegar.

“I know you,” said Redwane.

“Of course you damn well do,” snapped the man. “It’s me, Leovulf.”

“Leovulf, yes,” nodded Redwane.

“We heard what happened at the temple of Ulric,” said Leovulf. “But what they’re saying’s wrong, isn’t it? You’re still a White Wolf, aren’t you?”

“Doesn’t look like it,” said the other man, lifting a discarded vambrace from the street.

“Shut up, Ustern,” said Leovulf.

Ustern, yes, that was it. Redwane turned away from them, making his way deeper into the city.

“Hey,” said Leovulf, taking hold of him once again. “Were they right about you saying you’re leaving for Reikdorf? To fight alongside the Emperor?”

“Yes, I’m going to Reikdorf,” said Redwane. “That’s what I told Myrsa, and that’s what I’m doing. The Emperor needs us and I’ll be damned if I don’t go to him.”

“And I’ll be damned if I let you go get yourself killed.”

“Don’t try and stop me,” said Redwane, clenching his fists.

“I’m not going to, but I meant what I said. I’m not going to let you get yourself killed, so if you’re set on marching to Reikdorf, then I suppose I’m going with you.”

“I’ll come too,” said Ustern. Redwane and Leovulf looked at him in surprise. Ustern shrugged. “A captain needs his banner bearer, else he’s not a captain is he?”

“Good point, lad,” said Leovulf. “Well?”

“Well what?” said Redwane.

“How are you planning to get to Reikdorf?” demanded Leovulf. “In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s a host of the living dead surrounding this city. You’ll need a damned army to break through, and I don’t see Count Myrsa giving you his.”

“I know,” said Redwane, “but I know how we can get another one.”

 

Dawn was less than an hour away, but Maedbh knew the rising sun wouldn’t save them. She knelt beside a boulder at the edge of the river and dipped her cupped palms below its rippling surface. Splashing the cold water on her face sharpened her focus, but she knew it wouldn’t last. Her entire body ached and she rubbed the heels of her palms against her eyes.

Even on campaign, when sleep was an elusive bedfellow, she hadn’t been this tired. In times of war she fought alongside warriors, men and women who could look after themselves. This was very different.

Now she had people to protect who couldn’t defend themselves.

The entire population of Three Hills and its surrounding villages had agglomerated into one long column of frightened people, making their way west with whatever possessions they could load onto wagons or carry on their backs. Perhaps six hundred people rested in the shade of a low ridge of hills, old men and women, children and those too sick or injured to march with the queen. Garr’s sword band of Queen’s Eagles stood watch and she gave thanks that Freya had thought to leave these fearsome warriors at Three Hills. Only thirty of them marched with them, but their presence alone was helping to keep spirits high.

Maedbh turned away from thoughts of the queen, the guilt that she should have gone with her assuaged by the fact that she could still protect her own daughter and Freya’s sons. She clung to the hope that Freya might still live; after all, Master Alaric had said that some had escaped the massacre. If anyone could survive a battle with the living dead, it was Queen Freya.

This was their fifth day of march, and they had covered barely half the distance to the confluence of the great rivers. The oldest and youngest rode in the few wagons that hadn’t been taken by the queen’s army, but the rest walked. They were moving too slowly, and their pursuers did not need to stop to eat and rest as they must. Despite their stature, the dwarfs easily matched the pace of the Asoborns, moving ahead of the column and keeping watch on its vulnerable sides and rear. They took no rest, didn’t seem to eat or sleep, and were as indefatigable as the foe that pursued them.

Packs of dead wolves dogged their every step, darting in from the flanks to savage a straggling family or to pick off a child that wandered too far from the column. The dwarfs had saved as many as they could, but Maedbh sensed their frustration at the slow speed the Asoborns were making. The dead were right behind them, and every time her people rested, they got a little closer.

Ulrike, Sigulf and Fridleifr lay asleep on the grass beside her, and Maedbh stroked her daughter’s hair. She was loath to wake the children, but dwarf scouts had reported seeing sunlight on spear points no more than a few miles behind them. They would need to be on the move soon.

She wished Wolfgart were here, imagining him riding over the hills on his finest stallion to her rescue with his mighty sword hewing the dead like corn at harvest time.

“What I wouldn’t give to see that,” she whispered. “I miss you, my gorgeous man.”

Maedbh looked up from the river as she saw a stout warrior in heavy plates of gleaming metal and fine mail reflected in the water. She hadn’t heard him approach.

“Master Alaric,” she said.

“The man you are bonded to is called Wolfgart?” asked Alaric.

Maedbh nodded, more surprised at the question than by the fact that the dwarf knew to whom she was bonded. “That’s right. Do you know him?”

“I do,” said the dwarf. “I fought beside him at Black Fire, and we saved each other’s life many times in the tunnels beneath Ulric’s city.”

“Middenheim? Wolfgart would never speak of that battle.”

“That does not surprise me, for it was bloody and desperate,” said Alaric. “I do not like to remember it, but if you are his bonded woman, then I must.”

“I don’t understand.”

“A dwarf never forgives an insult, and never forgets a debt.”

Maedbh laughed mirthlessly. “Wolfgart owes you money? He always was lousy at dice.”

“No,” said Alaric. “Not money. Wolfgart and I fought the vermin beasts in the tunnels beneath Middenheim. The rats were all over us, and we fought in the cramped darkness by the light of dying torches. We fought with axes, picks and daggers or whatever came to hand. I hauled his arse from the jaws of a giant ogre beast with metal for arms and he slew an armoured rat-champion with a short-handled pick to its brain. We fought in those tunnels for days, but at the end of it all we were victorious. I remember every moment of that fight, and Wolfgart saved my life on seven separate occasions. I saved him six times.”

“I’m sure Wolfgart isn’t counting,” said Maedbh.

“That matters not,” said Alaric. “I am counting, and I owe him a blood debt.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that I am indebted to him and his kin.”

“Is that why you came to Three Hills, to pay your debt to Wolfgart?”

“Not entirely,” said Alaric. “We were coming to the Empire to take back a war machine your Emperor’s warriors retrieved from a representative of the Deeplock Clan. That, and we heard that the great necromancer had returned. But mainly to retrieve the war machine. Your settlement was on the way and was the quickest way for us to get ahead of the blood drinker’s army.”

“Then I’m indebted to you for warning us,” said Maedbh.

Alaric shook his head. “There is no debt between you and I, Maedbh of Three Hills, but when I see you to Reikdorf, the debt I have with Wolfgart is settled.”

“That seems fair enough,” agreed Maedbh.

“To allow me to honour that debt, I need you to do something.”

“Yes, I know,” said Maedbh, pushing herself wearily to her feet. “I will get my people moving, but they needed to rest.”

Alaric looked back to the east, as though he could see through the earth to spy upon the army of the dead. For all Maedbh knew of the mountain folk’s skill, perhaps he could. Alaric sniffed the air and stamped a foot on the hard packed earth of the riverbank, as though listening to its echo through the ground.

“That is not what I mean,” said Alaric.

“Then what do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. My debt is to you, not these other manlings. You have to leave those who cannot keep up. Your kind lives and dies so quickly it will make no difference to your race. The old will be dead soon anyway, and you can breed more young in your belly. These ones aren’t old enough to work or fight yet. What use are they to you?”

Maedbh struggled to hold her temper in the face of Alaric’s request.

“You want us to leave our people behind?” she said, as evenly as she could.

“It is the only way some of you will live,” said the dwarf. “Save those who can outpace the dead, leave the rest behind. Better to save some than none.”

“No, Master Alaric,” said Maedbh. “That won’t be happening. No one gets left behind.”

“Then you will all die.”

“Then we will all die,” hissed Maedbh. “I’d sooner we all died right here than live with knowing I left my own people here to be killed.”

Alaric’s face was unreadable in the dim light, but Maedbh thought he was more surprised at her decision than angry or disappointed. At length, he sighed.

“Very well, if you will not leave them behind, then my warriors and I cannot leave.”

“What? No! I don’t want your deaths on my head.”

“That is not our custom, Maedbh of Three Hills,” said Alaric. “The debt demands it.”

Further words were forestalled as Garr came running over, his sword drawn and the visor of his eagle-winged helmet pulled down over his handsome face.

“My lady,” he said, “the mountain folk say the vanguard of the dead are upon us. You need to go right now. We will hold them off as long as we can, but you must get the queen’s boys out of here.”

Maedbh took a deep breath, weighing the impossible choices before her.

“No,” she said. “We’re not leaving.”

“My lady?” said Garr. “You have to move. Queen Freya—”

“Queen Freya is not here,” snapped Maedbh. “And you will obey me, Garr. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my lady,” said the warrior. “What is it you require of us?”

Maedbh looked around her for somewhere they could make their stand, finally settling upon a wooded hill to the north. The river curled lazily around its eastern flank, and the thick trees would make any advance from the west next to impossible. The dead would have to come straight at them up the steep southern slope.

“Form up with Alaric’s dwarfs on yonder hill,” she said, pointing to the ridge of trees above them. “We can’t outrun the dead, so we’ll fight them. We’ll fight them and make them wish they’d never invaded Asoborn lands.”

Garr quickly studied the lie of the land, and she saw his understanding that this could be nothing more than a last stand. Maedbh gripped his shoulder and jabbed a fist at the column of Asoborns.

“Get everyone who can hold a weapon in the battle line, no matter how old or young or wounded,” ordered Maedbh. “Everyone fights, no one runs.”

He nodded and said, “It will be done, my lady.”

The Queen’s Eagle ran off to get the Asoborns moving and Maedbh turned to Master Alaric. She drew her sword and said, “After today your debt is settled, whether we live or die. Will that satisfy your customs?”

“It will indeed, my lady,” nodded Master Alaric with a deep bow. “It will be my honour to die alongside you, Maedbh of Three Hills.”

“Don’t put me in the ground just yet,” said Maedbh as the sun rose over the eastern mountains, spreading its promise across the land. She smiled as fresh hope filled her heart and closed her eyes, tilting her face towards the sun. “This is the Empire, and stranger things have happened than us living to see another dawn.”

Alaric heard the change in her voice and shook his head.

“Give me a hundred lifetimes and I’ll never understand you manlings,” he grumbled.

 

* * *

 

The third night of attacks on Marburg’s citadel walls ended with the dawn, the dead melting away to the shadowed eaves of the lower town and docks. The base of the walls were thick with bones and decaying corpses, the detritus of the night’s battle which would, come sundown, rise once more to claw their way up the pitted stone.

Though the loss of the lower town was a blow, Marius’ rescue of Aldred had given the defenders fresh hope, and the tale of his magnificent ride circulated throughout the city, becoming ever grander and more adventurous as it went. Each day saw the warriors defending Marburg working in shifts to rebuild broken defences, shore up gates that withered and rotted under the effects of wasting sorcery, stitch wounds and pray to the gods for salvation.

Marius shook his sword free of ash from the grinning, skull-faced dead man he’d just killed, and sheathed his blade. The warriors around him cheered, and he smiled modestly as he accepted a towel from a nearby lancer to mop his brow.

“We may fight at night, but it’s still damned hot work,” he said, loud enough for the warriors along this stretch of wall to hear. A few dutiful chuckles greeted his remark, but most of the men were too exhausted and drained by fear to acknowledge his words. Few had slept since the battle had begun. Terrible visions plagued every man’s dreams and phantoms haunted the streets in ghostly processions of long dead comrades.

Looping the towel around his neck, Marius rested his elbows on a projecting merlon of the walls, scanning the lower town for any sign of a fresh attack. A dank fug of lingering smoke and mist hung over the abandoned district, rendering its buildings blurred and its inhabitants ghostly. At a distance, the docks of Marburg could almost be normal; hundreds of indistinct figures filled its streets, shuffling from one shadow to the next, milling with apparent purpose, but really just meandering like ants from an overturned nest. Most of the corsair ships that had brought the dead to Marburg were wrecked now, their hulls holed by long shafts of iron hurled from the citadel’s war machines or burned with flaming arrows.

Marius glanced skyward, looking for the dragon that had attacked the walls on the first night. It swooped over the fighting, filling the air with a drifting miasma that reeked of putrefaction and caused many of the wounded to sicken.

He turned as he smelled a scent of wildflowers, recognising the fragrant oil Marika liked to rub on her skin. She hadn’t spoken to him after his rescue of Aldred, and Marius was intrigued to hear what she would make of that act. Marika wore leather buckskin, elegantly cut yet practical, and a quilted leather jerkin. Her bow was slung over one shoulder and a slender rapier was sheathed at her side. Marika’s blonde hair was tied back in a severe ponytail, yet she was still devastatingly feminine.

Which was a welcome sight in a citadel defended by burly, seafaring men.

“Princess,” he said with a languid bow. “It gladdens my heart to see you well.”

“Count Marius,” she said. “Would you walk with me awhile?”

“It would be my honour,” replied Marius, hiding his amusement at the simmering anger he saw lurking behind her facade of courtesy. He proffered his arm and she hooked her own around it as they walked the length of the ramparts, looking like a courting couple out for a promenade along the seafront. A pair of Jutone lancers and four Raven Helms followed them, chaperones and bodyguards all in one.

When they had put enough distance between themselves and their warriors, Marika tilted her face towards him and said, “What in Manann’s name did you think you were doing?”

“I assume you’re referring to my rescue of Aldred?”

“What else would I be referring to?” she snapped. “It was perfect. He’d got himself cut off and all you had to do was watch him die. Why did you ride out?”

Marius smiled as they passed a band of Endal warriors gathered around a glowing brazier. He nodded to them as they tapped their fists against their mail shirts. Marika was cunning in a vicious, feral way, but he had been manipulating others for years and knew the way people’s minds worked.

“What’s so damn funny?” she said, seeing his smile.

“You, my dear,” he said. “You think you’re a wily schemer, but you’re not looking at the big picture.”

He saw her anger threaten to spill out and raised a placatory hand. “Let us assume for the moment that Aldred had died on the first night. You think that would be the outcome you desire, but you would be mistaken.”

“How so?” said Marika.

“If Aldred had died then, nothing would have changed in your tribe’s perception of me. They would still hate me, and would never consent to our marriage. But look at how they see me now. Jutones are fighting and dying alongside Endals, and I have saved the life of their beloved count. Now I am not hated, now I am seen as a sword brother to Aldred. This battle isn’t over, and a lot can happen between now and its end, including your brother’s untimely end. If we play this game well, you and I will be heroes by its conclusion. Then we can marry and make this city the greatest seaport in the Empire. Now doesn’t that sound like it’s a plan that’ll catch a fair wind?”

Marika listened to his words with a growing admiration, and Marius wanted to laugh at how simply she was impressed. He patted her hand and she turned to face him, giving her most winning smile. He saw through it, but it was a pleasant view nonetheless.

“I’m beginning to think I underestimated you, Marius,” she said.

“Most people do,” he replied with a self-satisfied smirk. “It must be the cultured, debonair appearance of wealth I project. Though anyone with half a grain of sense would realise that you don’t get to be this rich and powerful without having a head for intrigue and a heart for murder.”

“So what happens next?” asked Marika, pulling him on towards one of the towers flanking the citadel gates. Endal archers were stationed here and two of the bolt throwing war machines stood on elevated wooden platforms that could be turned in any direction.

Marius shrugged and leaned on the timber steps that led up to the war machine. “We fight the dead and, like I said, this battle is far from over. Anything can happen, or anything can be allowed to happen.”

“Enemy!” shouted a voice from further along the ramparts, and Marius looked over the lower town, searching for what had triggered the warning. Archers loosed shafts into the grey skies as a vast shape moved through the mist, like a great undersea creature viewed from the deck of a ship. Marius prided himself on being afraid of nothing, but as the great dragon flew from the haze, he found himself rooted to the spot in terror.

A juggernaut of decaying meat and loose flaps of draconic hide, the colossal monster flew over the ramparts of the city with crackling sweeps of its ragged wings. Chains rattled and gears rasped as the war machines were hauled around and eight-foot barbs were loaded into bronze-sheathed firing grooves.

The dragon circled the Raven Hall, its wings beating the air in a parody of flight, for its mass was surely kept aloft by foul sorcery. Astride its neck, the black-robed sorcerer hurled a stream of baleful energies at the Raven Hall, wreathing it in crackling arcs of scarlet light from top to bottom.

Marius grabbed Marika and dragged her behind the war machine as the Raven Hall cracked and groaned, its structure aged a thousand years in the space of a breath. Crumbling stone poured like sand from its joints and a rain of powdered obsidian wept from the raven’s eyes as the mighty structure sagged to the side. Booming cracks echoed over the city as the tower’s stone split as cleanly as though struck with a giant mason’s hammer.

The circling dragon roared with the rasp of a million plague victims’ death cries, and beat its wings as it hurled itself at the tower. Its hind claws slammed into the Raven Hall and its enormous weight completed what the sorcerer’s spell had begun. The top of the great tower of Marburg exploded in a rain of blackened stone, and its lower reaches keeled over like a felled oak. Vast blocks, each the size of a hay wagon, rained down upon Marburg, smashing buildings flat and wreaking untold damage throughout the city.

Thunderous booms shook the citadel as the rain of blocks hit in a series of percussive hammer blows, and billowing dust storms surged from the impacts. Marius pulled his cloak up over his face as the debris cloud rolled over him. He edged his way along the platform and threw off his cloak. Choking dust made him cough, and gritty fragments scratched his eyes. Marika huddled behind the war machine, her knees drawn up to her chest and her hands covering her face and mouth.

“Marika!” he yelled. “Are you hurt?”

She looked up, numbed by the sight of the ancestral seat of the Endal kings so comprehensively destroyed. She shook her head and rubbed her eyes free of dust. Marius pulled her to her feet. She was in shock, but he didn’t have time to play nice.

He slapped her across the face, and said, “Snap out of it, princess! The dead will be attacking any moment. If you want to rule this city, then you have to get your people ready to fight! Do you understand me?”

“I understand,” she said, her eyes filled with anger. “And if you hit me again I’ll kill you.”

Marius smiled and said, “That’s my girl. Aren’t we a pair of lovebirds?”

The sound of clashing swords and clattering bone sounded from the lower town as the army of the dead marched towards the citadel once more. Endal sergeants and battle captains shouted at their warriors to stand to as the flapping of leathery wings filled the air. The howls of cursed wolves echoed over the black sea, and over everything came the bellowing, deathly roar of the skeletal dragon.

“Shall we?” said Marika, notching an arrow to her bowstring.

“We shall,” agreed Marius, drawing his blade.