Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 132138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 661(@200wpm)___ 529(@250wpm)___ 440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 661(@200wpm)___ 529(@250wpm)___ 440(@300wpm)
I ignore the smaller creatures. Rats who died crawl once more, birds fly, and cats hiss from long-dead mouths. But I’m concerned with the mausoleums. Yes. My power seeks the places of the dead.
I fought the power, but now I embrace it. I open myself to it, welcoming the rush of sensation that comes with it. I know them. As I call to them, so they speak to me.
Sir Bran Jenkins lays on his cold slab, a sword clutched in his hands, placed there by his sons and his widow that he might fight on in the afterlife. Sir Bran wants to fight. It ran through his veins when he was alive, and though he no longer has blood, the desire clings to his bones more strongly than any shroud.
His sons, both taken not long after, lie in the crypt close to their father.
A family of warriors with nothing left but useless swords that will never again sing with the heat of battle.
Then fight, Sir Bran. Take up your sword. Wake up your sons. Fight for me.
I call to them, sending my message out to the quiet mass of dead. Ears long since past hearing listen, perking up, ghastly smiles forming on lipless faces. I feel them rising from their stone beds or clawing up from the ground.
And I hear the cries of the living who suffer the horrible fate of coming into contact with my army of dead.
The phooka scrambles down the tree, his long tail twitching, amber eyes enormous in the afternoon light. “You’ve been busy, Your Highness. It seems the dead walk again.”
“The dead fight again.” I correct him.
“Whatever they’re doing, it’s working. Go quickly, Your Highnesses. Your princess is in a bad way. She’s surrounded by fire. The flames refuse to touch her, but I cannot say the same for the smoke. The battle is all around her. Hurry.”
Shim takes off, sword in hand. I follow, my mind working in two directions—saving Bronwyn and keeping control of my creatures. I feel them fighting, send them images of guards. Kill the guards. Leave everyone else.
We race past buildings, small structures, the place markers of a small, poor village. Mud huts and thatched roofs surrounded us. Bron lived here, is dying here, when she should have had two palaces to choose from.
All around me are the sounds of battle. Grunts and groans and the creaking of limbs as they move, trying to protect hearts and heads and bellies from opponents’ swords. Screams can be heard over the clanging of metal against metal. Cries of terror. Pleas for the dead to go back to their graves.
I feel the heat from the fire before I can see it. I stop in my tracks, my mind flying back to that day. I don’t remember much except the heat and pain, and the deep need to save my brother from both.
I can’t go there. I force my attention to the present. Even that one small lapse cost me. My corpses fell to the ground. The guards who remain stand staring down as though utterly surprised by their victories.
Bron. Bron is in the middle of it all. I see her for the first time. Her skin is pink from the heat, sweat coating her as she hangs limply from the pole they attached her to. I clutch my sword, my heart threatening to fail. Her black hair hangs around her face, lips as red as any rose but just as unmoving. We’re too late.
Shim elbows a guard who seems to realize that the dead are not the only opponents.
“Get back to yer houses.” The guard shoves at my brother, but before Shim hits the dirt, the guard is on fire, his tunic going up like a torch.
I clutch the sword in my hand. It’s mostly for decoration, though both Shim and I received instruction. But now, as the world seems to crash around me, instinct courses through my body. My corpse warriors are reviving now that I have control of myself. I’ll kill them all. They took my princess, my mate, the only woman in the world who can bridge the halves of myself. They murdered her, and now they will pay.
Rage rises, adrenaline coursing through me. I send it out, my corpses popping back up to the horror of the guards. Finally, finally I know who I am. I am the warrior, never tested, never allowed to battle as is my right. Never allowed to slaughter my enemies.
“You, young sidhe. Take up that sword. Defend me,” says a sweaty man in clothing far too elegant for an agricultural town. “The witch has done this. We must kill the witch.”
I don’t even think about it. I skewer the repugnant man, thrusting my sword deep into the man’s belly. He wears a broach with what appears to be the village’s crest. The mayor, perhaps? It doesn’t matter. He had a hand in Bronwyn’s death.