Nick looked at the warehouse roof, mapping out a path to the next building. Their eaves came close enough, he thought, that he might be able to do it: down the slope of this roof, pick up some speed, and across. He checked again, then pushed off with his left foot, running down the wooden shingles of the warehouse.

  With the fourth and fifth step, he was already at the bottom. With his sixth step planted firmly on the edge of the roof, he pushed himself off, holding his breath as he flew out over the deep alley below. The roof of the second warehouse rose up to meet him, a thrill fluttering through his mind as he came down to land exactly where he'd planned. He flared his arms out to the side for a stylish landing, momentarily annoyed that there was no one to see it. He ran up to the next peak, gulping in deep, heaving breaths. He crouched, fighting against the cramps in his stomach, bending his neck back to stretch out the ache that was building in his shoulders. This, he reminded himself, was life without magical gear: exertion, and effort, and sore muscles as a reward.

  Above him, the sky was blue and nearly clear, with only a few light clouds. There were no seabirds, no cries of gulls, just the distant sounds of combat, the crunch of steel against dried and rotting flesh and bone. Nick's mind began to wander to thoughts of the fighting down below, and all the things that might happen next.

  He pushed the thoughts aside, and just let himself run on instinct. When he trusted his body, it knew what to do. His mother's guidance was still there in the back of his mind. Years of training and repetition awaited him, ready to guide his movements.

  Nick pushed himself to his feet, his legs aching as he jogged along the ridge beam. He slowed as he approached the edge of the building, where the peak overlooked the street. Crouching, he looked down.

  Thirty feet below, the street was a sea of grey-skinned undead. Even from this height, he could smell the decay from freshly open wounds on some of the more recently deceased warriors. The wight high priest stood in front of the doors of the warehouse across the street. Purple and blue ropes of magical energy writhed in front of the wight as its withered hands moved in slow gestures. The ropes moved as though they were the only living things.

  A dozen paces away stood Magic, standing like a fiery statue, arms outstretched to gather the motes of white light that flew into it from across the city.

  Halfway up the hill to Nick's right, the army of undead was still in pitched battle with other undead: two indistinguishable factions of zombies, locked in an awkward, staggering melee, shuffling reinforcements joining the fray from side streets.

  Much further up the hill, almost at the top of the street, Nick caught a glint of steel. A smaller group, shining red and gold in the sunlight, was methodically hacking its way into the street full of zombies, carving a path down the hill.

  He heard a sound below him, a pained grunt; a voice he knew well. Looking down, he saw Cass. With a wake of hacked zombie corpses littering the street behind her, she had cut her way within a few paces of the wight's position at the top of the warehouse ramp. Magic stood not five paces behind her, and yet it ignored her. A press of corpses had surrounded her, shoving against her from all sides, crowding her sword's swings. A rain of dried, leathery fists beat down upon her, causing her to take a step back, her sword still a steel blur cutting at the wall of zombies around her. Nick felt panic welling up inside him as he watched Cass struggle. He wanted to call out, to jump down into the fight and stand by her, but he knew he'd be useless down there; the zombies would tear him apart in moments. Nick forced the fear from his mind, concentrating instead on what lay in front of him. The best way for him to help Cass was to get that amulet from the wight.

  At the roof's peak, the ridge-beam extended out beyond the end of the warehouse, three paces out over the street. An old block and tackle were tied over it, for hauling goods from wagons in the street up into the upper loft of the warehouse. The building across the street – where the wight stood – had a ridge-beam as well, with its own block and tackle, reaching out into the street from the other side. It was offset from the one on Nick's building by only a few paces.

  Nick tried to imagine where each footfall should be. If his final step was at the end of his building's ridge beam, and if he launched himself upward and to the left, he might land on the beam of the warehouse across the street. If it didn't work, the stone awaited him three stories below.

  Then he heard a grunt from below; it sounded like Cass again, but he couldn't bring himself to look. Nick started walking back along the ridge-line, away from the edge. He turned, took a deep breath, and planted his feet.

  One, two. A shove with his left leg, to get him going. His right leg pushed back, aching as it did.

  Three, four. Was he doing the right thing? Or was he just throwing his life away?

  Five, six. He couldn't hear his heartbeat any more. The only sound was the heaving of breath in and out of his lungs. His muscles burned; the pain was getting worse.

  Seven. No, he decided, he wasn't throwing his life away. He'd already done that on his own. He was out on the ridge beam, barely wider than his feet, past the edge of the roof, over the street far below.

  Eight. Right foot planted perfectly. Everything he had left in his legs, in his body, went into shoving off with his foot, launching himself upward and to the left, toward the ridge beam of the other warehouse. He reached out with his hands to grab the end of the wooden beam as it came closer.

  Nick watched as the end of the beam rose overhead, beyond his grasping fingers, out of reach. He stared at the receding beam, feeling betrayed by a piece of wood, as the sensation of falling grew in his stomach.

  Turon's hairy—

  The block and tackle slammed against his chest, and he instinctively wrapped his flailing arms and legs around it, his hands finding the rope. Sliding down, the smell of dusty hemp filled his nose, and its rasping braids burned against him. With a wild shrieking hum, the rope burned through the thighs of his pants. He jerked his face away from the sliding rope as if it were a flame, and grabbed it with his gloved hands. A scream jumped from his throat as his gloves were torn away and the rope bit into his palms and fingers.

  The hiss of rope through his legs and hands ended as abruptly as it started, as the burning cord disappeared from his grasp. Nick pivoted once in the air, seeing the cobbles of the street rushing up to meet him. He thought of Cass, her voice telling him to tuck himself up and roll with the impact. He had just started to curl himself into a ball, when he hit the ground and tumbled.

  One roll, then another, and he pushed against the stones with his bleeding hands, making a staggered, unsteady vault to his feet. A lump formed in the pit of his stomach as he turned around.

  Not five feet away stood the wight, its back to him. Even in death, it was an imposing figure. Half a head taller than Nick, it wore an ornate headpiece that made it even taller. From its thin shoulders hung long ceremonial robes; once beautiful embroidered cloth set with gems, the fabric now browned, creased, and dried with age. Though its arms were raised, Nick saw its head tilt toward him, and knew the undead priest was about to react to all of the noise he’d just made behind it.

  Beyond the wight's outstretched hands, a crowd of zombies surrounded the front of the warehouse, standing shoulder to rotting shoulder, their empty eye sockets facing the wight – and Nick. To the right, the elder god remained still, standing in a clearing with no undead near it, its own arms raised, matching the wight's pose. Near the back, a few of the zombies were turned away from the wight. Dozens of them were pushing toward the struggling Cass, who hacked at the waves of dead bodies crushing against her. Though her dragonhide armour appeared untouched, Nick could see the blood and grime on her battered face, and her slowing swings. She fought to fend off the buffeting attacks of zombies that threw themselves at her, armed only with teeth and bony hands. A pair of dried arms wrapped around her neck from behind, as a corpse tried to climb onto her back.

  The wight was looking to its left, so Nick rolled to the right. Despite the trembling weakness in his legs, he pushed himself to his feet and leapt toward the wight, his hands reaching out to grab its scrawny neck.

  His hands were slick with his own blood, the skin burned away by the rope. Nick jammed his quivering, raw fingertips into the folds of the robes at the back of the wight's neck. The thin, dried remnants of the cloth gave way like rotted parchment. Bleeding fingers traced red lines down the leathery skin of the wight's neck. Touching something metallic, Nick wrapped his fingers around it.

  The wight spun around, faster than any living thing could possibly move. Its face was inches from Nick's own. Gray, leathery skin was pulled back into empty eye sockets that flared with violet light. Skin cracked and crumbled as the wight drew open its mouth, desiccated muscles cracking as the mouth opened wider and wider, a line of yellowed teeth still in its jaw. It smelled of rot, of mould and dirt, like a long-abandoned tomb.

  A scream formed in the air all around Nick; an anguished shriek that filled his mind.

  He caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye, but didn't have time to react. The wight's bony hand swung around and crashed into the side of Nick's face, throwing him off balance. As he began to fall back, he tightened the grip of his right hand and the chain. The chain around the wight's neck went taut, then snapped.

  Nick’s shoulder hit the hard-packed ground, then his head hit, and a lance of agony jolted through his body, making his arms and legs go momentarily numb. Everything went white for a moment, and when he could see once more, the world seemed to be moving in slow motion.

  In his hand, Nick saw the broken chain from the wight's neck, the heavy purple-stoned amulet swinging at its end.

  Beyond, the nearest zombies had gone slack, falling to the ground in a jumble atop one another, like marionettes whose strings had been cut. As the first line fell, a ripple effect followed through the rest of the swarm. Spreading outward like a wave, corpses abruptly went limp and crumpled to the ground. As the zombies fell away, Nick could finally see Cass, hunched over, pushing away the corpses that had climbed on top of her. He thought about how glad he was to see that she was alive; that he’d made the right decision, even as he felt the darkness beginning to close in around him.

  Though the sound was muffled in Nick's ears, he saw Cass open her mouth in a yell as she lunged forward. Her eyes were wild and fixed on the wight. She leapt forward onto the back of a collapsed zombie, then another, raising her sword as she charged toward the wight. Her wordless yell pulled Nick's mind back from the darkness. The look on her face – determined, more determined in this one moment than he had been in his entire life. Her sword cleaved the air, rushing down in an arc that looked like lightning. There was a sickening, wet crack as the blade sliced through the sinews and bones of the undead priest’s neck. Nick gathered what little strength he had left in his aching body and rolled out of the way, as the body of the wight came crashing down in a mess of splintered bones and twisted cloth.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Katryn: Sacrifice

  Katryn heaved her sword upward through a zombie's neck; its rotted head leapt off its shoulders, bounced across the ground and rolled down the cobbled road. The torso slumped at her feet, and she quickly glanced left and right to check for her next target. The circle of loyal undead that surrounded Donza was still holding, so she allowed herself a moment's respite. Despite the constant fighting, Katryn realised she wasn't tired in the least; she hadn't even broken a sweat like she had against Sir Yeris. She was still bouncing on her feet, fidgeting, looking for the next zombie to fight.

  She glanced over her shoulder at Donza. The necromancer was floating a foot off the ground, her arms in constant motion, wreathed in swirling violet light. A stream of unintelligible syllables flowed from her mouth as she shaped the necromantic magic; it sounded calm and soothing, like a monk reciting prayers. But the effort was clearly taking a toll; Donza was sweating, her skin pale, her eyes dark. This needed to end soon.

  New movement caught Katryn's eye. To her left, out in the wider main street near to the docks, someone was fighting their way toward the wight. It was a woman wearing oxblood leathers. Her dark hair, already heavy with blood, swished around her shoulders with the effort of each swing, as she madly hacked left and right at the zombies in her path. The undead surged against her like a wave, forcing her to step back, though her sword never stopped moving. The zombie horde surrounded her, one climbing on her back, and yet she continued to battle her way closer to the undead priest. Nearby, the magical blue figure remained still, like a man-shaped pyre, arms outstretched to receive the tendrils of light that flowed into its chest. It seemed not to notice the dark-haired woman fighting for her life mere steps away.

  To Katryn's right, far uphill to the east, a detached zombie head flew over the crowd. There was commotion further back, as one or more people came fighting their way downhill toward the dock.

  And then she realized, there were other people in town not affected by the necromantic draining. She and Donza weren't totally alone. What that meant, she wasn’t entirely certain. She understood why she and Donza weren’t affected, but the dark-haired woman she’d seen looked entirely human and very alive. At this point, it seemed, they were all on the same side.

  A small group of undead renewed their push toward the protective ring around Donza. Katryn used her shield to shove her way through the crowd of loyal corpses, and brought her sword down on the zombie nearest to her. As it fell out of the way, another stepped into the gap it created, and Katryn swept her blade upward through its head. She brought the sword back down, pivoting her body in the fluid motion of swordplay, and she found herself grinning at the exhilaration of it all. She laughed at the irony of it: she'd never felt so alive as she did right now. With a quick glance behind her to check that the protective circle around Donza was still intact, she turned back to lop the rotting head off the next stumbling cadaver. Through the shoving mob of zombies around her, she caught glimpses of the oxblood-wearing woman struggling only a few feet from the wight. In the other direction she saw the occasional glitter of red and gold armour shining in the sunlight, and the repeated gleam of long blades rising in the air before coming down into the crowd.

  Katryn swung her sword arm over her head, starting the downward arc toward an approaching zombie. Before she connected, the corpse went slack and started to crumple to the ground. Confused, Katryn checked her swing. As the zombie landed on its face at her feet, the undead behind it took a step forward, then also sagged to the cobbles. A second corpse collapsed behind it. Then a third, its knees buckling, fell to the ground. Katryn frowned, looking left and right, as dozens of zombies abruptly dropped to the ground, piling on top of one another.

  With the crowd crumbling in front of her, Katryn had a clear line of sight to the dark-haired woman in the oxblood leathers. She looked exhausted, but her eyes were on fire with determination. There was something or someone driving her beyond her body’s own resources. The zombies between the woman and the wight had all fallen, and the woman charged over their bodies, sweeping her blade around in a graceful arc, her face pulled tight by a grimace. There was a flash as her blade caught the sunlight, and the wight fell headless to the ground. As the woman landed in a crouch, Katryn noticed a man lying on the ground behind the wight’s body. He was dressed in black, and was holding the wight's chain and amulet in his hand. He was smiling like an idiot at the dark-haired woman who stood over him, and now the woman’s ferocity made sense. They were a team, just like Katryn and Donza, and they fought for each other.

  Katryn heard a long moan from Donza and turned back, threading quickly through the loyal undead back to where the necromancer still floated. Donza had stopped casting, and Katryn carefully helped lower her to the ground. She was wheezing and her limbs were quivering; she knelt and put a hand down on the cobbles to steady herself. Donza's eyes were dark and sunken, and her clammy, pale skin seemed to have grown tight over her bones. Katryn kept a steady hand on her back. “Donza?”

  Donza didn't respond, but her body trembled, and she dropped to her hands and knees on the ground, spittle dripping from her mouth. Katryn crouched next to her, a steel-gauntleted hand gently rubbing the woman’s sweat-soaked back. “Oh, Donza.”

  Katryn glanced up and saw a nobleman coming down the hill, flanked by two companions. She immediately recognized them as guards, adorned in gleaming red and gold armour and holding enormous two-handed swords. "Order Knights?" she whispered, staring. "Here?"

  The lord wore expensive but road-dirty clothes, though his black boots were gleaming. Katryn knew she'd seen his face before, but couldn’t place where or when. The lord looked weary, but mostly he looked profoundly sad.

  Despite the loss of its army of zombies and the wight who’d controlled them, the glowing blue figure had moved closer, and now stood a dozen paces from the lord.

  The air was torn apart by a voice, like a thunderclap formed into words, and Katryn flinched from the sound.

  Mortal god. Child of Turon. You cannot be here. I am free. I—

  "Oh hush," said the lord, as though he were scolding a child. "Get back into the Nexus, Magic."

  You bring your accursed Nexus here? My prison these past millennia?

  The lord's hand went to the simple amulet on the chain around his neck. "I do. So much of you should not have been allowed to collect in one place. You start to get ideas."

  I am death. You cannot defeat me. Reabsorbing me will slay you. You—

  "I know," interrupted the lord, with a weary sigh. He clutched the amulet in his hand, glancing at each knight in turn. "Anson and Howe, thank you."

 

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