 
# Among the Dead and Dying

Book one of the _Among the Masses_ series

A.R. Wise

Copyright 2014 – A.R. Wise

Cover Art by A.R. Wise with photo sourced from istockphoto.com

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# Prelude

"I don't want to eat people," said the terrified half-dead as her wrists were tied behind her back, around the pole in the city square where she would die. "I'm not one of them. It's a sore. It'll heal."

The executioner had no sympathy for the lithe girl, and he bound her tight enough to cause pain. She whimpered, and he replied with a harsh curse, commanding her to be silent before he pushed her head back with his thick, gloved hand.

"Please don't." She stared at him through a blur of tears, and he paused to return the gaze. "Darreth, you know me. I studied with your daughter. I went to..."

"The Dead have no words," said Parrin Third-Court, a tall wraith of a man standing aside the pyre, adorned with the raiment of The Order, holding a length of beads that draped from his hand and wrapped around his neck. He held two of his crooked fingers up before him, tracing symbols in the air. His delicate frame belied the strength of his booming voice, and the gathered crowd hushed when he spoke. "Today, we mourn the death of Rayna Second-Bard. She has passed on from this cruel land..."

"I've not passed on anywhere," said Rayna as she tried to shake loose her binds. Darreth Fourth-Sword gripped her neck, choking her into silence so the Court could proceed. The executioner's thumb touched the severe wound on Rayna's neck that should've killed her if she hadn't been a half-dead. She'd been hiding the gash to avoid detection, hoping it would heal completely the way it was rumored half-deads could, but she was revealed to everyone at a tavern the night before. Her lover had been the one to expose her wound, ripping away her scarf and declaring her a 'halfie'. Only the day before, he'd convinced her that she could live a happy life as a half-dead, and said he planned to take her to the Steel Plains to live with him. Then, for reasons she couldn't fathom, he betrayed and doomed her. When the crowd saw the purple lesion, they knew she was one of the cursed. There was no mercy for the half-dead, because they were carriers of a disease that could decimate entire settlements in a matter of weeks.

Parrin Third-Court continued as Rayna suffered within the executioner's grip. "The girl we knew as Rayna Second-Bard was taken by the Blood Curse, and left this world to seek the comforts of the Promised Rest. What's left behind is a cruel hoax, an imitation of our sister."

Darreth was suffocating Rayna, and she felt her eyes bulge as she struggled to breathe. Tears fell down across her cheeks, and her mouth opened and closed uselessly as she looked out among the crowd, wishing that she could plead for mercy but afforded no voice to try. There were familiar faces among the gathered, old friends and enemies alike, here to watch the half-dead tortured. She would suffer their stones and taunts, and then the executioner would stick a ceremonial blade through her. Rayna had watched the Court judge other half-deads long ago, when she was just a child, and had joined in with the crowd as they jeered and threw stones at the cursed, never guessing that one day she'd suffer the same.

"Today she'll be tested," said Parrin Third-Court, "and she will fail, like all those who came before her. We'll prove what she is by the way of The Order." He motioned to another soldier near the edge of the pyre. He nodded and drew the ceremonial, wooden blade, whittled to a vicious point from a hickory branch, and then painted with symbols of the Order. The weapon would be forced inside of her midsection and then left there for an hour to prove that she was indeed one of the half-dead. If she'd been mistakenly labeled half-dead, then the wound would certainly kill her, and the Order would make restitution to her family. If she survived, then the crowd would gather again to watch her burn.

The wood beneath her feet, a mass of dry branches, had already been oiled in preparation for the ceremony. Her naked toes slipped in the mess of oil and twigs as she struggled in her bindings. Her ankles were tied to the post as tightly as her wrists, and she could feel the twine digging into her flesh.

Darreth finally released her throat, and she gasped in relief, taking in the pungent odor of the oil on the pyre. She coughed and strands of spittle hung from her bloody lips. She tried to speak, but couldn't manage anything but a weak and frightened cry as the man approached with the sword beside him. He stepped carefully up onto the mound of loose branches, his armor clattering as he did. Rayna tried to shake again in a desperate attempt to be free of this terror, but the twine was too tight, and her fate assured. She closed her eyes and waited for Parrin Third-Court to issue the command that would send the guard's wooden sword plunging into her stomach.

"It's the will of the The Order of the Nine that we end this..."

A new voice shouted out louder than even the Court's. "Halt," he said, and the word echoed through the town of Everglen.

Rayna opened her eyes and looked for the source of the interruption. The crowd searched as well, and she saw that they'd turned to face the tavern, not far from the center of town where the pyre had been built. There was a man standing atop the balcony, his arms crossed leisurely atop the railing, dressed in a traveler's garments, a thick leather cloak with its hood raised to hide his features. His shirt was a type of leather armor that Rayna had not seen before, wrapped around him as if made of one long, thin strip, with a slew of crossbow bolts tucked within loops. A glint of glass shined down from within his hood, revealing the shape of goggles or a mask there.

"There are consequences to interrupting a Court," said Parrin. "Swords, arrest that man."

"Don't you want to know who I am first?" asked the stranger as if the ordeal was merely an amusement to him. Rayna listened curiously, convinced she recognized the man's voice even though his mask added a tinny sound to it.

"It doesn't matter," said Parrin as two of his guards began to walk towards the tavern, drawing their swords, prepared to cut the man down if needed.

The crowd murmured, and Rayna heard one woman say, "It's The Scholar." Some of the people scurried for their homes with their children, terrified that this stranger might be the rumored harbinger of the dead who wandered the plains.

The man above shouted down, "Of course it matters, Parrin Third-Court! What are we if not the promise of our name?" He held his arms out, revealing the entirety of his armor, every inch built for war. He was in leather that was designed for mobility, the straps affording him grace while leaving little space for a blade to pierce. He had swords in scabbards on either hip, and a crossbow on his back. His leather leggings were fitted with thick padding wherever they could be without hampering movement, and his boots had thick soles to give him greater height.

Parrin's soldiers reached the door and found it locked. They immediately set about breaking it down, slamming their shoulders into the wood and causing the wall to shudder.

"I want you to know my name," said the man above. "I don't want it whispered. I want it shouted out by every mouth across this land, between sunrise and sunset, past the oceans and to all the isles of man."

The soldiers pounded on the door below.

"Everyone will learn what it means when The Scholar comes calling."

Parrin turned to his soldier on the pyre and said, "Run her through."

Rayna had temporarily forgotten her fate, enamored by The Scholar, and she looked fretfully back at the hewn sword before it was plunged into her. She again tried to scream, but her voice was lost among the cries of the terrified crowd as they fled the wrath of The Scholar.

Pain surged through Rayna and she stared down at the wooden blade as Parrin's soldier stepped away, leaving the weapon lodged in its victim. Her dark blood trickled down the length of the blade, stopping at the edge of the rounded hilt and then dripping down to the oiled branches beneath her. The wound was grievous enough to kill her, although she was meant to suffer here for an hour before the end.

The Scholar continued to scream out from the balcony. "Let's not waste their time, brothers. Don't you hear them knocking? Go ahead and open the doors for them."

A crack of wood was followed by the squeak of unoiled hinges, and Rayna looked up to see the doors of the tavern open as the soldiers who'd previously been pounding on them stood back, confused and wary. It was chaos in the town square as the crowd screamed out in terror, and then came the distinct twang of crossbow strings before the thud of bolts hitting their targets. People in the crowd began to drop, the nock end of bolts sticking out from their skulls. There were men positioned on the tops of buildings, having hid until now, and they spared no one in their assault. Women and children alike were felled, but soon Rayna would realize that they'd been the lucky ones.

The tavern hid The Scholar's best weapon. The zombies came rushing out, grasping at any warm body in their reach. Parrin's soldiers fell fast, encumbered by their armor and pinned to the ground by the dead men that swarmed over them. The monsters feasted on the flesh revealed between the folds of the soldier's armor, tearing at them with nails and teeth, ripping and shredding the quivering, screeching Swords.

The Scholar stood above, leisurely aiming a crossbow down at the fleeing townsfolk, firing and then retrieving another bolt from the loops of his armor, cranking back the string of his weapon, and firing again. The dead seemed to emerge from everywhere, released to devour the masses. The creatures were silent, unlike the zombies that occasionally made their way to the town's walls, moaning and screaming as they searched for food. These monsters made no sound, making them even more terrifying than Rayna thought possible.

Would she become one of them now?

She watched as the crowd that had gathered to watch her die were now slaughtered, and it was impossible for her to pity them as she stood tied to a pole, fuel at her feet and a sword in her stomach. Then she heard Parrin crying out for help as he tried to flee. He tripped on his long, decorative robe, his beads clacking together as they hit the ground before him. The quiet dead surged over him, hiding him from Rayna's view. They ripped away his clothes, throwing them aside before the monsters dug into his flesh. Their grey, wrinkled skin was soon the color of fresh blood as they ripped at the new corpse. She saw the zombies greedily tearing at the body until they earned a sizeable chunk or limb, whereupon they would rush away to gnaw at the morsel. Other zombies would try to steal the food away, and then the creatures would fight over it, driven mad by the taste.

A zombie stumbled up onto the mound of oiled branches, slipping and falling before getting back up to investigate Rayna. The living corpse was freshly dead, unlike the wrinkled, grey faces of many others. She looked familiar to Rayna, although the pale of death had stolen her features. The woman's eyes had been blue, although they were now mostly grey, with streaks of bloodshot veins. Her blonde hair was matted with blood, and there was a gash on her cheek that revealed molars beneath.

Rayna braced herself, ready for the zombie to tear into her, but the woman merely sniffed, and then turned her attention elsewhere. The dead had no interest in the half-dead, and this zombie moved on in search of another meal.

The wooden sword in her gut was slowly bleeding her, and she looked forward to the release of death. She wondered if she would turn into one of the flesh-eating monsters after she passed, and with that thought she closed her eyes.

Rayna gasped and opened her eyes as the sword was pulled from her belly. The pain was intense and she felt her guts spilling from the gap the weapon left behind. She opened her eyes, but the world had lost its color.

The Scholar stood before her, his left hand coursing through her matted hair, whispering through his mask, "Wake up, Rayna. You're not dead yet."

He spoke through a mask made of leather, buttons keeping the straps in place. There was a wide, round canister over his mouth, and his dark eyes peered through goggles at her. She finally recognized him. This was her lover; the man who'd promised she could lead a good life as a half-dead, but had then revealed her affliction to a crowd.

Rayna tried to speak, but only a weak groan came forth. Behind The Scholar there were men and women dragging bodies out and lining them up in a row. She saw children as well, dutifully helping line up the dead for reasons Rayna couldn't fathom.

"I'm afraid I can't take you with me to the plains," said The Scholar as he placed his hands on either cheek, as if about to kiss her if not for his mask. "But you can still fight for me here." He moved his hands down over her throat and began to squeeze. He was choking her, and she stared into the suggestion of dark eyes behind the glass orbs of his mask.

Rayna awoke starving, although it was an unfamiliar hunger. She struggled to break free of her bindings, and then felt someone else's hands on hers. She twisted to look behind her, and could see that there was another man, dressed similarly to The Scholar, ready to cut the cords that kept Rayna tied to the pole. She leaned forward and moaned, then snapped her teeth at The Scholar. He wasn't afraid, and she sniffed at him. Her hunger subsided. She knew his flesh wouldn't sate her.

The Scholar took out a blade and said, "One quick bit of business." He used one hand to force Rayna's head up and then cut into her neck. She squirmed, but was still bound too tightly to fight back. She felt The Scholar's fingers sliding into the cavity he'd cut in her, and then her tongue slipped down into her throat. He pulled it through the wound and then cut it off, throwing it off to the oiled branches below. She felt him reach inside of her throat again, and he pinched at some other bit of flesh that he tore out and threw away.

"That should do it," he said as he stepped down from the pyre.

Rayna tried to growl, but her voice was lost. Only a wet gasp came from the wound in her throat as she gnashed her teeth and tried to scream. The Scholar knelt and cleaned his blade on the tunic of a dead man.

"Go ahead and cut her free," said The Scholar, and his man obeyed. Rayna's hands were free, and she looked down at the wounds on her wrists that the twine had carved. Next, The Scholar's man cut the bindings from her ankles and she was free to step away from the pyre. She fell forward, collapsing onto the branches and sliding down to the earth below, free at last.

The Scholar helped her up, and she looked out at the other zombies that now populated the square, each of them happily feasting upon their victims. She lusted for the flesh, desiring nothing more than to taste the fresh blood and tear at the meat.

"Go, eat," said The Scholar.

Rayna ran to the nearest heap of flesh, eager to bite into the body before it got cold.

# Chapter One

Adelaide Kessel was the matriarch of one of the wealthiest families in the kingdom of Golden Rock, and as such she wasn't used to being detained when traveling through the city. She was riding in one of her more modest carriages, white lacquered and with red cushion seats within. The compartment afforded little privacy, though it was covered to prevent weather from affecting the riders, with the exception of the driver who was perched upon his seat up front, guiding the steeds. This carriage was meant for short trips to the market, and allowed the populace to see the aristocrat in her finery. It was always good etiquette to commiserate with the commoners, and she enjoyed these sojourns away from her mansion near Golden Rock castle.

Today had proceeded as expected, with a simple shopping trip down to the farmer's market on the River Wisp, where she'd purchased a few eggplants, cabbage, and string beans to bring back to her chef. Adelaide wasn't running errands for her servant. She enjoyed selecting the fruits and vegetables that looked appetizing to her, which she would then bring back to Claude and instruct him to use them in the meal he was preparing for the evening. She would be hosting two other aristocrat matriarchs this evening, and needed to make a good impression. Informing them that she'd personally picked out the produce for the evening was always a good way of letting them know she was still up and active, even at her age.

"What could be taking so long?" asked Adelaide as she leaned her head out of the windowless door beside her. They were in the fields of corn that lined the eastern wall of Golden Rock, and they had to make it all the way across to the other side of the city to get home. "Peter," she called out to her driver. "What are we waiting for?"

"The guards, ma'am," said Peter. He was old but loyal, and had been driving Adelaide for years now. He wore black slacks and a suit coat even on the hottest days because he understood the importance of appearances, and Adelaide appreciated him for that.

"Have they said why?" She was sitting with her back to the front of the carriage, and craned her neck as she tried to gaze out ahead. There were men hired to protect Adelaide, named by their profession as Swords, and they were riding on horseback ahead and behind the carriage. Only one Sword remained in the rear, while the rest were all focused on something ahead. Two of the men had even dismounted, which made Adelaide worry that they would be here for longer than she wanted.

"Is it another beggar?" she asked and dug into her purse to retrieve a pouch that jangled as she lifted it. "Throw some pel at him and be done with it." She opened the pouch and was about to remove some of the short, thin rods of gold when she heard something crunch in the field of corn beside her. She paused and glanced out at the tall, green crops.

"Peter, did you hear something out there?" She pointed out at the field, and tried to peer between the short spaces between the stalks. "Peter? Peter, are you listening to me?" She leaned out of the carriage again and saw that her driver's arm was laying limply at his side. The steed's reins were slack, loping deep enough to touch the ground.

"Peter?" she asked again, this time fretful.

"Peter's dead," said a stranger's voice from the other side of the carriage.

Adelaide yelped and spun in her seat to face the man. He was a brutish looking thug, with a square jaw and a scar that traced a line from beside his nose, over his mouth, and down to his chin. His nose was wide and flat, with a ridge that bowed out and went up to his equally pronounced brow. He was smiling, but it was impossible for him not to look menacing as he stared with icy blue eyes at the aristocrat.

Adelaide placed her hand over her breast, crumpling the lace and jangling the silver chain that held her emerald pendant. "Brigand," she said the word like a curse and then reached for her purse and tucked it to her belly. "Help, Swords!"

"No one to help you now, you ratty old tart." The man opened the door of the carriage, and Adelaide reached for the handle of the opposite side to escape. She got the door open, but her elaborate gown was too difficult to manage as she tried to get out. The attacker was inside the carriage holding her down before she could do anything. She fought back, but he quickly subdued her. His girth pressed down on her fragile, old body, crushing her against the red cushion and causing her to cry out in pain.

The sound of swords clashing came from outside, but it was over by the time Adelaide surrendered. These brigands had been lying in wait in the field, and surprised Adelaide Kessel's Swords, slaying them before most of them even had a chance to dismount.

She knew there would be other travelers coming along this road, and hoped that they would save her from whatever fate this devil had in mind. His arm was at her throat, pressing her against the back of the carriage as he held her waist with his other hand. The man's thumb was digging into her, and he grinned as he kept her seated.

"Do you know who I am?" she asked when he eased up the pressure on her throat.

"Of course I do," said the brigand. "That's why I'm here, Lady Kessel."

"If you're after pel, you can have it. But you'll have Swords hunting you down for years for this if you hurt me."

"I'm not interested in your money."

"Then what are you doing this for?"

"I want information." He released her waist and reached to his side where he produced a wicked looking knife, short and thin, with either side sharpened. "And you're going to give it to me."

"What sort of information?"

"About a girl your family hid from us. She was a baby then, and your son snatched her away from her bed. Ah yes, you know who I'm talking about. I can see it in your eyes. Where is she?"

"I don't..." Adelaide began to speak but the brigand thrust his hand back hard against her throat, silencing her as he held the small knife up and glared at her with his big, menacing eyes.

"Before you start telling lies, you might want to know what I do to liars."

Adelaide grinned, feeling like she finally had the upper hand in this confrontation. "You'll stick me with your knife? Then let's not waste time. Get on with it. I'm old enough to have made my peace with the Nine. Send me to my promised rest."

"No, I have a different promise for you," said the brigand, and Adelaide was certain he would kill her. She prepared for the pain, assured it would be no worse than the childbirth she'd endured five times in her life. Death at his hands was a small price to pay to keep certain secrets kept safe.

The man didn't stick the knife into her, but instead turned it on himself. He plunged the knife deep into his own neck, and Adelaide yelped out in shock at the sight. His dark blood coursed down his arm as he smiled at her, unfazed by what he'd done to himself. She wanted to flee, but he loomed over her in the small carriage, pinning her to the seat as his blood dripped down onto her white gown.

"What are you doing? Why would you do that? What's the matter with you?" She pushed at him, but he didn't budge.

The brute pulled the blade free of himself, and the wound left behind continued to gush blood. "You thought you were ready for death." He reached out with the same hand that still held the knife and wiped his bloody fingers on the aristocrat's face. She winced as if pained by his touch, and then noticed how cold his blood was. "But here I am, and you're not ready for me."

"You're a half-dead," she said in sudden recognition.

"At least half, maybe even more by now."

"Why are you looking for the girl?"

"Because I do what The Scholar tells me to."

"The Scholar?" asked Adelaide. Her former assuredness had fallen away, replaced by terror. "He's real? I thought he was just a myth."

"He's no myth, Lady Kessel. I can promise you that. The half-deads are returning." He pointed the blade at her face and she cringed as the tip got closer. "And if you lie to me, I'll infect you with my blood and send you home a zombie. Then you'll be sucking the meat off the bones of your grandchildren before the day's through. Now, let's talk about where you hid the girl, and remember, no lying."

"She's not here," said Adelaide, still hoping another carriage would come this way and save her.

"We already know that. Where is she?" The brigand got frustrated when Adelaide didn't answer immediately and he shouted out, "Where is she?"

"New Carrington." She felt pitiful and defeated as soon as the name of the city escaped her lips. "She's in New Carrington. Last I heard she was training to be a baker, under a man named Ward."

"Excellent," said the half-dead. "And what's her name?"

"Saffi," said Adelaide. "But she's not what you think she is. She's just a regular girl..."

They were interrupted by a man outside who came up to the carriage's window and said, "Dessidus, we need to go."

Adelaide looked over at the man and saw a cloaked figure wearing a leather mask that covered his mouth and nose. The man's face shield was designed to feign the shape of a mouth and nose, unlike a simple brigand's mask. He had the darkest pair of eyes she'd ever seen, and when he looked at her she turned away in fright. His attention was unsettling, and she didn't want to spend any more time looking into his black eyes.

"Has she told you where to find the girl?" asked the stranger.

"Yes," said Dessidus as he continued to taunt Adelaide with his bloody knife. "She's in New Carrington, studying to be a baker." He let the knife's tip poke at Adelaide's cheek as he asked her, "What did you say her name was?"

"Saffi," said Adelaide as she tried to move her head away from the infected blade.

Dessidus moved back and sat down heavily upon the seat across from Adelaide. He wiped the blood from his knife before putting it back in the sheath inside his vest. "Thank you, Lady Kessel. Now where's that pel you were talking about before."

"I thought you weren't looking for money," said the aristocrat, emboldened now that her attacker had moved away.

Dessidus reached across the gap between them and took her purse. She tried to grab at the bag, but then a stern look from the brigand cooled her bravery. He emptied the purse unceremoniously onto the floor of the carriage and then picked up the pouch of pel she'd offered him before. "I'll take that pendant too."

She placed her hand over the Kessel heirloom attached to its silver chain and said, "Not this, please. It's been passed down through our family for centuries."

"And now it's going to be passed on down to me," said Dessidus. He reached across the carriage and grabbed the jewelry. When he pulled, the chain didn't snap and the aristocrat was yanked forward.

Adelaide yelped in pain and then said, "Let me unhook it, you idiot." She reached around and undid the clasp, and then threw the pendant at him. "There! For all your bluster, you're still nothing but a thief."

Dessidus grinned, revealing his crooked, yellowed teeth. "That's certainly what we want the Swords to think when they find your body."

Adelaide heard the twang of a crossbow's string from outside of the carriage, and then something struck her temple. She was dead before her head hit the plush red cushion.

* * *

Saffi heard the tavern door open and looked over to see if it was her friends. "Murien," she said when she saw the Sword walk in.

Murien Third-Sword was tall and statuesque, with raven hair and blue eyes. She had a thin, sharp nose and was often accused of looking angry when she didn't mean to. Saffi didn't mind her friend's stern appearance, because it made her laughter all the more welcome. When Murien smiled, her beauty dazzled.

"Hi Saffi," said Murien as she walked over to the booth and sat wearily across from her friend.

"What're you drinking?" asked Tully, the stout owner of the tavern. He was fat but strong, and reminded Saffi of her father. "Saffi's drinking the summer wine, it's nice and sweet."

Saffi nodded as she tilted her glass. "It's pretty good."

"Mead," said Murien as she took off her gloves and set them on the table. She'd just gotten off patrol and was still wearing her armor. The Swords of New Carrington wore a basic chainmail coif and tunic over thin leather. On top of that, they were required to wear a breastplate that displayed their lineage. Murien was a Third-Sword, and honored her lineage with the tripled accents that decorated her armor.

The Kingdom of Golden Rock, also known as the Five Walls, had done away with surnames for everyone except aristocrats as a way to foster pride in a variety of professions. Murien had achieved the rank of Third-Sword a few months earlier, after testing with the Guild of Swords. Her graduation from Apprentice-Sword to Third-Sword had been a momentous achievement, and one that Saffi hoped to duplicate.

Saffi wasn't training to be a Sword, she wasn't as strong or brave as Murien. Instead, Saffi was hoping to achieve the rank of Second-Baker, which was no small feat either. Her father, Ward First-Baker, had taught her everything he knew, and they spent most of their days trying out new recipes to wow the Guild of Bakers when Saffi's test day came. While it would be impossible for Saffi to ever earn the rank of Third-Baker, any children she had might be able to achieve that status.

"I can't stay for long," said Murien.

"Is something wrong?"

Murien nodded and said, "Apparently."

The tavern door opened again, illuminating the dark room with the orange light of sundown. Abraham Second-Sword came in, an old friend who'd been assigned to Murien's team. He was tall and athletic, classically handsome and appearing older than he really was. He waved at them and walked over to the booth. It looked like he wanted to sit beside Murien, but she didn't move over to allow him space, so he looked over at Saffi and she obliged. He fell down into the booth with a long sigh and plopped his helmet down on the wooden surface of the table, causing Saffi's drink to bounce and nearly topple over.

"What a day," said Abraham. "And it's not over yet."

"What's going on?" asked Saffi.

"Murien hasn't told you?" he asked.

"I just got here," said Murien as she leaned back to let Tully set down her mead.

The tavern owner pointed at the newcomer to the table and asked, "What can I get you, Abe?"

Abraham looked over at Murien's mug and said, "I'll have what she's having."

After Tully walked off to get a second mug of mead, Saffi asked, "What happened?"

"Did you hear the rumors about Everglen?" asked Murien.

Saffi shook her head. "No, this is the first day I've been out of the bakery before sundown in the past couple of weeks. Dad's got me working my butt off studying for the guild's test."

"The Scholar sacked Everglen," said Abraham.

Saffi was equally shocked and terrified. "What do you mean?"

"He sacked it," said Abraham as he used his thumb to slice a line across his neck. "Scratch it off the maps, because it's a graveyard now. He brought his zombie army out of the plains and somehow they made it past the walls. A few survivors showed up here, so we sent scouts out to see if the rumors were true. They just got back, and apparently the town's a smoldering heap of bodies and ash."

"I thought the walled cities were safe," said Saffi. "How'd they get in?"

"Who knows?" asked Abraham.

"The Sword Captains are meeting tonight to talk about increasing patrols and gate security. That's where I'm headed after finishing this." She tapped her thumb on the rim of her mug. "And they also announced that they're purging the jails early. They're going to have a session every week until the cells are emptied. We've got to get the stage set up for the court in the Central Market."

Saffi grimaced. The public courts and subsequent executions were her least favorite thing about life in the city. She'd only ever heard about the proceedings, because her father forbid her from going. She didn't want to anyhow, the thought of public executions made her sick to her stomach.

"A Sword's work is never done," said Abraham. "Be happy you got taken as a baker's apprentice." He nudged Saffi with his elbow.

Murien finished her drink and then said, "I'd better get going. Abe, can you pay for my drink? I'll get you back tomorrow."

"Sure, no worries," said Abraham. Murien thanked him and left, and then Abraham moved to the other side of the table from Saffi.

"Murien seems more serious than normal, if that's possible," said Saffi.

"She's just worried," said Abraham. "I know Everglen's a long way away, but if The Scholar was able to get into there then he could get in here too."

"Do you really think so?" asked Saffi. "I always heard that Everglen's gates were open more often than not. They probably weren't ready for an attack, not like you guys are."

Abraham lounged, stretching his legs across the space beneath the table and reaching up high above as he yawned. "If all the captains were like Murien than we'd have nothing to worry about, I can tell you that. She runs us ragged. Most of the groups just hit a few posts per day, but she's got us running all over the city without a break."

"Even though she comes from a family of Swords, she's got an orphan's drive."

"An orphan's drive, huh?" asked Abraham as if Saffi's comment was a slight upon him and anyone else whose name came from their family. If Ward hadn't adopted Saffi, then the best she could've achieved would've been First-Baker status.

"You had it easy. Your lineage comes from blood, the guild's easier on your type. For apprentices who aren't related to their masters, the guild can be pretty harsh. They're quick to renounce the titles of orphans."

"Maybe," said Abraham, unconvinced as he reached for his mead.

"I know something that could ease her tension a little," said Saffi, purposefully impish.

"I told you, that's not going to happen," said Abraham. "Especially not now that I'm her subordinate."

Saffi crinkled her nose and gave a dismissive wave, "Don't be so negative. The heart wants what it wants. The rules don't matter."

"Have you been spending time with the prophets or something?" asked Abraham. "Here in the real world people have to follow the rules, and Murien's not the sort of person to go against her orders. If the two of us ever do end up courting, it'll be long after I'm assigned to another captain."

"That's a shame," said Saffi. "You two would be good together. Oh, you'd make the cutest babies."

Abraham laughed and then took a drink before saying, "Let's not get ahead of ourselves." He changed the subject, "When's your test with the guild?"

"Two weeks," said Saffi as she spun her wine glass and watched the red liquid wet the sides, coating it with an oily residue. "Dad's got me studying day and night. I can't count the number of times I've burned myself on that clay oven of his." She examined her hands, and then showed Abraham her blisters.

"Don't stress yourself. If you fail, then you can take the test again in five years." He was being coy, purposefully taunting her about how important it was that she passed. The Guilds only allowed applicants to test three times in their lives, and each test had to be spaced out by a minimum of five years. It was no easy task, and Saffi wasn't sure she was up to the challenge.

"Thanks," said Saffi sardonically.

"You can do it," said Abraham. "Murien told me all about how you used to be when you were a kid – about how they called you Lucky Saffi because everything always seemed to go your way."

"That's not what most of the kids called me," she said, remembering her time at the orphanage before she'd been given an apprenticeship with Ward First-Baker. "Most of them called me Saffi the Witch." She wiggled her fingers as if about to cast a spell.

"Oh really, I never knew that. Why'd they call you a witch?"

Saffi shrugged and said, "Because I was quiet, and I used to like to spend time outside with the animals. They said that's what witches do."

Abraham grimaced and said, "That's not true. They're thinking of druids, not witches. Druids are the ones who go out in nature with animals. Witches boil the animals and pluck out their eyeballs for potions."

Saffi sneered and said, "Gross."

"Did you ever poke anything's eyeballs out to make a potion?"

"No," said Saffi with a laugh.

"Then those kids didn't know what they were talking about. They should've called you Saffi the Druid, or Saffi the Ranger. I could see you as a Ranger, out roaming the forests and the plains – stopping in for drinks at one of the smuggler towns and then heading back off into the woods."

Saffi let out a loud laugh of disbelief. "Not likely. I figure I'll be trapped in one of The Five Walls until I'm dust and bone."

"Four Walls," said Abraham, reminding Saffi that one of the five walled cities of the Kingdom of Golden Rock had been destroyed.

She was saddened by the thought, and meekly said, "Right, The Four Walls."

# Chapter Two

Dessidus and his Black Riders fled Golden Rock after murdering Adelaide Kessel. They'd been tasked with discovering the location of the girl, Saffi, who The Scholar wanted captured. The march to war had begun, although the battles would not be fought by Swords on fields with banners held high. This was a war The Five Walls would be woefully unprepared for.

The capital city of the kingdom was perched high above rolling hills of grassland, and had earned its name from the way the landscape glowed golden in autumn. Two circular walls protected the city, one separating the aristocrat's homes and a second, larger and more fortified wall that wound its way around the entire city, protecting even the farmer's fields. Only merchants of the old world stayed outside of the city gates, daring to antagonize The Order of the Nine by selling artifacts dug up from the time preceding the Dead Age. It was one of these merchants, on his way between New Carrington and Golden Rock, who'd stumbled into the path of the Black Riders.

"I told you, I don't have any books," said the old man as he watched the thieves loot his wagon.

"Look at this," said Dessidus as he picked up a metal toy that looked like a horseless chariot, with small black wheels. He showed the toy to Ebon, his closest ally and one of The Scholar's most trusted men. "They called them 'trucks', I think."

"Cars, actually," said the sheepish old merchant as he reached out with trembling hands to retrieve his property. "They called the bigger ones trucks."

Dessidus tossed the toy back into the crate and the merchant gasped as the relic clattered against the rest of the collection. "Bunch of junk," said Dessidus. "Don't you have anything good? I met a merchant once who had a crate full of books with pictures of naked women. Do you have anything like that?"

"No," said the elderly man as if offended. "I don't peddle filth."

Dessidus laughed and said, "You've got an odd definition of filth. As far as The Order's concerned, this is all filth."

The old man nervously stroked his long, wispy beard with one hand and then moved quickly over to the crate of toys to inspect them for damage as Dessidus moved on to the next. The Black Riders were pulling wares out of the back of the merchant's wagon, and inspected each of them.

Ebon stood nearby, his distinctive mask still covering his mouth and nose. The man rarely removed it, preferring that people saw as little of him as possible. It wasn't for the sake of anonymity, because Ebon's coal black eyes were recognizable to anyone. Dessidus imagined those eyes invaded more than a few nightmares.

"We've got some books here," said Jess, a young recruit of The Scholar's army. "Looks like Davin... The Davin-eye." He struggled to read the title.

Ebon knelt beside the young man to look in reverently at the books. "'The Da Vinci Code'. We have that one. What else is in there?"

"Nothing else, it's all the same book," said Jess.

"I thought you said you didn't have any books," said Dessidus, grinning hatefully at the old man.

"They're just... They're not... You shouldn't touch those. They're delicate."

"Keep searching," said Ebon to Jess as one of the other members of their group handed down another crate from the back of the wagon.

"I have pel," said the merchant, furious and desperate to be rid of the brigands. "I offered you the robber's tax already. Why are you still bothering me?"

"We're not interested in gold," said Dessidus. "We want your books."

Sudden realization struck the old man and he asked Dessidus, "Are you The Scholar?"

Ebon laughed, and Dessidus glared at him before looking back at the merchant and saying, "No, but we're part of his army."

"You can have the books," said the man, affording new respect to the thieves. "Take what you want."

"We will, and if you leave here alive then I want you to do a job for me."

"Anything," said the terrified merchant.

Dessidus set his hands on the top of the dual axes, one on each hip. "Tell your fellow merchants and smugglers that these roads are going to be flooded with The Scholar's men soon, and we won't be looking for pel. If you want to earn your life with a robber's tax, then make it books instead of gold. Understood?"

"Yes, yes, of course," said the merchant. He grew more tremulous and asked, "He's... He's coming here? To Golden Rock?"

Dessidus grinned and nodded.

"With his army?"

"Ten thousand strong," said Dessidus. "Man, beast, and dead alike. Hordes of them, all bowing to his will, filling the air with the low sound of trumpets and drums, moving day and night without rest. Bones click-clack-clattering as the dead march." His warning sounded like a tale told around a campfire. "It's only a matter of time now, and the only thing that'll save you is if you prove your worth. Find your smugglers and your relic hunters, and tell them to bring back books from before the Dead Age. Because when the dead army climbs these hills and lays siege upon The Five Walls, the only people left alive will be the ones who offer books as gifts."

The merchant nodded and then said, "I have one, hidden under my seat. Wait, let me get it for you." His voice was meek and nearly a whisper, and he ran off to get the book he'd been hiding at the front of the wagon.

Ebon moved closer to Dessidus and said, "Nice speech. Have you been practicing that?"

"I think it's good to put the fear of the dead in his type."

"If we let him live, he's going to go tell the aristocrats that we're coming."

"Good," said Dessidus. "Let them prepare for a wave of dead at their gates. That'll make our jobs easier when we hit them from within."

The old merchant was still searching the bin beneath his seat, and called back to them that he would only be a moment as he gathered the books hidden there.

Ebon took the opportunity to continue the conversation with Dessidus. "The Scholar's going to want to go for the girl first, which means we'll be heading to New Carrington."

"That's fine," said Dessidus. "We already have Ferragut, Cerrus, and Madeline out in New Carrington farming bodies. They'll be ready by the time we get there."

"I grew up in New Carrington, before I was exiled. I can get back into the city and keep an eye on the girl until The Scholar comes."

Dessidus regarded his friend with concern. "I don't think that's necessary. We should go back and report to The Scholar. Let him decide how he wants to handle the news of the girl's whereabouts."

"But what about Cerrus and the others? We don't want to risk them killing the girl by mistake."

Dessidus thought about his friend's point and then nodded. "I guess you're right. Do you want any of the boys to go with you?"

"No," said Ebon. "I work better alone."

* * *

Abraham was on patrol for the sixth day in a row. Murien and the other captains had been instructed to increase the number of Swords around the Central Market due to a high number of people being reported missing. The first cases had been minor, with the occasional transient claiming that they hadn't seen a friend for weeks and was worried, but then people of repute began to vanish. Worst of all, the location of the disappearances had moved from the south side of the city up to the center, threatening to continue on to the wealthy north district. That couldn't be allowed.

The Central Market of New Carrington was where the majority of the shopkeepers plied their wares. Wealthier merchants of distinct lineage could afford to purchase storefronts, the best of which were in the North District, but the entire market was ringed by first and second generation shops. The center of the area was purposefully left wide and open, allowing plenty of space for wagons to pass, and merchants who couldn't afford permanent storefronts came here with carts full of ripe vegetables, baked goods, and even clothing.

New Carrington wasn't the largest of The Five Walls, with Golden Rock easily taking that honor, but its accessibility to the Tennerblane River allowed easy travel for exotic items. The city was well-known for the abundant spices sold here, and many claimed the food was better here than anywhere else in the kingdom.

Smoke from barbeque pits filled the air, creating a savory atmosphere that tempted Abraham. He was walking past one of the meat merchants, admiring a succulent pile of pulled pork, when he caught sight of a thin man in a cloak slipping through the crowd, occasionally bumping into people as he went. Abraham paused and watched, having learned from Murien how to spot a pickpocket.

It was a carefully practiced skill, and relied on the fact that most people struggle to focus on more than one thing at a time. With a quick, sudden bump against the chest, a person is made unaware of the slighter sensation of their pocket being invaded.

Abraham tailed the suspect as the man weaved through the crowd one lane over. Merchants separated Abraham from the thief, giving him cover as he studied what the cloaked figure was doing. All it took was the sound of a victim saying, "Hey, my purse is gone," to send Abraham chasing after the thief. He bounded between a baker and a tailor, pushing aside a cart of bread and earning a foul remark from the owner.

The thief glanced over when he heard the commotion and saw Abraham charging his way. The suspect looked young, handsome but gaunt, with brown hair and just a patch of beard on his chin. He knew he'd been caught, and darted away.

Abraham yelled out, "Hold," but the thief moved too fast, easily disappearing within the crowd. Next Abraham tried to get the people nearby to help stop the criminal, but by the time they realized what was happening the thief had already slipped past them. By the time Abraham got over to where the thief had been, the young man was already gone.

The rest of the day was uneventful, with a few minor squabbles to break up and a woman who fell, hurt her leg, and needed Abraham to help her to a nearby seat. There wasn't any sign of the pickpocket, and no clues pertaining to the missing persons. Dusk signaled the end of his shift, and Abraham headed to the tavern to relax.

Tully's Tavern was out near the east gate, and Abraham had to wait as a slew of merchants filed out of the city during one of the few allotted times that the gate was opened. There was also a line of people waiting to come back into the city as well, each of them undergoing the standard search procedure that The Order required to keep out any illegal items. While they allowed the relics of the ancients to be sold outside of the walled cities, The Order was incredibly strict about keeping those things from poisoning the citizens within.

There had been a time when The Order of the Nine even forbid the sale of relics on the other side of the walls, but that was a hard thing to prevent, and it'd become a well-known practice. The Order decided to increase the penalty for being caught with ancient relics, and hoped that the populace would only go out to look at the treasures those merchants carried and not be tempted to purchase anything. While this seemed to stem the problem, most of the Swords knew there was contraband being purchased, otherwise the merchants wouldn't stick around.

Abraham was about to cross the road now that the merchants had moved on when he caught sight of a familiar looking man walking back in from outside of the gate. It was the thief he'd seen in the market, he was almost certain of it.

The young man was wearing a different outfit, now appearing more pedestrian than before, but the patch of beard on his chin gave him away. Abraham wasn't wearing his armor now, having left it at home after his shift ended, and the thief didn't recognize him as he headed off towards the curved street that wound its way up through the Eastern District and towards Tully's Tavern.

Abraham followed behind casually, and watched as the thief walked leisurely along the other side of the road. Whenever no one else was near, the thief would open a satchel he was carrying and inspect the contents. Abraham was certain it contained his haul for the day, pel stolen from hapless marks throughout the Central Market.

They were nearing a residential area, where the streets were only wide enough for a person to walk and too small for a wagon. Abraham knew that if he didn't act soon then the thief would have a variety of different places to sneak off to. Now that he'd gotten a chance to study the man closer, Abraham was certain it was the same thief from the market. He sped up, and the thief turned to see who was coming just as Abraham slapped his hand on the thin man's shoulder.

"Hold up, thief," said Abraham, confident and smug.

The thief twisted, causing Abraham's grip to get caught within his tunic, and then suddenly the young man was running away, leaving the guard clutching only a slip of fabric that was designed expressly for tearing away. "Little bastard," said Abraham in frustration as he threw the cloth aside and ran after the suspect.

He chased the young man up the narrow street, through a communal garden, and then back towards the center of town. Abraham knew these streets well, having spent his entire life here, and he could tell that the thief was in unfamiliar territory. This part of town was replete with dead-ends, and it was only a matter of time before the thief took a wrong turn.

The young man dropped the satchel he'd been examining earlier, and Abraham snatched it up as he followed behind. Then the inevitable happened, and the thief turned down one of the many dead-ends where the road ran straight up against the wall that circled the entire town, leaving nowhere for the thief to run.

Abraham rounded the corner, certain he was about to catch the young man, but there was no one down the short avenue. "What in the hell?" asked Abraham as he advanced slowly. It made no sense. Four story abodes sat on either side of the thin alley, with no doors in sight. This was one of many roads that had once been connected to a separate part of town before the wall had been built, unceremoniously splitting the neighborhood in two. There were no sewer grates here, and no doors on the homes facing this way. The thief had simply vanished.

Abraham could only think of one way the thief could've gone, and he looked up.

The pickpocket was stretched out above, arms and legs split wide to anchor himself in what appeared to be an almost impossible ascent. He was inching his way to the roof, but it was a long way up and he was just past halfway there.

"Get down here, you little shit," said Abraham.

"No, I'm fine, thanks," said the young man as he continued to climb, jumping a couple inches and then stopping himself with his hands and feet again.

"I'm going to start throwing things if you don't come down."

"Don't you have better things to do?" asked the thief.

"Yes, I do, and I'd like to get to them already," said Abraham. "So come on down and we can be done with this."

The thief sighed, and for a moment Abraham thought he'd do as he was told, but then the young man said, "I'm late to work. It's chimney sweeping night."

"Oh for the love of..." Abraham looked around for something to throw and found a fragment of a brick about palm size. "Last chance."

"Give it your best shot, pel-poor." The thief used a derogatory term meant to chastise First-Swords for their low pay.

Abraham grumbled that he wasn't a pel-poor, and then threw the brick up at the thief, missing him by several feet. The thief laughed and looked down. "That the best you can do? This is going to be easy." He inched up a bit more as Abraham went to get the brick again.

"That was a warning."

"Oh, sure," said the thief.

"All right, you asked for it." Abraham threw the brick again, harder this time, and it smashed against the side of the home about a foot from the thief's head. Plaster broke away from the home's exterior, revealing the brick and mortar beneath.

The thief looked down at Abraham, annoyed and a little frazzled by how close the brick had come. None-the-less, he poked fun at the Sword. "You almost got me. If it's any consolation, I'm sure it would've hurt. Do you want me to come down a little to make this fair for you?"

"Yes, if you don't mind," said Abraham, disgruntled as he again retrieved the brick. It was now a little smaller than it was before, part of it freshly broken away.

"All right, here I come," said the thief before jumping up another couple of inches. "Oh darn it, I meant to come down, but I went the wrong way. Let me give it another try." He jumped up a few inches, and this time he was able to grip the sill of a window for support, making the ascent a little easier for him. He looked down and smirked. "Take another shot, pal. I'm not going to wait around here forever."

Abraham was about to try again, but then the window beside the thief opened and a little old lady peered out to see who was throwing stones in the alley. When the window opened, the bottom side scraped across the thief's fingers, tearing at his knuckles and then pinning him there.

"Lady!" The thief screamed at the same time that the terrified woman noticed there was a man clinging to her fourth-story window. The two matched decibels, as the thief pled with her to close the window so that he could free his fingers and the woman yelled in shock.

"What are you doing?" asked the woman. "Thief! There's a thief here! Danbry, come help. There's a thief at the window. He's come to murder me."

Abraham guffawed, but was then forced to take the situation more seriously as the thief lost his grip and started to fall. The young man tried to stop himself, pressing his hands and feet out against the wall, but it didn't help. Abraham did his best to catch the young man, but the fall caused them both to topple over and bash their heads on the ground. The thief's satchel opened, spilling the contents out across the cobbled walkway.

It wasn't pel that the thief had been greedily hoarding, but gears.

The satchel was filled with forbidden relics, a mess of hinges, springs, and gears. Abraham looked over at the wounded young thief in surprise, and the dazed man knew he was in the worst trouble of his life.

# Chapter Three

"Yes, Evanly, I'll make sure to do that," said Ward as he walked around the counter to bring the lady her bread. She wouldn't normally be seen in a lower-class establishment such as this, but Jacob Third-Baker's shop was closed due to a family emergency, and Ward was the only other option she had without resorting to the market.

Most First-Bakers owned carts in the Central Market, but Ward came from a prestigious family and had amassed a generous amount of pel that he used to purchase a former flower shop along the Tennerblane River in the North District where several of the more well-established businesses resided. His neighbor was a fourth generation cobbler, and Brendan Sixth-Butcher's famed shop was only four doors down. This was the area of town where the wealthy came for their goods, avoiding the dour and oftentimes treacherous Central Market. Yet, despite his location, the haughty patrons of the North District rarely chose to frequent first generation shops.

It'd caused quite a bit of commotion when he purchased the storefront, with several of his neighbors complaining that allowing a first generation shop to open would degrade the quality of the area as a whole. It was Ward's father, Ellebrin Fifth-Sword, who facilitated the sale and convinced the court to allow it.

Ward had earned the title of Sixth-Sword when he was young, but a regrettable incident had stripped him of that honor, much to the shame of his family. He took up an apprenticeship as a baker, studying under a friend of the family, and earned the title of First-Baker. When his father had paid to open the shop in the North District, the plan had been for Ward to teach his son the trade and then pass the shop on to him as early as possible. It would be less shameful for the district if the shop belonged to a Second-Baker.

However, things hadn't turned out the way Ward had planned. His wife left him, proclaiming that she was not fit for the life of a baker's wife, and she married into a Third-Barrister home. She took Ward's son with her, leaving him alone and without an heir. Not long after, his ex-wife and her new husband moved to Golden Rock, leaving Ward behind, lonely and depressed. Ward made frequent trips out to Golden Rock to visit with his son, but soon discovered that he'd taken to the life of the elite, and had no desire to admit his father was a mere First-Baker.

After a year alone, Ward announced to the counsel that he wasn't interested in taking a second wife and having an heir, which meant that he had to be assigned an apprentice who he would teach his trade to. He agreed, and a young girl by the name of Saffi was put in his care. He loathed the responsibility at first, confident that he would never learn to love a child as much as he did his estranged son. This didn't prove true, and Saffi became very important to him, breathing new life into what had turned into a depressing existence.

It was when the court wanted to test Saffi's ability, and then announce her as a First-Baker, that Ward decided to adopt her. This meant that she wouldn't be tested yet, and wouldn't achieve the title of First-Baker, instead going on to be known as Saffi Apprentice-Baker with the hope of achieving the more vaulted title of Second-Baker at a later date. When that happened, this would be her shop, and Ward was excited by the prospect. For the past few months, Ward and Saffi had been working hard to prepare her for the trials, where the guild's most established bakers would judge her abilities and decide whether or not she'd earned the title.

Evanly, Wife of Moor, stood near the entrance of the shop, her decorative fan held up over her nose as she scanned the variety of bread and cakes laid out. She fanned herself, distressed by the heat of the oven in the back, and continued to complain. "I'll not have my guests choking on cornmeal, or bits of clump, or any such nonsense. They have refined tastes, you know? Oh, I do wish Brendan's shop was open. He makes the most delicious cakes. Wouldn't you say?"

"He sure does," said Ward, cheery despite her gibes.

"The ladies of the West Aviary Collection are just going to be sick about this. I'll be hearing about it for months, no doubt. Curse my folly. I should've set out yesterday to get this, but I'm nothing if not a sucker for fresh pastries. I like them still warm, fresh out of the oven."

"Me too, my lady," said Ward as he scurried to collect her order. He was laying each of the miniature raisin cakes she'd bought on a board that he'd cover in paper and wrap for her when he was done. He didn't stock the pastries that she was speaking of, and she'd been plenty distressed when forced to lower her standards to mere cakes instead.

"I suppose you must eat all day in here," she said, her tone disparaging as she looked down at his gut.

He caught her gaze, and happily slapped his ample belly, causing a puff of flour to erupt from his apron. "Never trust a skinny baker."

She grimaced and said, "Don't let Brendan hear you saying that. He's as skinny as a pigeon pel, and if your cakes are even half as good as his I'll count myself lucky."

"Right," said Ward, cheerfully nodding. "I didn't mean any offense to Brendan. I'd do anything to be half as good as he is on his worst day."

"Where's that girl of yours with the scones?" asked Evanly, scanning the back of the shop where Saffi had disappeared several minutes ago.

"She'll be back soon, I'm sure. Probably just warming the scones for you, Ma'am."

Evanly sighed and said, "Not that it matters. I've got a thousand things yet to do and you're wasting all my time here." She pointed at Ward with her fan and snapped, "Watch yourself!"

"What?" asked Ward as he raised his hands and stepped away, frightened that he'd offended one of his only customers of the day.

"You've got a face full of sweat about to drip off that honking snout of yours and onto the cakes. By the Nine, were you never taught how to handle food? Do they skip those lessons for the First-Bakers?"

Ward took a rag from a pocket on the front of his apron and used it to wipe his brow. His dome was nearly bald, with the exception of a tuft of red hair on either side that hid his even redder ears, and he normally wore a hat to catch his perspiration. Today, however, was particularly warm, and he was sopping wet. He was wearing a long sleeve, linen shirt, which was now soaked through and nearly dripping on its own.

"I apologize, Ma'am," said Ward as he put the cloth away and went back to loading the woman's board with cakes. "I'd be happy to pack this up for you and have it ready to go if there're other places you need to get to before heading home."

Evanly turned to look back out onto the street, and then said, "I do need to visit the cobbler." She lifted her long, purple, ribbed skirt to show Ward her shoe. It was black leather, laced with purple twine, and had a long heel that was popular among the upper class. "These beasts he sold me are tearing my ankle to shreds. Forty pels he charged me for these, if you can believe it. The things we're forced to endure for fashion."

"Forty pels?" asked Ward, making banter as he iced the cakes for her. "You could buy everything in my shop for that."

"As if I'd ever do that," she said with a quick and sharp laugh. "I've got plenty of food for the livestock as is."

Ward grinned, but clenched his jaw as he nodded politely.

"Tell you what," said Evanly. "I'll take you up on your offer to go get my shopping done. Perhaps you'll have my food ready by the time I get back?"

"I'll do my best," said Ward as he continued to ice the cakes.

Evanly stalled at the door, looked back at Ward, and then cleared her throat.

Ward realized his folly, and set the bladder of icing on the counter as he said, "My apologies, Ma'am. Let me get that for you." He opened the door, and the bells above rang as Evanly walked primly out. "See you in a bit." He smiled and waved, and then closed the door.

Ward's smile faded, and he wiped the sweat from his brow again. "Saffi," he called out to his apprentice. "She's gone."

"Finally," said the girl as she appeared from the back room and walked up to the counter. A curl of her auburn hair fell down in front of her eyes and she put it back in place behind her ear as she sighed. "I don't know how you can put up with women like her." She had short hair, but Ward still made her keep it tied up when she was working. That was another rule that the Guild of Bakers enforced strictly.

"If we had more women like her coming in this shop we'd be set for life, kid."

"Wouldn't be worth it," said Saffi.

"Those scones ready?"

Saffi nodded and said, "Yes, been ready since I went back there."

"Thought you had them in the oven to warm up."

"Nah, they're on the window sill. Darn near as hot as an oven in there anyhow, even with the sun going down. I wasn't about to light another fire on account of that broad."

Ward stopped his work and looked reproachfully at his daughter. "By the Nine, child, I don't know where you've picked up such manners. Not from me, that's for sure."

"Oh yeah, not from you," she said in jest. "You've got nothing but compliments about those garish tarts as they strut down the street, their umbrellas shielding their pale cheeks and wearing gloves on the hottest days of summer." She mimicked one of the regal women walking along with a straight back, and used a long loaf of sourdough as a prop to replace the umbrella. She twirled the bread and then dropped it back into the basket where it belonged.

Ward snickered and shook his head before starting to ice the cakes again. "You missed your calling, girl. Should've sent you down to the theater, turned you into a bard or an actor. With hair that short, you would've been snagged by a bloke there, no doubt. They're always looking for tomboys like you to play the young men."

"Watch it, Dad," said Saffi as she headed for the back room to get the scones. "You're not winning any favors talking like that."

Ward focused on his work, carefully spiraling the frosting to create the pattern the customer had requested. Next he would sprinkle the cakes with candied raisins and cinnamon, and then carefully wrap the package with the board and silk that Evanly requested. She had specific instructions about the bow, but Ward was certain she'd complain about his work even if it was done perfectly. In the early days of owning the shop, Ward had assumed that when the ladies complained about the quality of his work it was an attempt to haggle. It took him several months of declining sales to realize that the patrons in this district didn't care about price, but complained merely because it was the proper way to treat a First-Baker like him. The fact that he'd lowered his prices only confirmed the women's suspicion that his goods were of poor quality. It wasn't until he raised his prices in accordance with the other shops that he finally started to get business. Nowadays he earned a living by enticing the local ladies in with his exorbitant prices. They would come in, prattle amongst themselves, and scoff at the audacity of a First-Baker charging such prices for his low-quality foods. Then, inevitably, one of the women would choose to prove her surplus wealth by jokingly purchasing a cake, claiming she might as well throw the poor baker a few pels.

Ward finished the cakes, and looked down at them with appreciation. Saffi returned with the scones as well as a stick of cinnamon that she handed to him along with a file. He sprinkled on the candied raisins and then dusted the cakes liberally with the cinnamon.

"You treat them too good," said Saffi as she shook her head, upset with how much of the expensive spice her father deigned necessary. "They're taking advantage of you."

"Prices like these, they can take advantage of me all they like."

"I'd just as soon drag a cart out to the square," said Saffi. "Those people might be rough, and ready to steal faster than they are to pay, but at least with them you know what you're getting. These stuffy types talk out of both sides, saying one thing but meaning another."

"You're going to have to learn to put up with them when you take over the shop."

It was a sore subject, and one Saffi didn't want to discuss. "I'd better get the oven cleaned out. One of the loaves of pumpernickel fell back off the grate. It'll flavor the breads in the morning if we forget to snatch it out of there."

"Saffi, hold up a second," said Ward as he stopped packaging up Evanly's order. He walked closer to the counter that she was behind and asked, "You always walk away whenever I start talking about handing this shop over to you. Why is that?"

"No I don't," said Saffi. "You're letting your imagination get the better of you again."

"I am not. Stop and talk to me." He waited until she looked up at him before he said, "I'll be handing this shop over to you as soon as the guild gives you your name. That's been the plan all along, and I always thought that's what you wanted."

"It was," said Saffi, and then she quickly corrected herself. "It is, but..." She trailed off, unwilling to continue the thought.

"But what?" asked Ward.

"I don't know. I guess I just don't like thinking about running this place without you. It won't be the same. I won't have anyone to deal with the dowry queens if you're not here."

Ward nodded and said, "I know, but they won't give you a hard time like they do me. You'll have yourself a second generation name. Wasn't long ago it was Brendan's dad down the street, baking up bread as a second, gaining the respect of the district. That'll be you soon." He recognized his daughter's forced smile and added, "Unless you don't want to be a Second-Baker."

"It's not that," said Saffi.

"I'd understand," said Ward. "Me of all folks. Your granddad never understood why I struggled as a Sixth-Sword. You would've thought the sky had fallen the day I lost my post. I'm not going to be like that with you, kid. If you don't want to be a baker, then so be it. We'll sell this shop back to a florist or some other up-and-comer from the market and we'll be done with it. Won't break my heart one bit."

"Thanks, but it's not that I don't want to be a baker. I've got no problem with that."

"Then what is it?"

Saffi looked out at the street beyond the shop's window and at the gentry in their posh suits and grand dresses. The glow of the oil lamps hanging from the street posts cast an amber hue that complimented the setting sun's warm rays. Potted plants decorated the road, separating the walkways on either side from the cart path in the center, and the flowers were in full bloom, a mixture of reds, yellows, blues, and purples that were a wonder to anyone wandering here from any other part of the city. Nowhere else but the North District had the resources to be concerned with the beautification of the roads and walkways, but here it was like they were living in a different city.

"I'm not sure," said Saffi honestly.

"Wanderlust?" asked Ward.

His daughter grimaced and said, "Wanderlust? Where do you think I'd want to go? The plains aren't safe these days."

"Don't believe everything you hear," said Ward. "The merchants will look for any excuse they can find to tell you the roads aren't safe, and that they've got to increase their prices. If you listened to Gelldren he'd have you believing there's a parade of dead marching with swords and spears, lighting fires and casting spells." Ward snickered and shook his head as he went back to wrapping Evanly's package. "Truth is, the biggest threat on the roads are the bandits, and they're not likely to bother most folks."

"What about Everglen?" asked Saffi. "Aren't you afraid of The Scholar?"

"Not sure I believe he even exists," said Ward.

"You don't?" asked Saffi, incredulous. "What about the survivors who saw him? You think they were lying?"

"Did you talk to one of the survivors?" asked Ward, although he already knew the answer.

"No," said Saffi. "But Murien and Abraham had to increase their patrols, and I heard some of the ladies talking..."

"The ladies always talk," said Ward. "And you're better off not listening to a word they say unless they're placing an order with you. As for Abraham, that boy's been telling stories since he was knee-high to a dwarf."

The shop door opened and Ward turned, expecting Evanly. "Oh, hello," he said, surprised to see a tall, dark stranger at the door instead of Lady Evanly. The new customer was thin, and wore a long traveler's cloak with a variety of pockets on the front. He had on brown leather gloves that looked weathered, and his pants and boots were equally grimy, unlike most of the people who walked the North District. His shirt had a series of decorative rings on it, each with a strip of leather wrapped around it. His nose and mouth were covered by a leather mask created to mimic the basic shape of a man's lower face, and his eyes were so black it was hard to distinguish his pupils.

"What can we do for you?" asked Ward. "Looking for something good to eat tonight?"

The stranger shook his head, and Ward heard the crinkle of leather. He suspected the stranger was wearing armor beneath his cloak, an unnerving revelation. Ward was familiar with all sorts of armor because of his former livelihood as a Sixth-Sword, and knew that traveling with even the relatively light encumbrance of leather became tiresome after long. The only reason to wear it inside of the walls would be if you were on duty, or expecting a fight.

Ward stopped fiddling with Evanly's ribbon and walked back around the counter. He motioned at Saffi to go to the back room as he picked up a serrated blade from beside a cutting board. Saffi sensed something was wrong and scowled at Ward, telling him that she wasn't leaving, before grabbing a blade of her own. Her weapon was a short, dull knife that she accidentally pinged against the counter, causing it to ring.

The stranger stopped and regarded them both, but didn't say a word.

"How can we help you today, sir?" asked Ward, pretending that nothing was amiss, but ready to defend himself if needed.

"I'm not here for trouble, Sword," said the stranger, his voice low and rasping.

Ward looked back at Saffi, his expression commanding her to leave, but she sneered back at him in defiance. He tried to allay the rising tension, "I'm not sure who you've been talking with, but I haven't been a Sword for an awful long time."

"Right," said the stranger as if he knew something that Ward wasn't admitting.

"This is a bakery," said Ward, his tone tinged by anger now. "If you're not going to buy anything, then you should be on your way, stranger."

The man reached into his cloak and Ward tensed. Then the stranger pulled forth a small leather pouch that he dropped onto the counter separating them. The pouch jangled, and the stranger said, "There's about fifty pel in there."

"Fifty pel?" asked Ward, although it didn't ease his apprehension. "What're you buying?"

"Her." The stranger pointed at Saffi.

Ward raised his blade and pointed at the door. "I think you'd better leave, and take your pel with you." He flicked the pouch off the counter with the tip of his blade and it opened when it hit the ground. A wealth of golden pellets spilled out, rolling to their flat side and then stopping on the wooden floor. The pels were short, thin rods of gold that were cut in uniform segments and then flattened on one side to keep them from rolling away from their owners. Most shops accepted a variety of payments, ranging from silver to other bartered goods, but only pels were a universally accepted currency throughout The Five Walls and beyond.

"I'm buying her safety," said the stranger. "It's time to get her out of here. You knew this day would come"

"What's he talking about?" asked Saffi, as confused as she was perturbed.

"Nothing," said Ward. "Get back there." He pointed to the back room with his knife, commanding her to leave.

"No," said Saffi defiantly. "Tell me what's going on."

"Saffi, do as I say!" Ward growled with uncharacteristic gravity. Saffi cowed to his command, and sulked off. Ward moved closer to the stranger and spoke quietly, "Are you one of Kessel's Drakes?"

"It's not safe here anymore," said the stranger, ignoring the question. "The Scholar's coming."

"Here?" asked Ward.

The stranger looked at Ward and then pointed in the direction that Saffi had retreated as he said, "Get her out of here. The Courts are judging tomorrow, and there'll be a group of exiles sent out to the plains. Go with them. I'll meet you out by the crossroads, past the Robber's Spine."

"Who are you?" asked Ward as the stranger headed for the exit.

"The only one you can trust now."

The door opened before the stranger got to it, and Lady Evanly came inside. She stopped, surprised by the sight of another customer in the shop, and then said, "Oh my. You startled me."

The stranger walked around Evanly without responding. The proper lady scoffed after he'd left, and then looked down at the pels on the floor. "What happened?"

"That's what I'd like to know," said Saffi as she peered into the front of the shop from the doorway that separated it from the back room.

"Quiet," said Ward as he glared at his daughter. Then he turned to Evanly and said, "Sorry for the trouble. Your order's ready. Let me just get the scones packed up for you."

* * *

Lady Evanly walked briskly down the street, heading home with the boards of cakes and scones on either side of her. She was nearly out of the North District when she heard a girl's voice call to her, "Excuse me, Ma'am."

Evanly stopped and looked down the alley between a butcher and a fifth generation seamstress's shop. There was a little girl in a bright blue and white dress standing in the alley, her patterned leather shoes in the muck there. Her curled hair was tied up with bows, and her white stockings were speckled with mud.

"My child, what are you doing back there?" asked Evanly. "Get out of that alley."

"I need help."

"Then get out of there," said Evanly. "You're not likely to get much help back there like that."

"My sister hurt her leg. Please help."

Evanly squinted at the pale young girl, confused by the situation. "Where's your parents?"

"Please help," said the child before turning and walking deeper into the alley. "My sister's back this way."

"If you think I'm traipsing off into an alley then you've lost your mind," said Evanly. "I'll go get help."

A gloved hand wrapped around her mouth as an assailant caught her from behind. Lady Evanly was picked up off her feet and carried into the alley. Her two boards of baked goods splashed in the gutter as she squirmed and tried to scream. Then she saw the little girl open a door to the butcher shop and hold it open for the man to carry Evanly into.

The Lady struck back at the man carrying her, and hit him hard enough to cause his hand to falter, allowing her to scream out for help. He quickly clasped his hand back over her mouth and then struck her in the spine. At first she assumed he was punching her, but the pain was more intense than expected, causing her muscles to spasm. Warmth flooded her dress as he struck again, and she suddenly understood that she was being murdered.

Evanly was carried into the butcher shop, kicking and trying to scream. The child went in as well, and then locked the door behind them.

# Chapter Four

"I'm innocent," said Tarik as the Sword escorted him from the prison wagon to the stocks where the Courts were gathered.

"Right," said the guard who gripped Tarik's arm and guided him along the path that led to the Courts' podium. This was Judgment Day, a monthly event that took place on the outskirts of the market square, where surplus prisoners were dragged out of the dungeons to face the Courts who would decide their fate. Any prisoner who could afford a barrister was spared this ignoble procedure, and would have their fates decided at the court house, but Tarik hadn't been able to hire representation since the first time he was dragged off to prison. This would be the fifth time he stood before a Court.

There were three Courts hearing cases, each of them seated at a long, wooden table. Tarik recognized all of them, having been judged by two of them in the past and meeting the third at a similar event. He silently prayed to be brought up before the one man who hadn't yet tried him.

Tarik could overhear the Courts passing judgment on the prisoners ahead of him.

Bahrealle Third-Court unceremoniously stamped a page before him with his seal and then said, "Pellor Apprentice-Farmer, I hereby judge your crimes worthy of the noose."

Pellor cried out in grief as the guard beside him held the man tight. The doomed farmer's strength gave out, and he collapsed, forcing the guard to lift him.

"Sword, take him away," said Bahrealle Third-Court.

Someone in the crowd shouted out, "To the noose!" Others in the crowd cheered and echoed the farmer's sentence, "To the noose!"

It was a morbid affair that always drew a crowd. Judgment Days had the air of celebration, where merchants sold treats to those who gathered to watch as prisoners were hauled up to the Courts and sentenced. The unfortunate souls judged worthy of the noose weren't given any reprieve. Those sentenced to death were immediately taken to a platform behind the Courts where they were hanged. It was meant as a way to instill fear in the other prisoner's gathered, and it worked exactly as intended.

Prisoners often lost control of their bowels while in line, waiting for their turn in front of a Court. It was such a common occurrence that three ditches were dug that the prisoners were forced to stand in. After the proceedings, the ditches would be cleaned and buried, and the Courts' table would be hauled away. The only thing that would be left would be the hangman's platform, a constant reminder to everyone at market that they were just one crime away from public execution.

"No, no," said Tarik as he waited his turn. "Not Bahrealle." He'd faced this fat Court twice already, and had only escaped exile because of Bahrealle's bad memory last time.

Bahrealle Third-Court looked up at the lines of prisoners before the table and said, "Next."

The Sword beside Tarik, the same who'd caught him, began to carry him forward. "No, not me," said Tarik, desperate. "I think this guy's next." His hands were tied, so he used his head to motion at the man standing to his right.

"Ain't me, kid," said the other prisoner. "You're up. Have some dignity."

The Sword forced Tarik along, pushing him the last few steps until he was standing before the grinning countenance of Bahrealle Third-Court. The Court's fat neck jiggled as he smiled and tapped his hands on the table. He was dressed in the black vestments of The Order of the Nine, a throwback to a time when religion had a stronger hand in law. The gradual separation of The Order and law was the only reason Tarik had avoided being exiled any of the other times he'd been brought before a Court.

"Tarik the Tinkerer," said Bahrealle, pleased with himself.

"Tarik Apprentice-Tanner," said Tarik, correcting the Court.

Bahrealle chuckled and shook his head, "Not what I hear. What was it last time you were here? Tarik the Thief, right? Isn't that what they were calling you?" Bahrealle sighed and dipped his quill in ink before beginning to write on the parchment scroll before him. "You've managed to earn quite a few names for a man of your age. Not good, Tarik. Not good at all."

"I like to keep busy," said Tarik, trying in vain to get the Court to smile.

Bahrealle sneered and then looked at the Sword. "What's the charge this time?"

The Sword stepped forward and produced a bag filled with tiny gears, screws, hinges, and tools. The metal components of Tarik's machines clattered on the wooden table, and one of the gears spun on the attached screw until Bahrealle stopped it by setting his finger down on top of it.

"He was found with these, and I saw him in the Central Market pickpocketing earlier in the day," said Abraham Second-Sword.

"You can't prove it," said Tarik. "It's my word against his. He was the one carrying those gears. It should be him on trial, not me."

"I had them because you threw them down when you ran away," said Abraham.

"Likely story," said Tarik. "You're a relic-hunter if I've ever seen one."

"I don't even know what those things do," said Abraham in reference to the gears on the table.

"Pretending to be an idiot?" asked Tarik. "You're doing a good job. Being an idiot suits you."

"We'll see who the idiot is," said the Sword, glaring down at the prisoner.

"Tarik," said Bahrealle, shaking his head in disappointment. "You know it's illegal to bring old world relics into the city."

"They're harmless," said Tarik. "They're not going to hurt anyone."

"And what of The Order?" asked Bahrealle. "You know their stance on machinery of any type."

"Are we still letting them tell us how to live?" asked Tarik, smirking as he looked across at the Court, hoping the man held a similarly anti-religious view.

"We most certainly are," said Bahrealle, offended. "Tarik, you've given me the distinct impression that you don't respect our laws. I have no doubt that if I were to sentence you to labor in the fields again, it would only be a matter of time before some other Sword was dragging you up here and dumping yet another bag of garbage on my table." Bahrealle grimaced, regarded the thief, and then said, "I'm afraid you give me no choice."

"Wait, Bahrealle," said Tarik.

The Court scribbled his sentence on the parchment, and then picked up his stamp. He pressed the wooden block to the square cloth that was wet with ink, and then he pressed the stamp hard to the scroll. "Tarik the Thief, or the Tinkerer, I hereby judge your crimes worthy of exile."

"You've got to be joking," said Tarik.

"Sword, take him away," said Bahrealle. "Good luck in the plains, Tarik. Perhaps there you'll discover the importance of religion at last."

Tarik was about to argue, but then he heard the distinct crack of a wooden platform being released, the snap of a rope being pulled taut, and the cheer of the crowd as Pellor Apprentice-Farmer met his end on the platform behind the Courts. The Sword led Tarik off, headed for the wagon that would take him to the gate, and all the exiled young man could think was how lucky he was not to be up there dangling from a hangman's noose. Now he understood why they held court in front of the executions as he walked dutifully to the exiles' wagon.

Before nightfall, he would be headed out to the plains, far from the safety of any walled city. He would be left there to rot among the dead and dying.

* * *

"Look at them," said one of the guards tasked with escorting the exiled wagon to the far reaches of the Steel Plains, out among the ruins of the Dead Age. "Pissing themselves." He rattled the iron bars with the pommel of his sword.

Tarik was among the prisoners chained within the wagon, his hands pulled behind his back by the shackles that wound in and out of the bars, connecting all of the prisoners to one another and keeping them seated on the benches that lined the sides. He was one of the smallest men there, and knew he would be a target of the others as soon as they were dropped off. He was feverishly trying to think of a way to prevent becoming a victim of the thieves, drunkards, rapists, and vagrants who populated the prison wagons.

He looked around at the variety of solemn faces, and saw a couple that seemed out of place. One was a woman, which in itself was a rarity since women weren't normally exiled by the Courts. It was always easy to find a job for a woman, and the Courts loved to get free labor from prisoners. Tarik guessed that this woman's age had doomed her. She was pretty, but her grey hair and wrinkles gave away her years, not that the prisoners would let that keep them from abusing her once they were dropped off in the plains. It was clear that she had a strong will, staring down anyone who locked eyes with her, but that wouldn't be enough to save her.

The other oddity in the wagon was a man who looked even younger than Tarik, with a sculpted form and bright blue eyes. His lightly tanned skin and pristine complexion revealed his profession. Tarik guessed he was a thegn, a slave of one of the wealthy residents of New Carrington, raised in luxury and expected to do nothing but serve his master in whatever perverse ways desired. The thegns rarely left their master's estate, and knew little about how the real world worked.

Tarik could see the fear in the young man's teary eyes.

"They know what's coming," said one of the guards lounging against Tarik's wagon. "Might as well of been a death sentence." He banged his gauntlet against the wooden portion of the wagon, taunting the prisoners within. "Isn't that right, cattle?"

"To the slaughter," said one of the other men. They were all First-Swords, low born and forced to take the jobs that the higher ranks never wanted. Many of them had faced the Courts themselves at some point in their lives, and lacked any skills other than brute strength to earn them a different job. The ugly, brutish Sword laughed at the exiled and let out a long, "Moo," to mock them.

"Gandry First-Sword," said the only female prisoner in the wagon, her voice loud and commanding. "Bite your tongue. You're shaming your family."

Tarik snickered and tried to look behind him to see how the guard reacted to the prisoner's reproach.

All of the guards except for Gandry laughed. The Swords taunted their brother, asking him if he was going to let an exile talk to him like that. Tarik could hear the guard's boots clopping in the mud as he approached the wagon.

Gandry gripped the bar beside Tarik's head and then stepped up onto one of the spokes of the wheel to raise himself as he said, "Lady Joyce, you'd better keep your mouth shut. That's the rules. Prisoners keep their mouths shut or they get taught a lesson. We've got a long ride ahead of us, and I'd bet these fellows here'd love to dip their quills in your well."

"How dare you," said Joyce. "Remember who you're speaking to."

"There're no Prophets in the plains, darling." Gandry laughed and then jumped down, splashing in the mud. "I don't need a Prophet to know your fate."

Tarik looked over at the woman across from him with new curiosity. He never expected to find a Prophet in a prisoner's wagon. The others in the wagon looked at her as well, studying the woman who'd enjoyed such a high post before today, and wondering what she'd done to earn exile.

The Prophets were highly regarded in New Carrington, and well paid for their services. Most of them lived at the compounds of the families that employed them, enjoying the best food and service the world had to offer. When a family ended their arrangement with a Prophet, it was only a matter of days before the released woman found new employment.

One of the other prisoners in the wagon was just as curious as Tarik, and asked, "You're a Prophet? What in blazes did you do to get sent to the plains?"

"Shut up in there," yelled Gandry.

"If I don't, what're you going to do?" asked the obstinate prisoner. "You going to let these men dip their quills in me?" He laughed, and some of the other prisoners joined him.

Gandry drew his sword and went to stand behind the joking prisoner. He gripped one of the bars, like he'd done beside Tarik a moment earlier, and then hoisted himself up. His sword went between two of the bars and pierced the laughing prisoner through the back, spearing him and causing him to shudder. His laughter turned to a pained yell as the point of the Sword's blade sprouted from his chest. The wound was fatal, but not merciful, leaving the prisoner to quake and stare down at the blade as he choked. His white tunic bloomed crimson as the dying man watched.

"Anyone else have something to say?" asked Gandry. "No? You sure? Not a word? No more jokes? All right then. Let's keep it that way." He retrieved his blade, causing his victim to jerk backward and then slump as far forward as the chains would allow. The man hung there, bleeding and gasping, dying slowly.

Joyce the Prophet whispered in disdain, "Monster." Luckily, Gandry didn't hear her.

The dying prisoner's breathing continued, eventually turning into a death rattle as mucus seeped from his open mouth. His body would convulse from time to time, and one of the men sitting beside him threw up, adding to the muck on the floor of the wagon.

Gandry and the other guards were called away from the wagons by their captain, and Tarik took the opportunity to ask, "Is he dead?"

One of the people sitting across from Gandry's victim said, "Looks like it. He hasn't moved in a while."

"Are they going to take him out of here?" asked Tarik, glancing over at the corpse.

"They're going to have to," said a gruff man near the front of the wagon.

"Why?" asked someone else. "What's it matter to them?"

"Because he might turn," said Tarik. "They need to burn him."

"Like I said, what's it matter to them? They don't care if he turns. We're as good as dead to them anyhow. Don't you know where we're headed?"

"Yeah, out to the plains," said Tarik, uncertain what the prisoner was alluding to.

"Right," said the middle-aged man with a knowing grin. He bore the scars of a tough life, and one of his blue eyes was permanently squinting. "And then they'll just drop us off with some food and wish us well. Because that's the way it's done."

"What are you getting at?" asked Tarik.

"We're all going to be on the business end of a sword before the day's through," said the grizzled prisoner. He winked at Tarik, but the severe scars on his face twisted the gesture to make it look menacing. "Trust me."

"You don't know what you're talking about," said the man who'd previously vomited, a couple seats down from where Tarik was seated.

"Don't I?" asked the scarred man. "I used to be a First-Sword, and I went on my fair share of runs out alongside a wagon full of exiles. If you think those guards are going to let us go and give us our gear, then you're a few apples short of a pie. In my day, we'd take the wagons out to the Robber's Spine, camp, and then run the exiled through before washing the wagon out and heading back." The prisoner nodded towards the dead man and said, "Take a good look. That'll be you by tomorrow."

"What?" asked the fair-haired young man that Tarik assumed was a thegn. "Are you serious?"

"Or keep blubbering like that and you can get it over with right now," said the former Sword.

Tarik heard heavy boots slopping through the mud behind him. He saw the prisoners across from him hang their heads and knew that one of the guards was approaching.

"What's the problem?" asked Gandry, loud and obnoxious as he slammed his fist against the wagon. "Who else wants to get this over with early? Huh? That's what I thought. Keep your damn mouths shut. We're going to be heading out soon. We're just waiting on some baker that wants to tag along out to the crossroads."

* * *

"It's my fault," said Dessidus, his cheeks flush and his fists clenched. "Let me deal with it."

The Scholar was in the first-floor room of a home on the east side of the city, surrounded by crates of books. Everywhere he went, The Scholar brought his library, hiding the volumes in crates with false bottoms designed to look like a simple merchant's haul of fruits and vegetables. While The Five Walls were prepared to defend themselves against an army of dead marching up to their fortifications, they had no plans to deal with an infection from within. Gaining access to the cities was easy, and then the slow process of spreading the disease would begin.

There had already been members of The Scholar's army hiding in New Carrington. Cerrus and Ferragut had been sent here a couple months earlier to start the process of infecting the populace, and then hiding the bodies in preparation for the assault. When Dessidus brought word of the discovery of Saffi's location, The Scholar decided to head to New Carrington immediately, far above schedule. He was eager to capture the girl.

Ebon was supposed to come here to protect the girl from Cerrus and Ferragut. Dessidus had expected to find his companion here, but Cerrus revealed that while Ebon had arrived here, he hadn't said anything about any girl. Dessidus searched the city for Ebon and the girl, but they weren't anywhere to be found. In fact, Ward First-Baker's shop had been cleared out.

Despite his former loyalty, it was clear that Ebon had turned against The Scholar. The half-dead assassin had absconded with the girl for reasons no one could fathom.

The Scholar wasn't wearing his usual mask, designed to mimic pictures of gasmasks from the Dead Age. Instead, he was cloaked in black, with his hood hiding his features in the darkened room. He was angry, which was a rarity for him. The Scholar wasn't an ill-tempered despot, but a calm, compassionate, reasonable man, which was one of the reasons he so easily earned loyalty from his soldiers. Yet now, as he dealt with the loss of Saffi, he teetered on the edge of fury.

"Why would he do this?" asked The Scholar.

"I don't know," said Dessidus. "I know him better than anyone, and he never said anything to me about wanting to help the girl."

"Help her?" asked The Scholar as if noticing something suspicious in the words Dessidus chose.

Dessidus corrected himself, "Take her."

"Are you sure he took her?"

"I don't know what else could've happened," said Dessidus. "He was the only one who knew, and he was supposed to come here to keep Cerrus and Ferragut from hurting her by accident. They both said that he met with them, but never said anything about the girl being here. And this morning when I finally found the baker's shop, it was empty."

"What about their home? Has anyone checked there?"

"We're not sure where it is," said Dessidus.

The Scholar looked at one of his books, regarding the wordless leather binding and then flipping through the handwritten pages. Most of these books were copied versions of ancient texts, each painstakingly rewritten with quill and ink. "You don't think Ebon killed her, do you?"

"I don't think so," said Dessidus. "Why would the baker's shop be empty? He must've warned them."

"But why? To what end?" asked The Scholar, as much to himself as to Dessidus.

"Cerrus said he saw Ebon as recently as two days ago. If he left here, then he's probably still on the road somewhere."

"But where?"

Dessidus had already thought this through, and said, "It wouldn't make any sense for him to go to one of the remaining four walled cities. He must be headed to a smuggler's town. The closest one to here is Sailor's Rock. If he can get there, then he can take one of the ships off the mainland."

"Then he can't make it there," said The Scholar. "Take your Black Riders, and go find him. Bring him and the girl back to me."

"I will."

"Don't fail me, Dessidus," said The Scholar. "And whatever you do, keep that girl safe. If she's meant to die, it'll be me who kills her."

# Chapter Five

Saffi kept quiet, just like her father had asked, but she was getting angrier the longer he avoided her questions. It was obvious that Ward knew more than he was admitting, and that the stranger who'd shown up the night before had affected him. Her father promised to explain, but pleaded with her not to ask any questions until they were out of town. Ward had spent the night at the shop, packing their wagon with supplies, and then picked up Saffi at home. They were taking a trip out to Golden Rock to sell his overstock. It wasn't uncommon for shops to do things like this, although they never closed their shops to do it, instead hiring traveling merchants to take their wares off their hands.

Saffi had asked to meet with her friends before they left, but Ward assured her they wouldn't be gone long. She didn't believe him.

Ward had to meet with a representative of the Guild of Bakers to get approval to close his shop, and Saffi expected it to be problematic since the only other baker in the North District had already closed temporarily due to a family illness. Ward explained that he would have to pay the guild off, which was why the stranger had left the pel. That made Saffi question her father again about the tall, mysterious man who'd shown up at the shop, but Ward pleaded with her to save the questions for when they got out of town.

Now they were outside of their home on the outskirts of the farms, packing the last few things they needed into the wagon. They'd owned the wagon since the days when Ward was a baker in the Central Market, but the mule was new. Ward had purchased it for a tidy sum from Lady Desirae, the wife of a Third-Barrister and owner of a nearby stable. The animal wasn't used to hauling wagons, having lived his life as a companion animal to Desirae's horses until now.

"Should I whip him?" asked Ward as he sat on the cushioned bench at the front of the wagon. He had a black, leather whip that Desirae had given him, and had been warned that the mule, Stephen, could be headstrong.

"Let's try these again," said Saffi as she picked up the straps that were connected to the driving bit in the animal's mouth. She pulled gently on them, and Stephen responded by turning his head from side to side, lazily looking in the direction that she pulled. "Come on, boy, let's go."

The mule snorted and padded on the cobbled walkway, rooted where he stood.

"He's not giving us much choice," said Ward as he let the whip uncurl.

"Maybe see if he's hungry before you hit him," said Saffi as she turned and reached for one of the loaves of bread in the back of the uncovered wagon.

"Mules don't eat bread, do they?" asked Ward. "I thought they just ate carrots and hay and stuff like that."

"Want me to find a carrot cake?" asked Saffi as she produced a loaf of sourdough.

"Just give me that." Ward took the bread and ripped off a piece as he got down from the wagon, causing the entire thing to rattle as he dismounted. "All right, you daft half-horse. Is this what you want?" He held the bread out in front of the animal. Stephen sniffed the bread, and nearly looked interested in eating it, but then the animal grunted, tensed his rear, and let out an obnoxiously loud fart before going to the bathroom.

"Oh!" Saffi covered her nose and laughed. "He's pooping."

Ward smelled the bread he'd offered to Stephen and then said, "Well that's a mighty nice way to react to a friendly gesture, you filthy thing."

Saffi heard the splash of something wet hitting the ground, and looked down to see urine flowing out from under Stephen. She continued to laugh and then said, "He's letting it all out."

"By the Nine!" Ward backed away, grimacing as he watched the animal relieve itself. "What's wrong with this thing?"

Saffi was going to suggest they try to get their pel back from Desirae when Stephen decided it was time to move. He snorted and then started walking, leaving Ward scrambling to get aboard. Saffi tried to pull on the reins, but Stephen just grunted and let his head be pulled back, refusing to do as he was told.

"Stop him," said Ward as he jogged alongside the wagon.

"I'm trying." Saffi jerked on the reins. She stood up, and pulled the leather straps as hard as she could, finally forcing the animal into submission. Ward climbed up beside her, causing the small wagon to creak and lean to the side.

"This creature's turning out to be the deal of a lifetime."

Ward and Saffi made their way through the East District, and then maneuvered down a thin residential road instead of passing through the busy Central Market where the Courts were still in session, meeting with peasants with minor squabbles. The executions and exiles had already been tried, and the prisoners' wagons would be leaving soon. Ward had secured protection from the Swords heading out to the plains, sacrificing a few pel to their commander for the honor.

"What if this guy doesn't show?" asked Saffi as she kept an eye on the side of the road to make sure the wagon didn't lurch over into the gutter that ran along the side.

"The Swords? They'll be there."

"No, not them," said Saffi. "The stranger. What if he never shows up? How long are we going to wait at the crossroads for him?"

Ward shrugged, apparently still trying to avoid the topic of the stranger who'd visited the shop the night before. Saffi had agreed to avoid talking about the stranger and the reason for their trip until they were out of the city, but asking about guards on Devon's Road seemed like fair game.

"We're not waiting for anyone," said Ward. "We're going to get to the crossroads, and if someone's there to accompany us on our way to Golden Rock, then good. If not, we'll go alone."

"Alone?" asked Saffi, astounded that her father would say such a thing. "All the way to Golden Rock?"

Ward scowled and shushed her before looking out around them at the townsfolk milling about. "We'll be fine."

"Fine? Through the Robber's Spine by ourselves?"

"Keep your voice down," said Ward as he stared ahead, focused on the road and the unpredictable ass leading them.

Saffi lowered her volume and asked, "What about the marauders, or the dead, or the goblins?"

"Goblins?" asked Ward, glancing over at his daughter in amusement.

"Yes," said Saffi, sure of herself. "I've heard from some of my friends that there are goblins all over the Steel Plains."

"You have?" Ward laughed and then said, "You've been letting them fill your head with nonsense. Trust me, the rivers and the roads aren't filled with serpents and ghouls like the merchants say they are."

"Then how come this is the first time you've ever taken me outside of the city?"

"Why would we go out there? We've got a perfectly good shop here in New Carrington. There's no point in traveling past the gates."

"Then why are we headed out now?"

Ward looked over at his daughter, his bushy red eyebrows meeting in the middle as he frowned. "Can you please..."

"I know, I know," said Saffi as she sat back and crossed her arms. "Wait until we get out of the city."

"No," said Ward. "Wait until we're to the crossroads."

"That wasn't the deal."

"It is now," said Ward. "Be patient, kid. Enjoy yourself for now, because knowing everything's not as great as you might think."

"And do you know everything?"

Ward winked at her and said, "I know why we're leaving town, and that puts me a few steps ahead of you at least."

"That's nice, Dad," said Saffi as she crossed her arms and looked away.

They made their way north, through the packed residential streets and into farmland that separated the center of town from the wall. New Carrington was a mid-sized city, ruled by an aristocracy that had been tied to the Church of the Order for many years. Despite the slow decline of the faithful, the influence of the church was still evident, with all of New Carrington being free of any technology, or what the church referred to as 'Steam and Gleam.' It was widely accepted that the Dead Age was brought on by a former civilization's failure to heed the warnings of the Gods as they continued to build monstrous temples, trying to reach the heavens themselves. The cities of that bygone age had long since been destroyed by time and nature, but their underground dwellings still yielded a bevy of treasures.

There'd been a time, long ago, when explorers plundered those underground crypts, returning with a wealth of gadgets and books. Some cities began to utilize the knowledge of the ancients, and ignored the simple ways of The Order in favor of the treasures of the old world. That's also when the undead menace reappeared, signaling the start of what some feared would be another Dead Age. The Order was quick to take control of cities everywhere, demanding that the people give up the sinful treasures of the devils that had brought about the first Dead Age. Walls were built around the five largest cities, and the new resurgence of zombies were kept at bay. After that, The Order kept the populace in line, shunning anything that they suspected as being emblematic of the ancients.

The dead still lived, wandering the plains, but in manageable numbers. Where once they'd been a devastating plague, now they were more a nuisance, no worse than the bandits who made a home between the cities, refusing to be locked within society's walls.

Men and women with the title of First-Swords made their living escorting merchants and travelers along the roads between the cities, and it was usually easy money. All travelers carried an extra bag of pel, known as a 'robber's tax', that would be offered to any bandits who set upon the wagons. The bandits would send a peaceful envoy to the travelers, announce their intent, and then the merchant would decide whether or not to dip into his robber's tax. If the merchant refused, then the bandit would inform his group, and they would decide whether or not to attack. It was almost always a civil act, carried out between two parties who had no desire for battle. The only thing keeping bandits from overrunning the roads, eager to collect as many robber's taxes as possible, were the occasional false wagons that the cities would send out, filled with Swords, ready to arrest or slay any brigands who came along.

Saffi knew that her father had spent time as an Apprentice-Sword, but he didn't go on many protection jobs, instead he was employed by the city government due to his father's connections. Ward came from a long line of well-respected Swords, and his brother, a Sixth-Sword, had been hired on as the personal guard of an aristocrat in Golden Rock, an honored position. Ward should've expected the same, had he not been cast out of the guild for reasons he still refused to discuss.

"There's our baker," said one of the Swords waiting at the gate. It was Gandry, an obnoxious boy who'd lived at the orphanage with Saffi years ago. He recognized Saffi and added, "Didn't know the witch was coming."

Ward pulled hard on the reins, struggling with Stephen and twisting the mule's head side to side until the animal finally slowed beside one of the wagons. Gandry walked up to Saffi, and she glared down at him. "I'm an Apprentice-Baker now."

"Yeah, but you'll always be Saffi the Witch to me," said Gandry, delighting in the name-calling.

"Watch your mouth, Sword," said Ward as he leaned over his daughter and pointed down at the young guard. "You'll give my daughter the respect she deserves."

Gandry looked honestly surprised and regretful that he'd upset Ward. He raised his brow, like a scorned puppy, and apologized, "Didn't mean nothing by it, sir. It's just that Saffi and I know each other. We used to be mates back at the orphanage." Gandry held his arm out, offering his assistance to the lady if she wanted to get down.

"She's a Baker now," said Ward.

"Right, right," said Gandry. "Of course. We just used to call her..."

"I know what you used to call her," said Ward. "And you're not going to call her that while I'm in earshot."

Gandry apologized again as Ward got down from the wagon. Saffi refused Gandry's hand, and said, "I'll wait up here."

"I'll be back in a minute," said Ward. "I have to meet with the Captain of the Watch." He pointed towards the gate. New Carrington was protected by a massive stone wall, stretching the entire circumference of the city and manned with Archers at all hours. The wall had four entrances, not including the waterway, and each of the gates were kept closed except for three times per day when travelers were allowed in and out. The wall was ringed by a moat, and camps were kept on the outside, near the bridges, where arriving travelers were kept safe in wait of the next scheduled opening. The gates were enormous, as tall as a house, with an iron portcullis on the inner side that was kept shut until the bridge was lowered. Anyone arriving had to pass through the gate, and was at the mercy of the slits in the walls, known as murder holes, where archers could snipe anyone entering as they came up against the portcullis. There were also gaps in the stonework above where Archers could either fire down from or pour oil upon invaders. The gate was marred by the black stains of old battles, back during a civil war between factions of the church, before the aristocracy took control.

Gandry waited until Ward was a few steps away and then glanced up at Saffi with a raised brow. He whispered, "What's with him?"

"He doesn't let anyone call me anything but a Baker now," said Saffi. "He says it's disrespectful to be named anything that's not related to a guild."

"It's just a nickname," said the young Sword. "Some of the guys still call me Gandry the Bull. Remember that time I charged the teacher and knocked him flat on his rear?" He knelt slightly, mimicking the position he'd taken just before running at their former teacher at the orphanage several years earlier. "He thought he could take me. You remember that? Big dumb oaf. When I get going, I swear I can knock a house down."

Saffi had never cared much for Gandry, and would've normally ignored him in an attempt to get him to leave, but she was curious about something. She glanced over at her father, making sure he was far from the wagon, and then asked Gandry, "Can I ask you something?"

"Maybe," he said. "Depends on what it is." He had a lascivious smile, which made Saffi slightly nauseous.

"Have you heard much about what happened out in Everglenn?"

"The Scholar sacked it," said Gandry, matter-of-factly. "Do you know about him?"

"A little. Tell me what you've heard."

"Sure," said Gandry as he casually leaned against the wagon, near Saffi's legs. She straightened her skirt and moved her leg away from him, as if his touch was infectious. "He's a half-dead that's got an army of zombies. All of the Swords know about him. They say he's seven feet tall, and that he wears an old-world style mask, with goggles." Gandry traced circles around his own eyes, and spoke as if telling a ghost story to children. "They say he wears the mask because his face is rotted away, and that he's just a talking skull beneath it, held together by black magic."

Saffi groaned in disbelief. "That's nonsense."

"Believe what you want, but there's a reason the guild upped our prices. We're charging almost twice as much for every Sword sent out with merchants now. Word is, this Scholar fellow's got an army of dead twice the size of Golden Rock's guard, and everywhere they go they're getting more. Think about it. Every time he kills someone they just pop right back up on their side, ready to chase down meat. Almost unstoppable." He smiled up at Saffi and added, "Almost."

"How's he controlling them?" asked Saffi. "I thought zombies were mindless; just running after food."

The crank connected to the portcullis's chain began to grind, and the massive grate began its slow ascent, the metal squealing as it went, interrupting Saffi and Gandry's conversation. Ward was on his way back, and Saffi knew by his expression that something was wrong. Ward was scowling and muttering to himself, his thick mustache quivering as he snarled.

Gandry must've noticed Ward's sour mood as well, because he walked quietly away, back to the prisoners' wagons. Ward got to the wagon and pulled himself back up to the driver's seat.

"What's wrong?" asked Saffi.

"Worthless sods." Ward spat off his side of the wagon and then made a foul gesture in the direction of the gate. "They're charging us a protection fee for the whole trip, even though we're just going to the crossroads. Combined with what I had to bribe the guild with, and the cost of that damn donkey, this trip's already costing us too damn much."

"What about the pel the stranger left?" asked Saffi.

"Won't use it unless I have to," said Ward. "Got it all still. I don't like spending other people's money. When we see that fellow again, I'll give it back."

Birds cawed above, driven from their perches by the grinding portcullis chain. They circled angrily, waiting for the gate to open so that they could settle again on the crenellated parapets where they scanned the fields for mice. The morning fog had been burned away, but a midnight rain shower had left the air thick and the ground muddy. The prisoner wagons had settled in the earth, their wheels sunk as they waited off the cobbled road. It took several minutes for the Swords to dig the wheels out enough that the horses could pull the heavy wagons out of the mud and up onto the raised road. A line began to form, with the prisoner wagons in the lead. There were a few merchants going along, also planning to split away at the crossroads, and they moved ahead of Ward and Saffi as their donkey, Stephen, continued to give them trouble.

Ward cursed and ranted before finally unspooling the whip. He was about to strike the obstinate ass, but Saffi pleaded with him not to. She insisted she could get the mule to obey, and got down to gently speak to Stephen. She'd always been good with animals, and a few minutes later Stephen began to follow after one of the other merchant wagons. Saffi looked pleased with herself as Ward hauled her back up into her seat.

They passed through the New Carrington gate, and Saffi admired the wide, yawning entrance. Hooves clopped on the wooden bridge, and the wagons creaked along out to Devon's Road, headed towards the Steel Plains. The camps outside the gate were filled with merchants, all eager to get their wares into the city, waiting for the leaving party before getting their chance to head inside. The gate camps were also well-known for their black market. While the area was under the protection of the city guard, it wasn't patrolled heavily, and certain laws within the walls weren't applicable out here. This was where customers interested in the treasures of the ancients could come to visit the merchants who lingered on the outskirts of The Order's law.

Saffi caught sight of one of these merchants in the distance, obvious by the shine of his unique carriage, built out of one of the old world vehicles. "Dad, look," she said as she pointed out across the gathered wagons waiting in the camp at the gleaming red one in the distance.

Ward squinted as he looked out at the merchant. He grunted disapproval and then said, "That fellow had better be careful. It might be legal to have old world goods out here, but the Order doesn't take kindly to them being flamboyant about it."

Saffi rarely ever spent time outside of New Carrington, only stealing away through the gate on occasion with friends to marvel at the old world relics. Seeing an ancient device was exciting for her. "Where do you think he got that?" The merchant's carriage seemed to be made entirely of metal, and gleamed red like a jewel, contrasted by the expanse of rolling green fields beyond. It was raised high off the ground, supported by a wooden wagon beneath, although the carriage looked as if it once had wheels as well. The merchant had a ladder attached to the side of it, and the carriage's door was open, revealing black seats and a steering wheel within.

"Is that a wagon?" asked Saffi. "Is he selling it?"

"It's an old world wagon," said Ward. "And I doubt he's mad enough to sell it. He's probably just charging folks who want a chance to sit in it."

"Oh, I bet you're right," said Saffi. "There's a boy climbing up into it now. Have you ever been in one?"

Ward didn't answer.

Saffi ignored his silence and continued to muse, "I heard they used to drive those without horses, like magic. I'd love to see that. Wouldn't you?"

"Nope," said Ward flatly. "We're better off these days. The folks that made those things drove themselves right into oblivion."

Saffi groaned and rolled her eyes. "Since when are you so devout?"

"The Order's not wrong about everything."

Saffi again ignored the direction her father was taking the conversation, and focused on her wonderment instead. "I'd heard people had dug up some of the old world things, but I thought everything was all decrepit and rotted. I didn't know there were still things in that sort of condition."

"Most of the stuff they've dug up is useless, broken garbage," said Ward. "Who knows how long it's been buried? Two, three thousand years at least. But every now and again someone digs their way into an underground passage that hasn't crumbled away. There's a good chance you'll see more stuff like that out here, so do me a favor and keep in mind the warnings about them. You're better off leaving that sort of stuff alone."

They were moving further away from the old world merchant, and Saffi stood so that she could look back at him. Ward took her hand and pulled her back down into her seat. "We're trying to keep a low profile, remember?"

"Why?" asked Saffi, annoyed. "Why do we care who knows we're leaving?"

"Just trust me, kid," said Ward. "Please?"

"I'm getting tired of all these secrets, Dad."

Ward nodded and said, "I know, but sometimes life's better with a few good secrets." He reached over and took his daughter's hand, squeezed gently, and smiled at her. She was going to argue with him, but the sweetness in his eyes stilled her response.

# Chapter Six

"We won't get a robber's tax larger than that," said Payter DeMalo as he stood beside the leader of the Northland Marauders, Jeth Regard. They were joined by two other leaders of the pack, and all four of the men were imposingly large and strong. Jeth was unique among the four because of his black skin. He also had no hair anywhere on his body, a disorder that earned him exile by superstitious members of The Order in New Carrington. Payter and the other two men, Hammer and Pit, were of the same race, with pale skin turned dark by years in the sun, and had long hair and bushy beards. Hammer's golden hair and beard helped him stand out from the others. The four of them were meeting atop an outcropping of rocks that looked down upon Devon's Road, just before the terrain turned more mountainous in the Robber's Spine.

Jeth was holding a hefty pouch of pel that a stranger had offered them to let the caravan pass undisturbed. "How could the caravan be worth this? What do you suppose they're carrying? Can't just be exiles."

The wind gusted, stinging their eyes as it swept across the plains, wavering the stalks of grass that stretched across the hilly scape. Jeth pulled his goggles off his bald head and put them on before tying the pouch of gold to his belt. "You know what I keep wondering?"

"What's that?" asked Payter, squinting as the wind brought dust up and into his face.

Jeth looked over at the stranger standing down near the Northland Marauders' camp. The man was tall and thin, with weathered gear that revealed his experience outside of the protection of the city walls. Payter had searched the man when he arrived, and found no weapon other than a single, thin blade that they confiscated.

"Why don't we just kill him, and then rob the caravan like we'd planned? Way I see it, that'll save a few lives and leave us richer than any other option. And then we can take whatever this fool's hoping to save."

The men looked back at the stranger below as he waited patiently for the leaders of the Northland Marauders to consider his request. Leather hide tents dotted the area, and horses were tied to posts driven in the dirt beside loose stacks of hay. The campfires had been extinguished at dawn, but some still smoldered, sending wisps of grey into the bright blue sky. They'd camped here in preparation for a quick ambush of the next unlucky group of merchants that traveled Devon's Road. The stranger had come along just before sunrise, claiming to have slipped past the guards at New Carrington. He had information about the morning's caravan, explaining that it would be more than just a group of merchants passing through. Prisoner wagons containing exiles would be coming along as well, which meant there would be more Swords than normal. He made a case for letting the group pass undisturbed, and offered the gold as recompense for the Marauders' loss if they'd be willing to stay their blades.

"He says he's the caravan's envoy, but I think he's a liar," said Hammer Dahl, the golden-haired clan leader. "He's got the look of a wanderer." Hammer had once been known as Helgan, but he'd earned his nickname by the huge weapon he always carried around. He was leaning on the handle of his upturned war hammer as if it were merely a cane and not a fifty pound weapon.

"If you want him dealt with, then say the word," said Payter. "He's a bolt away from dead." He tapped his index finger on the shaft of a bolt that was already nocked in his crossbow. The weapon was unlike the rudimentary wooden types that the archers of The Five Walls wielded. Payter had spent a hefty amount of gold on this weapon because it was built using an old word design. He cherished it and had never found another crossbow that was as light and reliable as this one.

"That's more pel than we've seen in a while," said Hammer. "Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't mind killing the fool and being done with it, but if he's got access to that kind of gold then he might be worth keeping as a friend."

Jeth pointed down at the stranger and said, "Bring him here. I want to talk to him."

Payter went down to retrieve the stranger, and then brought the tall, thin man back up the rocky path to the scouting point above the valley. Jeth had Payter search the stranger for weapons a second time, and again he found none. After that, Jeth told the other three leaders of the pack to leave them for a minute.

Jeth examined the stranger as he waited for the others to leave. The man wore a mask to hide his mouth, and had eyes that were so black that they were unsettling to look at. His cloak was leather, with thin fur inside, and had several pocket on it, all of which had been emptied when he arrived and requested an audience with Jeth. His chest piece was intricate and Jeth guessed it was foreign because of the odd jewelry on it. There were rings dangling from it, each wrapped with small strips of leather to prevent them from jangling as he walked. His hair was mostly hidden by the cloak's hood, but a few wisps of thin grey hung down over his face. The color of his hair was a surprise, as there was no other sign of age on his face. He had the weathered look of a traveler, with long crow's feet dug into thick skin, but he didn't strike Jeth as elderly.

"What should I call you, stranger?"

"Ebon." His voice was low and harsh. He stood taller than Jeth, and when the strong wind blew he didn't wince, as if his eyes were used to the abuse.

"Do you have a surname or a city name?"

"Some people call me Ebon the First."

"The first what?" asked Jeth.

"Whatever they want." He spoke with a languid pace, devoid of unease, as if meeting with the leader of a pack of bandits caused him no concern at all.

Jeth nodded, humored, and said, "I don't think that's the way it works, stranger."

"I don't care what people call me."

"Fair enough. Keep your mysteries, I've got plenty enough as it is." Jeth raised his foot to perch it atop the tallest point on the hill as he looked far down along the stretch of Devon's Road towards New Carrington. A gust of wind swept along the plains and then up the rock, striking Jeth's loose clothing and causing his long cape to flap out behind him. When the wind calmed, he looked back at Ebon and asked, "I'm not the sort of man who can be bought."

"That's my purse on your belt," said Ebon. "Perhaps you've had a change of heart?"

Jeth fondled the pouch, causing the pel to jangle within. "You're going to have to tell me why this caravan's so important to you."

"I thought I could keep my mysteries."

"Not that one," said Jeth. "You want me to ignore the caravan, then you'll have to tell me why."

Ebon shook his head and said simply, "No."

Jeth let out a sharp laugh. "You're playing a dangerous game here, Ebon the First." He said the man's name with ridicule. "The way I see it, I should just kill you and then wait for the caravan like we planned. I've been doing this long enough to know that caravans don't often send envoys off this far ahead. My guess is there's a merchant on this caravan of yours that's carrying something they don't want anyone else to know about. Am I right? So, the way I see it, I can kill you and take your pel, and then kill the guards and take their prisoners to fill my ranks. Then I can find out what this secret is you're willing to pay such a hefty fee to keep. Right now that seems like the best option here, unless you can up the ante a bit. What do you think, Ebon? Why shouldn't I just kill you where you stand?"

"You can try to kill me if you want," said Ebon. "You won't be the first to try, and you won't be the last."

"You don't think I could kill you? I could run you through right here if I wanted," said Jeth. "I'm the one with the sword." He unsheathed his blade and pointed it at Ebon, nearly touching the tip against the stranger's chest.

Ebon stepped back calmly and his cape opened as he reached in and looped his right index finger through one of the rings on his chestpiece. "I don't want to kill you."

Jeth laughed and asked, "Are you mad? What are you going to kill me with? A bauble?"

Ebon tugged on the ring, causing a thin throwing knife to side forth from his chest, slick with his own blood. Jeth lost his former composure as he staggered back, now gripping his sword with both hands, ready to defend himself. "You're a half-dead?"

Ebon freed the blade from his flesh and said, "I'm far more dead than half."

"I thought the Drakes wiped your kind out. I don't..." Jeth stared in wide-eyed terror at the bloodied throwing knife in Ebon's hand, fully aware of the curse even the slightest nick of the weapon imparted. "I don't deal with devils."

"You do now," said Ebon. "And if you don't do what you're told, you'll have worse devils than me to deal with."

"Get out of here," said Jeth.

Payter noticed the confrontation happening atop the hill and started to come up the rocky path. "What's wrong?"

Ebon continued to stare at Jeth and then asked, "Will you let the caravan pass undisturbed?"

"Get out of here before we slice you apart, devil."

"Is it safe?" asked Ebon again, loud and furious.

"It's safe," said Jeth as Payter drew near.

Ebon turned to face Payter and held forth his hand as if motioning for the man to stop, but then he tugged on a string that was connected to something within his sleeve and a cascade of grey powder fell to the rocks. The stranger lifted his mask and knelt, then he plunged his knife into his own throat, opening it wide and letting his viscous blood flow forth. The liquid collided with the powder and had an immediate, caustic reaction. The grey powder sparked, and then within a fraction of a second there was a thick black veil engulfing the hill, erasing everything except the choking cloud of smoke.

Payter lunged, and there was the sound of battle, but it was quickly ended.

Jeth swung his sword haphazardly, desperate to defend himself as the smoke invaded his lungs. His eyes were unaffected thanks to his goggles, but he couldn't make out anything in the darkness other than faint shadows twisting here and there. He lost his footing and fell backward. His sword clattered against stone, and when he tried to raise it he couldn't. The weapon was being held down beneath Ebon the First's foot, and the devil loomed above.

Before Jeth could react, the stranger was upon him, his hand around the marauder's throat. The devil's black eyes shined even in the cloud as he knelt down and stared at his victim. Blood seeped from his neck, wetting the scarf that he'd pulled back in place. His voice was loud and demonic as he commanded, "Let them pass."

Jeth couldn't do anything but nod. The devil's grip was icy and strong, nearly crushing Jeth's windpipe with little effort.

The stranger released Jeth, and the smoke around them fluttered, revealing something zipping through it as the devil vanished. Jeth coughed, rolled, and tried to crawl out of the noxious vapor, pulling himself across the rocky hill until he was nearing the edge. The smoke was thinner here, and he could see Devon's Road below. The air was unbreathable, and he was suffocating now. The precipitous drop was his only hope of survival, and he willingly fell. He rolled and collided with jagged rocks, twisting and injuring himself as the ground rushed at him. When he finally stopped, he was in agony, but he could breathe. He gasped, coughed, and then vomited.

The clop of hooves passed him, and he looked up to see Ebon the First riding off atop a stolen horse, headed out towards the crossroads. The stranger stopped and stared back, the wind whipping at his cloak, and Jeth looked away in fear. He never wanted to see those black eyes again.

* * *

"Payter's dying," said Hammer, furious with their leader for allowing the attack to go unpunished. They were convened in the captain's tent, where the leaders of the pack met to discuss strategy. After Ebon left, Jeth was rescued by some of his men and brought back here to rest. Payter was discovered atop the hill, convulsing and near death, his eyes rolled back and foaming at the mouth, a throwing knife lodged in his arm. Hammer and the others had been ready to chase after the stranger, willing to go to any lengths to run him down and make him pay for his crime. Jeth insisted they let the man go and instead start preparing to move north, away from Devon's Road. "And everyone here saw what happened. They know you got attacked. That stranger came back down from the hill and stole one of our horses. You can't expect us to let him live after that."

"You're not listening to me," said Jeth, his throat raw from inhaling the fumes on the hill. His skin burned, and his stomach churned. "That was a devil up there."

"I was around before the Drakes came to the plains. I've killed my fair share of half-deads," said Hammer. "They don't scare me."

"He wasn't just a half-dead. He was worse than that." Jeth stopped and coughed hard enough that he thought he might spit up blood. "He's some sort of devil."

"Even better," sad Hammer. "I've been meaning to put the flat end of my hammer in the devil's head for years."

"No," said Jeth, resolute. "We're getting out of here. All of us."

Hammer looked over at his compatriot, Pitt, who was as stout and quiet as ever. He was standing near the entrance of the tent, his hands clasped over his massive belly, and his expression hidden by his thick black beard and long hair. Pitt just nodded to Hammer, signaling that they were in agreement.

"We're not going anywhere," said Hammer.

Jeth glared at his underling, aware suddenly that this could be a revolt. "What?"

"You heard me. We're staying right where we are, and when that caravan comes through we'll deal with them."

"No," said Jeth, as concerned for the safety of his friends as he was for his rule over the marauders. "You didn't see what I..."

"I don't care what you saw." Hammer's voice boomed. "I don't care how that half-dead put the fear of The Nine in you, but if one of those merchants has something to hide that's worth the devil's time, then I sure as hell want to know what it is. We're not settling for a robber's tax either. Don't go looking at Pitt for help, he agrees with me."

"You're fools."

"Maybe, but we're going to be rich fools," said Hammer.

Jeth straightened his posture, aware that this revolt could lead to his death. "They won't follow you."

"Who, the Marauders? Are you mad? The robber's taxes we've taken these past few months have been barely enough to keep us fed. Hell, Pitt's belly is shrinking by the second. We're aching for a rich take."

"What about the pouch that devil left?" asked Jeth, frustrated by their greed. "There's got to be thirty pel in there."

"And where there's thirty, there's bound to be more."

"Thirty pel will keep us fed for weeks," said Jeth in an attempt to reason with them.

"There's more to life than just keeping fed. When was the last time we took the pack to the city? They deserve a few good nights at the inn, a wench and a bench at the tavern. Am I right, Pitt?"

Pitt answered with a nod and a grunt.

"See?" asked Hammer. "Look how excited he is."

Jeth didn't respond to Hammer's joke, and focused on the mistake he was sure they were making. "This guy wasn't just any half-dead envoy, Hammer. He was wicked in ways I've never seen."

"He's no devil," said Hammer. "He's a huckster half-dead with flash powder up his sleeve."

Jeth started to argue, but Hammer silenced him. "No point fighting about it, decision's already made. We've got Payter in one of the wagons, ready for you to take him out to Sailor's Rock. The rest of us are going to wait here for the caravan. After that, we're going to head off into the plains to hide from any Swords the city sends out to investigate. We'll meet up with you in Sailor's Rock in a week or two, and we can talk about your role in the group then. None of us want to see you dead, but we think it's time for someone else to step up as leader."

"You?" asked Jeth with contempt.

Hammer nodded and said, "Sure, why not?"

"You're going to get them killed."

"Maybe," said Hammer. "But we'll die fat and happy before anyone catches up with us."

# Chapter Seven

Devon's Road carved its way through tranquil prairies north of New Carrington. The area was dotted with rocky outcroppings, a preface to the more mountainous Robber's Spine, past which lay the crossroads. The tall grass dominated the land, thick and tough for a man to move through but perfect for beasts. The road was too long to be paved, but was worn down by frequent travel. Even the creatures that hid in the grass often used the road to ease their journeys. Ward could see telltale paw prints in a single file along the edge of the grass. Few trees survived here, unable to find space amid the grass to take root, and the few that did rise from prairie looked feeble and thirsty.

The caravan had been traveling for the majority of the day, pausing only twice to give the animals a break. Saffi spent her time trying to calm Stephen, feeding him carrots that she'd gotten from one of the other merchants. She told the mule that she'd take good care of him, and that he should trust Ward as well. Whatever she was doing, it seemed to work, because the animal became more docile as the day wore on.

The Swords traveled on horseback, riding up and down the line of wagons and spending more time joking with one another than watching for threats. Their casual attitude made Ward nervous. He knew how easy it would be for bandits to hide here, and he was perturbed that the First-Swords weren't being more vigilant. When the young Sword who Saffi knew strode past, Ward stopped him.

"Gandry," said Ward.

The young Sword's mount trotted past Ward's wagon, but then slowed so that they could walk together. "Yes?" He afforded Ward no honor in his response, perhaps ignorant of Ward's former standing among his guild, or more likely unconcerned with it.

"I don't see any of your men scanning the grass. You should have a scout up on the lead and rear wagons, looking for movement."

"Don't worry," said Gandry. "The bandits don't travel this far south of the crossroads anymore. If we run into them, they'll be up in The Spine." The rocky terrain north of where they were was labeled on maps as 'Echo Hills', but the merchants knew it as The Robber's Spine, both because of the jagged hills as well as the frequent attacks of audacious bandits there.

Gandry could see that Ward wasn't assuaged, so he added, "Besides, none of the marauders of the plains are interested in fighting these days. They just collect their taxes and then skirt off to Sailor's Rock or Balestead."

"I'd rather keep my pel than hand it off to some brigand," said Ward. "Tell your captain to do me a favor and post a couple scouts."

"I'm as close to a captain as you're going to get here," said Gandry.

Ward grimaced, struck by a mix of confusion and disbelief. "What?"

"Just First-Swords on this trip. The captains are busy dealing with the disappearances."

"What disappearances?" asked Ward.

"You didn't hear? They've got about twelve people missing in the North District alone. How didn't you hear about that? It's all anyone's been talking about."

"This is the first I've heard of it." Ward looked over at his daughter and asked, "You?"

"Murien and Abraham had mentioned it."

"You need to get out of that bakery more often," said Gandry. "They're going to start searching some of the abandoned houses along the river. Some people are saying there's a serial killer grabbing victims right off the street."

"How many people did you say were missing?" asked Saffi.

"Twelve as of last night," said Gandry. "Could be more by now."

"How long's it been going on?" asked Ward.

Gandry thought for a moment and then said, "A little more than a week."

"Twelve people in a week?" asked Ward, astounded.

"Twelve just in the north. Started in the slums," said Gandry.

Ward thought about the warning the stranger at the bakery had given him about The Scholar, and he was struck by a sudden possibility. "You need to send someone back to New Carrington to warn them."

"Warn them about what?" asked Gandry, sensing Ward's urgency.

"The Scholar. I think I know how he's been attacking the towns. He's not marching his armies up to the gates. He's creating his army in the town itself."

"I don't follow," said Gandry.

"He's the reason people are disappearing," said Ward, impatient as he explained his suspicion. "He's getting into the towns alone, and then murdering people inside the walls. He's turning them into zombies. The walls won't do us any good."

Gandry looked confused, and just sat there on his horse staring at Ward as he processed what the baker had said.

"Are you daft, boy?" Ward snapped his fingers at the Sword. "You need to send someone back to town to warn them."

A horn blew from far off, echoing across the plains and getting the attention of everyone in the caravan. It was distant and ominous, calling out a low tone that stretched on for a long breath. Ward knew what it meant, and he searched for the Marauders that would certainly be near.

Far ahead, atop a hill beside Devon's Road, were two men astride mounts. They hoisted the black banner of their clan, the flag rippling in the breeze. The banner depicted a red circle cut in quarters by white arrows. There was a circle in the center of each quarter, the lower three black and the top one white, revealing the clan's name to those who understood the markings. These were the Northland Marauders, and they were prepared for battle.

The grass around them, stretching the entire length of the caravan on both sides, began to shake as bandits stood from their cover. Within seconds there were at least fifty men surrounding them, all armed and ready to kill.

Stephen brayed as the caravan came to a stop, and Ward reached over to take his daughter's hand as he said, "Get down." He forced her to kneel as he pulled a blanket off the back of the wagon that had been protecting their wares from any rain. He put the heavy blanket over her and then reached back to grab another. "Stay where you are. Don't move."

"What's going on?" asked Saffi as she lifted the edge of the blanket to peer out.

Ward pushed the lip of the blanket back down and said, "Keep down and keep quiet. Everything's going to be okay. They're probably just looking to collect their tax."

"Then why do I have to hide?" asked Saffi as she again lifted the edge of the blanket.

"Because they might be looking for you." Ward pushed the blanket back down and hushed her as the brigands advanced.

* * *

The Tennerblane River flowed beside New Carrinton, and a man-made tributary had been dug to not only feed the moat, but also to allow a stream to run through the city itself. There was a shipyard on the river itself, outside of the wall and beside the eastern gate, but the tributary that went through the city itself wasn't meant for ships. The tributary was meant to help beautify the city, and the homes beside the water had been some of the most expensive in town. Unfortunately, the tributary caused foundation problems for those homes, causing many of them to shift and crack. The once wealthy area had been abandoned by the aristocracy, and had eventually become a middle class area at best. Low-born families bought the former homes of the rich citizens at discounted prices, and then did their best to save the homes. The banks of the tributary were now fortified, but some of the buildings had been damaged too badly for easy repair and sat abandoned.

Samuel Second-Sword had been tasked with investigating one of these decrepit, musty buildings along the river, and he used the pommel of his sword to bang on the door. "City Sword here." Despite this home being abandoned, Sam knew there could be squatters within. He pushed the door open, causing the rusty hinges to squeal in protest. The door was lodged in its warped frame, the bottom scraping on the wood floor within. Sam had to slam his shoulder into the door to get it to open wide enough for him to enter.

It was dark inside, dank and covered in spider webs. Sam was certain the home was empty, but still had to check. He set his lantern down, opened the hinged door on its side, and then used his flint grinder to light the oiled wick within. The lantern's orange light pushed away the darkness, and cast wavering shadows on the walls.

The home had scant pieces of furniture that had been deemed worthless by the former owners and left behind. It also appeared that this had been the home of a vagrant or two over the years as Sam saw that there were bedrolls in one of the corners.

He took a step forward and the loose floorboards beneath him shifted and creaked. This house had been severely damaged by the tributary, and Sam wondered how safe it was to be inside. It wasn't uncommon for these old homes to collapse, and he took careful steps as he made his way to the kitchen.

The home had a back door off the kitchen that led to the alley, and Sam saw that this part of the house had been recently opened. There was a path leading away from the back door and to a different part of the house. He walked further into the kitchen and then caught sight of a young, pale girl on the other side of the room, partially hidden in the threshold of the hallway beyond. When he looked up at her, she ducked away. He heard her bare feet padding on the wooden floor.

"Hey, come back here. Hey you, girl," said Sam as he gave chase. "What're you doing here?" A plank beneath him broke, and he stumbled and fell to his knees, crashing down hard enough to stun him for a moment. He heard a door creak open somewhere in the house as he got up and limped after the child, following the path that had been left in the dust on the floor. The floor cracked beneath him and shifted, causing him to nearly lose his balance again. As he moved, he kept a wary eye on the floor. Then, just as he was about to reach the spot where the girl had been watching him, he looked up and saw someone else standing there.

It was a grown man, fully nude except for a leather mask that covered his mouth. He looked grey even in the orange light of the lantern's flame, and his hair had almost entirely fallen out. His eyes were black and glassy, and there were dark red tears dripping down his cheeks and then running along the side of his gag. He was a zombie, evident by the gaping wound on his neck and the stain of old blood that traced down his hairy chest. He was followed by another creature, similarly gagged and advancing from a door that the child had opened down the hall.

Sam halted and tried to draw his sword, but the space was too confined and the creature was moving too fast. He retreated back into the kitchen and the floor groaned beneath his weight. The zombies were moving fast, and there were more than two of them now. Whatever door had been opened, there was a horde of the monsters waiting to get out. As they came, the floor cracked and sunk. Sam knew he had to get out, and turned to run when the board he was standing on snapped, causing his leg to fall through. The lantern hit the floor, shattering the glass and causing the oil reservoir inside to spill out onto the wood. The zombies at his back were quick to grab him, but their fiercest weapons were caged as they uselessly slammed their gagged mouths against his armor.

He shoved at them and cursed as he tried to free his leg, but something below had grabbed hold of him. There were zombies in the cellar, and they caught his foot. He screamed out for help, and then anchored himself before thrusting upward, freeing his foot and simultaneously knocking back the horde that had descended upon him. However, he also broke the rotted wood joist that was keeping this portion of the floor aloft, and the weight of the gathered horde was enough to finish the job. The entire floor caved in, and Sam found himself plunged into a pack of the gagged creatures that had been waiting in the basement. They held him tight, even as he fought, but they couldn't feed on him.

He still had hope.

The Second-Sword punched one of the creatures on the bridge of the man's nose, his gauntlet shattering bone. Next he tried to roll over to stand up, but the horde had wormed their fingers into the leather straps that kept his breastplate on. He started to strike the creature's holding him, desperate to free himself and climb to safety, and then he smelled smoke. The broken lantern had started a fire, although he couldn't see where.

His battle with the horde took his attention away from the smoldering lantern. Even though the zombies couldn't bite him, their scrambling claws were finding their way to his flesh. The creatures were determined to murder him however they could, and he had to fight them away from his face as they reached for his mouth and eyes. The floor had crushed a good amount of the horde, pinning them to the stone floor of the cellar, but it was hard to silence the zombies forever, and they still moved beneath him. Their arms reached up through the broken floor and gripped Sam, holding him as the zombies above crawled on top of him.

Samuel Second-Sword continued to cry out for help as the zombies finally got their fingers into his flesh, digging and pulling relentlessly. Smoke was billowing up from the wreckage now, and the bright glow of new flames filled the kitchen with blazing light. Sam could see the hungry dead as they tore into him, digging endlessly with their bony fingers, finally getting past his desperate swings to rip at his lips.

As the pain intensified he wished that the fire would take him first. He hoped the smoke would choke him to death so that he could avoid this agony, but he would get no such respite. He was forced to endure the pain as the zombie's fingers burrowed into his flesh, slowly tearing him apart bit by bit.

# Chapter Eight

"What's in the wagon?" asked the bandit.

Ward was still seated, the blankets beside him pulled as close as he could get them without revealing Saffi's huddled form beneath. From the bandit's low view, he couldn't see Saffi at all. "Baked goods. Why? Didn't you get your tax from the men up front?"

"We did," said the dirty, foul smelling man. The bandits had appeared from the Steel Plains like predators, and the few on horseback rode down to inform the caravan that they were being robbed. However, they didn't stop with just the robber's tax, and were now investigating what each merchant was hauling. "Rumor has it there might be something valuable hiding here somewhere."

The scrawny bandit stared up at Ward suspiciously. His eyes were two different colors, one blue and the other brown, and he had a feeble beard that didn't grow well on his cheeks, like that of a teenager trying to look the part of a man. He had dark bags beneath his eyes, and a sickly demeanor worsened by the way his cheek twitched.

"All you're going to find here's a bunch of bread and grain. If you want a few loaves, I'd be happy to get them for you."

"Never seen a baker traveling with loaves of bread," said the bandit as he eyed the contents of the small wagon. "Grain I get, but bread? That don't make sense. Not worth the trip to sell a few loaves."

"We're..." Ward corrected himself, "I'm thinking of moving. Sick and tired of New Carrington. The aristocracy's got their talons in deep there. Know what I mean?"

The bandit grunted in agreement, but seemed otherwise unaffected by Ward's attempt to find common ground. He pointed at the back of the wagon with his dagger and said, "I'm going to take a lookie-see back there. You got any problems with that?"

"Nope," said Ward. Then, when he thought the bandit was out of earshot, he whispered, "Stay down," to his daughter.

"You say something?" asked the bandit from the rear of the wagon.

"Not a thing," said Ward as he stood up and turned to face the rear of the uncovered wagon, cautiously balancing himself on the teetering bench. He'd packed up baskets filled with bread, a few cases of pies, and several sacks of flour. Hidden beneath all of that, close to the front of the wagon, was Ward's sword and armor. "As you can see, there's just a bunch of bread in here." He reached into one of the baskets and pulled out a roll that he threw to the bandit. The man was still on the ground, behind the wagon, and tried to use his dagger to stab the roll in mid-air. He missed, and the roll fell to the dusty road. The robber pierced the bread and lifted it. He pinched the roll and said, "This'll be stale before you get anywhere."

"Then you take it," said Ward. "Enjoy."

The bandit gripped the rear plank of the wagon and pulled himself up. Ward grimaced, unhappy that the man wasn't yet convinced there was nothing of value here.

"What are you looking for?" asked Ward. "Like I said, there's just a bunch of bread and grain in here."

"Sit yourself down and don't worry, fat man," said the bandit as he began to search the bags and baskets in the back of the wagon.

The sacks of grain were too heavy for the little man to move despite how hard he tried. Ward said, "That's just barley. And the one next to it is wheat flour."

The bandit glared at Ward, angry that the baker hadn't sat down like he'd asked. "We'll see about that," said the man before stabbing his blade deep into the burlap sack and then ripping it to the side, opening a deep wound that caused barley to cascade out onto the bottom of the wagon where it then slipped through the slats to the ground beneath. The bandit smirked as he said, "Guess you weren't lying about that one."

"You just cost me three pel, you little snake."

"And I'll cost you a hell of a lot more if you don't sit down like I told you to."

Ward grumbled and did as he was told. He set his arm over the back of his daughter as if she were merely a lump of blankets. The bandit was getting close to the armor, and Ward knew there would be more questions when he found it.

Ward heard the sound of the Northland Marauder's foot kicking the hard metal breastplate hidden inside one of the sacks. "What's this?" asked the man as he pulled aside a basket of bread to get to the hidden sack beneath. "You've got armor in here? Oh, look at this. What's the deal, old man? You got something you need to tell me?" The man didn't wait for Ward to reply, and instead yelled out, "Hey Pitt, check out what we've got here."

One of the leaders of the Northland Marauders was riding a steed alongside the caravan, and slowed right beside the baker's wagon. Ward turned so that he was facing the large, bearded man, and he used his girth to hide the lump of blankets that hid his daughter.

Pit didn't look at the bandit in the back of the wagon, but instead kept his cold eyes locked on Ward. This was a fierce looking man, certainly a veteran of the plains, with scars on the parts of his face not hidden by hair or whiskers. He had a long, thick black beard streaked with white, and wore a soldier's breastplate with a fauld of three lames over his abdomen that had been split in half and connected with leather to accommodate his girth.

"I used to be a Sword," said Ward, maintaining eye contact with the leader of the bandits. "Like I told your boy here, I was thinking of moving away from New Carrington and figured I'd bring my armor along. I use it as decoration in my..."

The bandit in the wagon whistled in appreciation as he pulled the resplendent armor from its sack. "Would you look at this, Pitt? This isn't no First-Sword, no sir. We've got ourselves a kingmaker here." He pinged the armor with his knuckle before hoisting it up. The breastplate was heavy, and the weak bandit had to rest it on the edge of the wagon for his leader to see. "It's got copper in it," said the bandit. "Look at that!"

The breastplate was unique to Sixth-Swords, and commissioned at great cost to Ward's family. All Swords wore armor with decoration befitting their station. Ward's armor was inlayed with copper accents, and had been kept meticulously polished despite him not wearing it to battle for more than a decade. He'd also been taking it in for fittings to a local smith, which became increasingly necessary as Ward's years in the bakery took a toll on his waistline.

"There's more too," said the bandit from the back of the wagon. "He's got greaves, and gauntlets, and a sword. Look at this."

"Leave it be," said Ward, incensed by the little man's theft.

Pitt was quick to react, dropping the reins of his steed and drawing his sword. He wielded the bastard sword one handed as if it were a mere dinner blade, and held it out across the gap between them. Ward eased, but the horseback brigand kept the sword where it was, the edge threateningly close.

The bandit in the back removed Ward's sword from its fur-trimmed sheath. He sounded disappointed as he said, "Doesn't look like anything special. Hell, it's got a fair bit of wear and tear on it. I probably wouldn't even scavenge it from a dead guy if I found it. Why's it so special to you, fat man?"

Ward said, "It's old. It's been with me for a long time."

Pitt was still holding his sword out, and glanced down at it before pivoting the blade so that Ward could appreciate the nicks and scratches along its side. Then the big man nodded before sheathing his bastard sword.

"What do you think about all this, Pitt?" asked the bandit. "You believe him? I don't see anything else here but bread and grain, like he said. You figure he's just a baker?"

Pitt wasn't interested in what his subordinate was saying, and continued to look at Ward. When the hefty man spoke, his voice was surprisingly soft. "What're you guarding, Sixth-Sword?"

"Sixth-Sword?" asked the younger, inexperienced bandit in the back of the wagon. "Is that what this guy is?"

Ward and Pitt locked eyes and the baker said, "I'm not guarding anything. Like you can see, there's just a bunch of bread back there. Except for my armor and sword, which I keep for sentimental reasons."

"No," said Pitt. "I meant what're you hiding there, behind you." He pointed past Ward, at the blankets on the seat. "No Sixth-Sword would sit in reach of a blade broadside without a shield or a weapon."

Ward nodded and said, "It's been a lot of years since I got in a fight. You forget things like that..."

Pitt didn't believe him. "What's under the blankets?"

The bandit in the back of the wagon took sudden interest, leaned forward, and then screamed out, "It's moving!" The bandit was frightened by the discovery.

Ward turned and flung his arms out over his daughter before pressing his body against her. He shielded her from the bandit, fearing the little man might stab down into blankets. "It's my daughter. It's just my daughter."

"Get away," said the man with the dagger in the back of the wagon.

Ward stayed where he was and said, "Leave her be. You don't need her."

"We'll be the judge of that." The bandit set his dagger against the side of Ward's neck. "Now back off."

Ward stayed where he was, protecting his daughter as the bandit shouted commands. Saffi began to move, and she said, "Dad, it's okay. Let me up."

Ward finally relented, and sat up so that his daughter could reveal herself. His neck had suffered a slight cut from the bandit's dagger, and he could feel the hot blood coursing down across his chest. The altercation got the attention of the other Marauder on horseback, and the man named Hammer came over to see what was happening. He stopped his horse on the other side of the wagon, beside Saffi as the young girl took off the blankets that she'd been hiding beneath.

"She's a ripe one," said the bandit with the dagger.

"Tye, move on," said Hammer. "Go search the next merchant and leave this to us."

The younger bandit mumbled in frustration, but did as he was told. Hammer brought his horse closer to the wagon so that he could inspect the girl.

"You're no child," said Hammer. "How old are you? Sixteen, seventeen?"

"Eighteen," said Saffi.

Ward was disturbed by the bandit's interest in his daughter. "If it's women you want, I'll pay for you to buy as many whores as you can bed in a night. I've got the pel." He reached into his tunic for the bag of gold that the stranger had left him.

"Pitt, take the man's pel," said Hammer.

Pitt reached out with an upturned palm, and Ward dropped the pouch into it.

"We'll take your money," said Hammer, "but we're taking you along with it."

"What? Why?" asked Ward.

"The amount of pel we've been offered to let this caravan pass is more than we've seen in a year of collecting taxes." Hammer's steed brayed and stomped as the big man smiled over at Saffi and Ward. He continued after the animal calmed, "We thought there was something worth stealing in one of these carts, but now I'm getting the impression there's something else going on."

"He's a Sixth-Sword," said Pitt.

Hammer nodded and grinned as he looked quizzically at Saffi. "Then that settles it. Seems like it's not merchandise they're paying to protect, but this little lady."

"That's not the case," said Ward. "She's just my daughter."

"Not likely," said Hammer. My guess is she's an aristocrat, or someone else of importance. Isn't that right?"

Saffi responded honestly, "I'm an Apprentice-Baker. If you're looking for someone to bake you a cake, then I'm your girl. Otherwise, I'm not going to be much use to you."

"Oh, I'm sure we'll find a use for you, little one. Don't you worry about that."

* * *

"It's your lucky day, exiles," said the Northland Marauder as he stood beside the wagon, directly behind Tarik, rattling the chains that bound the men within. "You're going to get a chance to earn a second life here in the plains, and I promise you that's a better deal than these Swords would've given you. If it weren't for us, then there'd be just two fates for you. Either these Swords would've run you through and been done with it, or you'd be lost out in the ruins getting hunted down by packs of wild beasties. At least with us, you've got a fighting chance."

Tarik's heart raced. He'd heard rumors about how the bandits filled their ranks with prisoners, and the process by which they weeded out the weaker candidates. Marauders had no use for men who weren't willing and able to kill. To join the Northland Marauders, you had to prove your worth.

The Marauders got the key to the lock from the Swords, and were undoing the shackles that pinned the prisoners to the bars of the transport wagon. Tarik was thankful once his wrists were freed, and rubbed at the raw skin. There was still a corpse in the wagon, and the prisoners asked that the Marauders leave him bound, in case he awoke as an undead. The roguish former Sword who'd warned the prisoners of how he used to murder exiles was now standing near the door of the wagon, expecting to be let out. "Open the door," he said, eager to get away from the blood and vomit that covered the floor. "Tell me what I have to do to join you. I've got no allegiance to the walls."

"You'll stay where you are," said a man on horseback as he trotted by. He had golden hair and a thick beard, but Tarik focused on the massive war hammer strapped to his back. "We're going to head off into the plains, and then you'll get your chance. For those of you who don't know, we're the Northland Marauders, and if you're lucky you'll be joining our ranks today. Trouble is, we've already got too many mouths to feed as it is, which means we're only going to welcome new members who can prove their worth. A good Marauder's someone who's willing to do anything to stay alive, even if he has to kill to do it. If any of you are holding out any hope of making it out of this alive, then you'd better prove your worth. We've got a long ride out to camp, and by the time we open this wagon up, there'd better be a few more corpses in it."

The man's lackey laughed as he rattled the bars of the wagon with the flat of his sword. Then the Marauders moved on to deliver a similar message to the next wagon.

"What's he mean?" asked one of the men in the wagon. "I don't understand."

"He wants us to kill each other," said the former First-Sword, his square jaw clenched as he regarded his fellow prisoners.

"Kill each other?" asked the handsome young man across from Tarik, his voice quivering. "You can't be serious."

"I am, slave." The dark-haired former Sword beside the door stared at the frightened young man who everyone now assumed had been a thegn before being exiled.

"We're not animals," said Joyce, the disgraced prophet. Despite the circumstance, her voice remained strong and defiant, even regal. "They can't expect us to murder one another like savages."

"I promise you, that's exactly what they expect." The former First-Sword balled up his fists. He stood, and the rest of the occupants tensed and moved down the bench, suddenly fearful of everyone around them. The tall, strong man said, "Might as well face facts. Let's get it over with."

"Sit down," commanded the prophet.

"Shut your mouth or you'll be the first to go."

"Let's think this through," said Tarik. "We can't..." a chain looped around his neck. The prisoner behind him, a middle-aged man exiled because of a drunken brawl that left his opponent dead, had pulled a length of chain out from between the bars and was using it to murder Tarik. The young victim reached up and tried to get his fingers between the chain and his throat, but the pressure was too tight.

Tarik thrust his elbows back, and then reached up to try and dig his fingers into his assailant's eyes, but the man avoided his attacks. Despite his need to fight back, Tarik continually reached for his own throat in desperation, as if his body had a will of its own and focused solely on the chain. He came to the awful realization that he was about to die.

It was the thegn who saved him. The young, strong man leapt across the wagon and started to pummel Tarik's attacker, screaming out for the older man to stop. The rest of the occupants of the wagon had started to fight as well, throwing one another to the ground or against the bars. There were screams of pain and anger, and then the crack of breaking bones. It was beastly chaos, the likes of which Tarik had hoped to never see. All sense of humanity was lost as flesh tore and bones broke. The thegn who saved Tarik didn't want to fight more than necessary to stop the murder, but the man he'd attacked was intent on impressing the Marauders.

Tarik found the chain that had been meant to murder him, and then said, "Hold his arms." The thegn had the other man pinned, and was trying to subdue him as Tarik wrapped the chain around his neck.

"Wait, wait," said the man desperately as he realized he would lose this fight, and perhaps his life. He stopped fighting, but Tarik wasn't quick to forgive. He pulled the chain hard enough to silence his attacker. He was on his knees, in the blood and vomit on the floor of the wagon, and his victim tried to fall to get away from the chain. Tarik went down with him, and ignored the pain from the man's attempt to fight back.

"Let him go," said the prophet as she stood on the bench, near the back of the wagon, away from the murderous brawl.

Tarik looked up at her and saw the horror in her eyes as she watcged the desperate battle. Then he heard someone else say, "Kill him." He looked over at the other side of the wagon and saw two men still standing. One of them was the former First-Sword, and the other was an equally imposing man, each of them bloodied from their crimes. Of the ten people locked in this wagon that morning, only six were still alive. "Kill him or the marauders will kill you."

Tarik's victim was losing strength. He was clawing at the chain at his throat, but he'd stopped kicking.

Tarik released the chain and pushed the body away from him before standing. The thegn helped him up as the man who tried to kill Tarik moments ago now coughed and sputtered on the floor of the wagon.

"I'm no killer," said Tarik.

The former First-Sword stepped forward and said, "I am." He slammed his heel down into the head of Tarik's victim. The first hit didn't kill the man, nor the second, but the third silenced him for good.

Tarik backed away, and stood between the prophet and the thegn, facing the two murderers who were looking to impress the Marauders. "Stay where you are," said Tarik, warning the men.

"You're going to die, little thief," said the former First-Sword. "Might as well get it over with quick and easy. The Marauders don't have any use for you three sad sacks."

"We'll see," said Tarik, his throat still aching from the assault. "Just stay on your side and we'll stay on ours."

The dead separated them, and blood dripped through the slats to the ground, plopping in pools that were quickly growing. The horses at the head of their wagon were neighing and stomping, disturbed by the clamor behind them. All five survivors kept a wary eye on one another as they sat down on the benches to wait for the Marauders' return.

# Chapter Nine

Cerrus darted through crowd that had gathered beside the Tennerblane tributary, watching the fire consume one of the various abandoned buildings. The city watch had sprung to action, bringing buckets to help douse the flames, and had formed a line from the docks beside the tributary and up to the home.

"Move," said Cerrus as he pushed his way through the daft residents of New Carrington. He hated them – every single one. He despised their beliefs, and their cowardice.

"Watch it, little man," said a beefy smith as Cerrus thudded into his leather apron. The smith had mistook him for a child, as people often did. Cerrus wasn't a dwarf like many of the jesters hired by the wealthy, but was instead afflicted with an unknown disease that stunted his growth, leaving him a forty-year-old man with the size and strength of a child.

Cerrus snarled up at the man, and the smith was shocked by the sight. The man guffawed and looked both frightened and embarrassed as Cerrus whispered a vicious curse and then pushed past the galoot.

He heard the smith muttering to someone else, "Did you see that kid's face?"

Cerrus was gone, lost among the crowd before any of the people the smith spoke to could turn and see him. He was used to the hateful comments and disgusted stares of people in cities like this, he'd been living with them for years. Or he had been, until the day he met The Scholar. That's when everything changed for Cerrus – when he learned that he could serve a greater purpose.

The crowd was growing, forcing Cerrus to get rougher with them as he pushed his way through. "Move it. Would you get out of the way?"

A dainty woman in a yellow dress and an umbrella to shield her pale skin from the sun was ahead, and she heard Cerrus coming. She looked down and saw his face, wrinkled from disease and riddled with warts, and she gasped. Then she pointed and frowned in obvious disgust. "Look. What is that thing?"

She would later claim to have seen a goblin rushing away from the fire, or so Cerrus imagined. He'd been accused of being a mythical beast more than a few times in his life.

He pulled at his hood, trying to cover himself as he continued to push through the onlookers. Finally, he made it to the alley beside the tavern and ran down it, away from the residents of New Carrington. "Idiots," said Cerrus, breathing heavy from his journey. He had his climbing claws affixed to the straps around his palms, and easily climbed the wall at the end of the alley. Now he was above the others, and they were oblivious to his journey. The buildings in this part of the city were packed tight enough to allow him to scurry across the rooftops, the gripping soles of his shoes making the journey easier. What Cerrus lacked in strength, he more than made up for in agility.

When in the city, Cerrus rarely went outside in the daytime, preferring instead to roam the rooftops in the cover of night. However, this was an emergency.

He made it to the home of a man named Luther First-Cobbler, a merchant who plied his trade in the central market. Luther was a single man, with no family and few customers to realize he'd been missing for days. Luther, like several other residents of New Carrington, had been murdered and turned into one of the mindless dead, another weapon in The Scholar's arsenal.

Cerrus opened the window that led to the attic of the home and slipped inside, unseen by the people below. When inside, he called out, "Scholar?"

A gruff voice chastised him, "Hush, worm." It was Ferragut, a friendly brute who took pleasure in chiding Cerrus. "You want the whole world to know we're here?"

Ferragut was reading, an activity that he needed considerable practice with. The Scholar had given him a hand-written copy of an ancient text. All of the living members of The Scholar's army were tasked with reading these books, and they always brought along chests of them to fill the quiet hours. Ferragut closed the thin, leather-bound book. None of the novels had writing on their covers to prevent anyone outside of their group from knowing it was a forbidden text. However, Carrus recognized the book by its worn, red cover. It was _Of Mice and Men_ , a novel by one of The Scholar's favorite ancients, John Steinbeck.

"Where is he?" asked Cerrus.

"Downstairs with Madeline."

"Madeline's here?" asked Cerrus, his panic easing slightly. "Is she okay? Our house..." he was out of breath from his manic trip. "It's burning."

"We know," said Ferragut. "Don't worry, she's fine, although The Scholar's wondering why you left her there alone. He weren't too happy about that."

"Wasn't, not 'weren't." After correcting his friend, Cerrus asked, "Are they downstairs."

Ferragut nodded and then went back to his book, annoyed that his grammar had slipped and that Cerrus had been the one to catch it. The two shared a tenuous friendship that dipped into animosity frequently, although it was usually in good fun. Ferragut had saved Cerrus from more than a few predicaments, but there was nothing he could do this time.

Cerrus headed downstairs, and found his sidekick, Madeline, in the study. This had been a bedroom, but The Scholar stored his library here, unpacking the crates of books and setting them out in the order he preferred. The books represented one of the greatest collections of ancient literature in existence, and was the prized possession of their entire group. Nothing mattered more than these books.

The Scholar had his back turned as Cerrus came in. He was kneeling beside a crate that contained his armor, and had retrieved the leather mask that was quickly becoming his trademark in battle. Madeline saw her partner coming and reached out her arms to welcome him in for a hug.

Cerrus grabbed her and pulled her in for a tight embrace as he said, "Maddie, I'm so happy to see you. Are you okay?" He leaned back and inspected her before hugging her again.

"I'm fine," said Maddie. "A guard came to search the house. I let the zombies out to deal with him, but then he fell through the floor." The girl's voice was strong and certain, belying her cherubic disguise. Madeline looked like a child, but she was older than Cerrus by a decade. She, and all the children who traveled with The Scholar, was a half-dead.

The emergence of half-deads had changed the way the world looked at the disease. In the past, for as long as the plague had existed, contraction was fatal. It was only within the past few decades that people had started to survive the initial infection. However, the half-deads weren't exactly immune. The disease affected them in other ways. They stopped aging, and their bodies healed from wounds differently, faster but with more of a chance of scarring. Then, when a half-dead finally did die, they would immediately turn into the zombie that they'd somehow avoided becoming until then. For that reason, no city allowed them to live there, either exiling or murdering them when detected. Almost two decades earlier, Golden Rock trained Swords how to detect and murder half-deads. Those Swords were known as Drakes, and had been sent out to hunt and kill all of the half-deads they could find.

"How'd the fire start?" asked Cerrus.

"He had a lantern," said Madeline. "He dropped it when the floor fell in."

"Why did you let the zombies out?"

"Because that's what I was told to do," said Madeline, allowing her annoyance with Cerrus to show. "You missed the meeting. The Scholar told us that the Swords might be searching the houses, and that we needed to let the zombies out early if they came."

The Scholar turned, buckling the back of his mask as he did. Those glass eyes stared down at Cerrus, emotionless yet forbidding. Cerrus knew what this meant, and he worried that they were starting their war too early.

"Are we letting them out already?" asked Cerrus.

"We are," said The Scholar, his voice affected by the mask's respirator, making him sound distant and tinny.

"They might not find the bodies," said Cerrus. "The fire was intense. They might've all burned up."

The Scholar shook his head and said, "No, they'll find them. If not right away, then by tomorrow, and they'll want to know why the basement was stacked with bodies. It's okay, we've got enough to do the job." He looked down at Madeline and said, "Give me a minute to speak with Cerrus alone."

"Yes, sir." She squeezed her partner's hand and gave him a sympathetic smile before leaving the room.

Cerrus felt the need to explain before The Scholar even questioned him. "I was just out looking for..."

"Stop," said The Scholar, his tone commanding and loud. His anger vanished, and he sounded as calm as usual as he said, "I don't want excuses, and I don't want to be lied to."

Cerrus closed his eyes and took a long breath before admitting, "I was at an opium den."

The Scholar stared, his mask hiding any emotion, which somehow made Cerrus feel even more shameful as he waited to be judged.

"I..." Cerrus couldn't look at his master, and instead hung his head. "I'm sorry."

The Scholar stepped closer, and reached out with his bare hand, setting his index finger to Cerrus's chin and lifting his follower's head. Then the leader of their murderous clan knelt and embraced his dejected soldier. "All the mighty falter. It's how they stand up after they fall that make them mighty to begin with. Look at me." He held either side of his soldier's head, running his fingers through Cerrus's greasy hair. Cerrus saw his own reflection in the circles of glass that hid The Scholar's eyes. "So tell me, are you a soldier or a sop?"

"A soldier," said Cerrus.

"Good," said the Scholar. "Then prove it."

"I will, Scholar," said Cerrus, determined. "I will. I'll fight..."

"No," said The Scholar. "I want you to protect the girls. You'll lock yourself away with them and wait until the battle's over. I'm trusting you with their lives, Cerrus. Don't fail me."

* * *

"We've got someone moving down here," said Abraham Second-Sword. He and Murien had been tasked with dousing the flames at the building along the Tennerblane. He was among six Swords along the front side of the building, near the end of the line of people delivering buckets up from the river, and had been emptying the water over the still smoldering home. The fire had been quick and intense, devouring the old wood and leaving a blackened skeleton of beams behind, broken and collapsed. It was within the smoldering pile that Abraham saw an arm reaching up from the soot.

He dropped his bucket, grabbed Murien's arm, and pointed down at the emerging hand. "Look, there. Do you see it?"

She peered in, squinting to see through the smoke, and then said excitedly, "Yes."

The rest of the Swords called out, raising a panic among them as they realized there was a survivor. The wreck was still hot, but Abraham was ready to brave the fire to help the stranded. He had his foot in the skeletal remains of the front door when Murien pulled him back. The walls of the home had fallen away, affording them a view into the kitchen where they'd seen the hand, and the roof was already partially sunken in. Murien insisted it was too dangerous, and that whoever was in there was as good as dead already.

It was a different Sword who stated the obvious truth that Abraham hadn't thought of, "It's a zombie."

The Swords froze and stared.

Whoever was stuck beneath the floor, reaching up through the broken floorboards, should've been dead already. The arm was scarred and blackened, the flesh bubbling from the heat. The fingers were mangled, revealing bone, yet still the arm was aimed directly at them, as if it wasn't safety the wounded craved, but sustenance.

"You're right," said Abraham.

"There's more of them," said Murien, scanning the blackened mess. More of the arms were clawing forth, and then the silent faces began to peer up through the wreckage, their mouths open as if wishing to scream but unable to. Their faces were as badly burned as their arms, black and blistered, raw and shredded.

The Swords moved back, and the gathered crowd screamed out in terror as word spread about the discovery. Within seconds there were people in the crowd saying, "The Scholar! It's The Scholar. He's here."

Abraham yelled out, "Get the Archers. We need Archers."

The creatures were freeing themselves, willing to let their burned skin peel away as they pulled themselves up from the broken floor. The wooden slats ripped at the creatures, tearing bloodless gashes that they never felt. Some of them were nude, and others had masks over their mouths, as if they were undead bandits climbing forth to murder, pillage, and then devour New Carrington.

The crowd was panicked now, and word spread of the horrific discovery. Abraham and Murien drew their swords and watched as the dead rose from the ash. The two Swords backed away and watched as still burning embers clung to the flesh of their enemies, smoking as they ate at their hairless, blistered bodies.

Abraham shouted out, "Where are the Archers?" He didn't want to engage these creatures in close combat.

"They're on the wall," said Murien. "They're won't get here in time."

Abraham stood his ground on the walkway that separated the house from the river, and watched as his enemy climbed forth. One of the other Swords suggested that they set the house on fire again and let the creature's burn, but there was no time for that. These monsters would be out of the wreckage in moments.

Murien judged her space, calmly readying herself for the battle by pushing her fellow Swords out of reach of her blade. Abraham saw her and realized that he should do the same. He looked to the man on his left and pointed so that he stepped another foot away, allowing them both enough room to fight effectively without worrying about striking a friend. A couple of the Swords ran, as frightened as the crowd around them, but Abraham wasn't going to abandon his duty. He wiped each of his hands off one by one, and then gripped the hilt of his sword lightly, remembering the lessons about fluid movement and proper control.

"Here they come," said Murien, taking command of the frightened group. "Ready. Fight!" She was the first to move in. Her left leg stepped forward as she swung high to low, catching her opponent in the shoulder and nearly severing the monster's head. With a quick and masterful retreat, she simultaneously sliced her sword through the creature and thrust her shoulder into its chest, sending the nude and burned zombie falling back into the crumbled building.

Abraham wasn't as skilled as Murien, and desperately hacked at the first zombie that made it to him. Luckily, the creature was maimed by the fire and barely mobile. It was crawling instead of walking, with its legs dragging uselessly behind. The monster was left a splatter of blood and brains on the walkway, and Abraham looked over at the man to his left to see his reaction, expecting appreciation. Instead, the Sword looked pale and sick, terrified. The man looked up at Abraham, and then turned to flee.

"Coward," said Murien as she watched the Sword run. "Come on, Abe, keep focused." She stabbed down at another crawling corpse, piercing the man's head through his eye socket and silencing him. She stepped back, flicked the gore from her blade, and prepared for another kill.

Abraham was less certain of his skills, and watched as his sword shook in his unnerved grip. Murien launched herself forward, again expertly dispatching a foe, and Abraham was caught off-guard as his attention focused on his fellow Sword. Two zombies had turned their attention on Abraham, and leapt from the wrecked home to devour him.

He stepped to the side and brought his blade up to connect with the first creature's neck, but the monster moved too fast and his sword caught on the blistered man's wrist. The blade sliced through the zombie's arm and then slid along the bone, cutting off a strip of flesh before the creature slammed into Abraham, knocking him backward and dangerously close to the raised bank of the Tennerblane.

Abraham glanced back at the dock six feet below, and the stairs where the Swords had lined up to transfer buckets up from the dock to the burning house. He was looking for a safe retreat, aware that in a moment there would be a second zombie crashing into him.

Thankfully, the straps on the zombie's muzzle hadn't burned away in the fire, but the creature was still doing its best to press that mask against Abraham's face, mindlessly gnashing its teeth behind the leather. Abraham tried to pivot and send the creature falling to the dock below, but the zombie had a tight grip on his armor as its fingers searched for flesh.

"Abe!" Murien screamed out when she saw her friend being mauled. Her voice sounded desperate, and Abraham feared that she needed as much help as he did.

Abraham was going to scream her name, but only managed, "Muri..." before the second zombie struck him. The force of the blow knocked him off the edge of the bank, and he fell with his two attackers to the dock below.

His chainmail rattled as his back thudded on the wooden deck. His breath was lost, but the zombies intent on devouring him weren't similarly fazed. The first was muzzled, but the second had slipped its mask. Yellow teeth bore down on Abraham, aimed directly for his eyes. While gasping for breath, Abraham thrust his arm up to shield his face, and he was able to stop the zombie before suffering a fatal injury. The creature's assault was vicious and furious , driven by an inhuman hunger and anger.

Abraham couldn't keep the zombie away for much longer, and resorted to rolling and trying to throw it off of him and into the water. He misjudged his position on the dock, and instead of throwing only the monster into the water he rolled off the edge himself as well. The water shocked and disoriented him, and he sunk fast. All of the air had been pushed out of his lungs when he hit the dock, and he was already weighted down by armor. He had no buoyancy to keep him afloat, and instead fell straight to the bottom of the tributary.

The murky depths almost silenced the screams of horror from above, and Abraham stared up at the shimmering surface as more bodies fell in, breaking the serenity of the wavering light and replacing it with thrashing limbs and severed body parts. His helm had fallen off when he hit the water, making it easier for him to look around in the murky depths.

He was moments away from drowning as his body struggled without air, and Abraham knew he didn't have long to live. He pushed up from the rocky bottom and tried to swim for the surface. His weight encumbered him, but he managed to find one of the dock's posts and used it to climb up to the surface.

"Abe?" asked Murien desperately.

Abraham sputtered and gasped as he clung to the edge of the dock. He loped his arm over the side, hanging on as his weary body struggled to stay alive. He tried to yell out that he was safe, but no voice came forth despite his effort. He took another breath, and then tried again, "I'm here."

He looked up at the stairs leading to the bank where there had been six Swords during the fire. Now there was just Murien, standing at the top of the stairs and fending off the horde. Abraham tried to heave himself up to go and help her when another decayed fiend suddenly faced him. The zombie had fallen to the dock and crawled over to Abraham. Now the monster reached out at him with its bony claws and grabbed hold of Abraham's thick hair. It pulled itself forward as Abe screamed in pain, and the creature's open mouth leaked blood and saliva.

The dock shook as Murien leapt from the stairs and landed beside Abraham's attacker. Her sword cleaved the zombie's head from its body, leaving the black eyes time enough to glance upward before closing. She kicked the severed head into the river and then reached out to take Abraham's hand.

"Come on," she said as she gripped him. "There's more of them."

Abraham was about to come up out of the water when he heard the screams of the townsfolk all around him. He looked at the banks of the Tennerblane and saw the chaos that had engulfed the city. Then he looked back to Murien and asked, "What?"

"There's more! They're everywhere."

Abraham could see the wave of dead on the bank above Murien. They weren't just coming from the abandoned, burned building. The chaos had erupted everywhere, and the creatures above saw Murien and Abraham as easy targets. They were coming for them.

Abraham didn't have time to warn Murien, and instead pulled her into the river with him. She screamed out, but her protest was quickly silenced as she splashed in behind him. He pushed himself away from the dock and grabbed hold of his fellow Sword. She was sputtering and flailing in the water beside him, and he wrapped his hands around her as he kicked desperately to gain space between them and the dock as the zombies charged. The creatures leapt for them, but sunk as soon as they hit the water.

"What are you doing?" asked Murien, angry and confused.

"We'll swim to the gate," said Abraham.

"We have to fight," said Murien as the water lapped against her face.

"No," said Abraham as he struggled to stay afloat. "There're too many." He was confused by the scope of the chaos. There zombies weren't just appearing from the burned home, they were coming from everywhere. All along each side of the tributary there were similar cries of pain and panic. "We have to open the gate."

Abraham was quickly losing strength as he tried to stay afloat. The armor afforded by the guild threatened to drag him beneath the water, and he knew that Murien would be suffering the same. He pulled her towards the sculpted bank, where a stone wall had been built alongside this trench to prevent the water from eroding the dirt beneath the riverfront homes.

They got to the bank, which rose up seven feet to the road above, and Abraham tried to dig his fingers between the stones for support. His chainmail gauntlets hampered his manual dexterity, but the gaps between the stones were large enough that he was able to hold on. Murien also gripped the wall, exhausted from her short time fighting to stay afloat.

"We have to help," said Murien as she looked over at the opposite bank where screaming townsfolk were fleeing an unseen menace.

Some people started to leap into the water with them, seeking any safety they could from the horde. Abraham pointed south, to where the waterway flowed through a closed gate. "We have to get the..." he swallowed a gulp of water as the river splashed against his face. He sputtered and choked, coughed, and then continued, "We have to open the gate."

"Why?" asked Murien.

"So people can get out safely. Zombies don't swim."

She clearly wanted to get back to shore and help fight, but recognized that Abraham was right. The best way to save the people here would be to get to the end of the waterway and unlock the gate. Only Sword-Captains carried keys to the gates, and she was likely the only one in the area who wasn't already fighting or dead. The townsfolk in the water were being carried along by the current to the closed gate at the edge of town.

"All right, let's go," said Murien as she pushed away from the wall so that she could swim quicker.

Abraham had meant for them to slowly make their way along the wall, and he yelled out for Murien to wait, but she was already swimming with her head down, moving as fast as she could to the gate. He took a deep breath and then followed, struggling to keep himself from sinking and staying close to the wall in case he did.

Murien was telling people in the water, "Follow me. Get to the gate." Then she would submerge herself again as she swam desperately on.

Abraham's muscles had gone past being pained, and were starting to fail. He was beginning to cramp, and keeping himself afloat was nearly impossible. Murien had made it to the gate, and was climbing a ladder to shore. Abraham could see that there was a fight occurring just above her, and the Swords were losing ground to the zombies.

"Murien, wait!" Abraham screamed to her, but his voice was lost amid the din of other cries. She was across the river from him, and he was too weak to follow. It took all his strength just to cling to the wall and keep from sinking. He was forced to watch as Murien climbed up to the landing where the gate's crank was locked away as the Swords on shore lost ground to the advancing zombies.

Murien got to the top of the ladder and saw that she was climbing into the middle of a fight. She hesitated for a moment, but then finished her climb and joined the battle. Abraham couldn't hear her as she screamed commands to the other Swords, and his attention was drawn to a child nearby who was struggling to swim. The girl was sputtering and flailing.

Abraham kept his fingers of his left hand wedged between the stones of the wall and tried to extend his right to reach the girl, but she was too far. They locked eyes just before the terrified child sank beneath the waves. Abraham pushed himself off the wall and went after the girl, sinking beneath the surface as he blindly grabbed out in the direction she'd been. He felt her fingers clawing at him, and he wrapped his arm around her. She wasn't calmed by his presence, and continued her struggle for survival, pushing him down as she tried to get her head above the water.

Now he wasn't just struggling to save her life, but his own as well. The child kicked and pushed at him, using his body like a ladder to the surface and forcing him down. He gripped her dress and yanked it towards the wall. He could feel himself sinking as he did, and knew that the child was being dragged under as well, but he didn't want to leave her in the middle of the waterway. He got to the wall, forced the child over to it, and then guided her fingers to the cracks. She understood, and swiftly climbed up, leaving him to try and ascend himself. His heavy boots hit the bottom of the river, and he knelt before launching up, using every bit of strength he could muster to ascend. He saw the shimmering surface, but then it started to move away as he sank again. This time he clawed at the wall, trying to get his fingers into one of the cracks, but it was impossible and he ended up back on the bottom. His lungs ached, and he knew this would be his last chance before he involuntarily gasped for air and drowned. He knelt and then fiercely thrust himself upward, clawing along the wall to help him along.

Abraham got to the surface and gasped in desperation. The child he'd saved was clinging to the wall, crying for her mother, and he held on beside her as his arms shook from exertion. He remembered Murien's task, and looked over his shoulder to see if she'd survived.

Murien had opened the cage that shielded the gate's crank. The walkway led up to the crank, with a wall on one side and the river on the other. There was only one Sword still alive up there with her, and he was felled by the wave of zombies advancing. The man kept trying to fend the creatures off even as he was knocked to his knees. He threw one of the zombies to the river where it sank quickly to the bottom, but there were three more to replace their lost ally.

Abraham saw that Murien's back was turned to the zombies as she focused on winding the crank to open the gate. A slew of townsfolk had leapt into the water, seeking escape, and were now gathered at the closed portcullis gate, trapped here with the horror all around them. The crank clattered as Murien wound it, causing the chains to pull slowly at the gate.

"Murien, behind you!" Abraham tried to warn her.

She was attacked, and had no way of defending herself. One of the zombies ripped her helm off and tossed it aside before going back in for another attack. The gate's crank had to be held or locked in place to prevent it from coming back down again, and Murien was determined to save the huddled townsfolk in the river. As the zombies pulled at her, she continued to raise the gate.

Some of the townsfolk were now swimming under and then surfacing on the other side, outside of New Carrington. Abraham said to the girl beside him, "Move along the wall. You're going to have to go under the gate."

The young child just cried out for her mother instead of responding.

Abraham took the girl's arm and shook her as he pointed. "Go that way." His harshness snapped her back into focus, and she nodded before doing as he said. Abraham looked back at Murien and saw her lower the bar that locked the crank, preventing the gate from falling. She hadn't managed to get the iron portcullis to raise past the water's surface, but the townsfolk were still able to get to safety.

Now Murien was fighting for her own survival, and losing. She was bloodied, and Abraham could see a deep wound on her neck. Her short black hair was wet with her own blood as she continued to fight, undaunted by the injuries Abraham was certain she'd suffered. She picked up another man's sword, and was now wielding two, hacking and slicing at the horde and pushing them away from the shore. Abraham realized that she wasn't simply trying to survive, but was forcing the zombies back from the edge of the river, keeping them away from the townsfolk swimming below.

Murien fought her way back out of the nook where the crank was located and onto the street where more of the monsters had gathered. She was screaming out at them, trying to get their attention. She succeeded, and a slew of zombies headed her way.

A woman who'd been trapped inside one of the homes now took the opportunity Murien had afforded her to run out towards the river. She was going to leap in, but one of the zombies turned on her and away from the only Sword left alive up there to fight.

Murien rushed at the monster, knocking it to the side as the other woman leapt into the river. But the distraction had caused Murien to turn away from the other zombies, and now they had the advantage. Murien was set upon from behind, and she teetered at the edge of the river, trying to keep from falling. She lost her battle, and was pushed off by the hungry dead. She plummeted back into the river, with three zombies following quickly after.

Abraham began to take off his armor, starting with his gloves. After his gauntlets were off and sinking to the bottom, he unlatched the clasps on the side of his breastplate and lifted the heavy armor off. He was also wearing a chainmail hauberk, but knew that he wouldn't be able to remove it easily. Finally, he pulled his boots off and dropped them as well, hoping that it would be enough to make his swim easier.

He dove beneath the water, determined to find Murien and get her out of the city.

The water stung his eyes as he searched the murky depths, but he could only see a few feet in front of him as he swam. Then, emerging from the shroud like a ship in fog, a zombie's face peered out at him. He jerked backward, his sword in hand, and then realized that the head had been severed and was now bobbing just beneath the surface. Next he saw Murien, her sword buried deep in the throat of a zombie.

He took her arm, and she faced him in anger before recognition calmed her. Abraham pointed up and then looped his arm into hers before swimming upward. With her help, they crested the waves and made it to the wall. Murien was exhausted, and panted between each short phrase, "Let's get... back up there... come with... help me." She pointed at the ladder.

Abraham looked at the grievous wound on her neck where one of the zombies had bitten her. He shook his head and said, "No, we have to get out."

"We can't leave," said Murien. "We have to fight."

"Those people out there need our help too," said Abraham as he pointed at the gate that the townspeople were swimming under.

"I can't go with them," said Murien. "I'm infected now. I'll be dead in minutes. Leave me. Let me die fighting."

"They need us," said Abraham. "Come with me, please." He didn't think it would work, and when she looked at him he was certain she was going to say that she was headed back up to fight. She was ready to speak, but then paused and considered what he'd said.

"Come with me," said Abraham.

Murien glanced back up at the shore, and then over at Abraham, as if she didn't want to be forced to choose. Finally, she nodded and said, "I'll go with you."

# Chapter Ten

Cerrus was in hiding in a cellar along with Madeline and two other children. The girls weren't frightened, but it was impossible not to be nervous. While The Scholar was always meticulous when planning an attack, chaos reigns in war. There are no guarantees.

The zombies wouldn't attack Cerrus or the girls, and it was unlikely that a Sword would harm them even if they were discovered. As far as anyone else knew, they were simply down here hiding from the horde, and had no part in the attacks.

The cellar stank of mold. Old, empty wine barrels were stacked along the wall, each of them rotted and their bands rusted. Rodents scurried along the wall, their eyes flashing in the dim light of the lantern. Cerrus sneered at one of them hatefully. He was reminded of the many times others had referred to him as Cerrus the Rat, in the days before he traveled with The Scholar.

Madeline walked over to the wall, and peered up the stairs that led to the cellar door. She whispered, "Someone's coming."

"Are you sure?" asked Cerrus.

Madeline pointed to her ear, and then up at the ceiling. Cerrus listened, and heard faint footsteps from somewhere above. The sound grew louder as someone walked through the house. Cerrus and the children listened, hoping that whoever had broken into the house would stay away from the cellar.

A calamitous crash shook the floor, and suddenly the person above was screaming. It was a woman, and she was crying out about how the devils had found her. She was directly above them, and now there were new footsteps clopping on the wooden floor, chasing after her.

Cerrus and the children listened, hoping the zombies would swiftly murder the invader, but next came the distinct sound of soldiers' armored boots clattering on the floor. Men yelled, fought, and thundered about, causing the children below to shudder with each loud bang.

The muffled voice of one of the soldiers bled through the floor, "Are you all right?"

The weeping woman responded, but Cerrus couldn't hear what she said.

"Were you bit?" asked another man.

Again, Cerrus didn't know what the woman said, but heard the soldier respond, "I'm sorry for this."

Next the woman screamed, and was then silenced just before something thumped onto the floor. Madeline and Cerrus exchanged worried glances, and then they heard one of the soldiers say, "Let's check the cellar."

Word must've spread through the Swords that the horde nests were located in the basements of homes throughout the city. Cerrus tried to think of a way to get the Sword to leave them alone, and he headed for the stairs just as the man above started to try and open the locked door.

Madeline stopped Cerrus and whispered, "Let me talk to him."

"No," said Cerrus. "You stay down here."

Madeline pulled at him harder and said, "No, you stay. If he sees you, he might mistake you for an enemy."

Cerrus knew she was right. His wrinkled skin and grey pallor caused people to distrust him immediately. Madeline, on the other hand, looked like an unassuming child. She motioned for Cerrus to hide, and he slunk between the barrels as Madeline headed up the stairs.

The Sword was pounding on the door, asking if anyone was there. Madeline went halfway up and called out with a tremulous, innocent voice, "We're here. We're hiding."

The Sword's tone softened when he heard that it was a child in the cellar. "Open the door for me. It's okay, I'm one of the good guys."

"My daddy told me to keep the door locked," said Madeline.

"It's okay, honey. Just open up for me. We're getting everyone out of this part of town. It's not safe here anymore."

"We're fine," said Madeline. "No one can get us here."

"Can't do that, sweetheart," said the Sword. "If we can contain the zombies then we're burning this district. You've got to come with me."

Madeline looked back at Cerrus, uncertain what to do.

"You can handle this one," said a different soldier on the floor above. "I'm moving to the next house."

"Okay," said the soldier at the door. Then he turned his attention back to Madeline and said, "Open up or I'm going to have to kick the door down. I don't want to have to do that."

Cerrus looked over at the other two girls embracing against the far wall. He left the cover of the barrels and scurried over to the girls, pointing at the floor and then whispering to one of them when he got close, "Sit down and pretend you hurt your leg." Next he looked over at Madeline and gestured for her to let the soldier in, and that the other girl was injured.

Madeline nodded back, aware of her partner's guile.

Cerrus went to the lantern that was sitting on a crate in the middle of the room and turned down the flame until it was nearly extinguished. After that, he slunk back between the barrels and took out his knuckle knives, a devious glove that had short blades sticking out from the knuckles and a longer, razor-sharp knife that ran along the side opposite his thumb. It was a weapon built for hand-to-hand combat and designed by Cerrus himself to complement his fighting style. Cerrus's disability kept him from being a strong fighter, but he was quick and agile. Before his opponents had the chance to react, Cerrus could strike them several times in a variety of places. The knuckle knives made every blow count.

Madeline lifted the board that had locked the cellar door and said, "My sister needs help. She hurt her leg."

"Was she bit?" asked the Sword as he opened the door.

Cerrus couldn't see any details about the man in the dim light, but his silhouette was large in the door frame. Madeline went back down the stairs and led the Sword to the other girls. The man dutifully followed, ignorant of their deception. These three girls had been the key to much of The Scholar's success. No one ever suspected children of evil.

"What's the matter?" asked the Sword as he approached the girls. "Did you get bit?" He was apprehensive as he approached.

"No," said Madeline. "She twisted her ankle. Look at it. It's swollen. She can't walk."

"I'll carry you," said the Sword. Cerrus got a chance to study the man now that he was in the lantern's light. He wasn't wearing a helmet or coif, which was lucky for Cerrus. The Sword was grizzled and aged, with a square jaw and prickly, white stubble. His nose had certainly been broken many times, and now curved to the side. He was thick and strong, with two scabbards crisscrossed on his back in a fashion more familiar to the bandits of the plains than a Sword.

"It hurts," said the feigning child on the floor as she gripped her ankle.

Madeline glanced over in Cerrus's direction, and they devised their ploy silently. She moved to the opposite side of the Sword from Cerrus, and spoke to him to mask any sound her partner might make while he moved.

"She fell really hard on the stairs and I don't think she's going to be able to..."

Cerrus snuck up as the tall man bent down to pick up the child who was supposedly suffering from a twisted ankle. The man was oblivious to the trap he'd fallen into, and Cerrus was able to chop down at the man's neck with the bladed side of his knuckle knife. This was far from the first person felled by this type of ambush.

Cerrus leapt backward, aware that one strike wouldn't be enough to kill the man instantly. Ferragut might've had the strength to kill a man with a single blow, but Cerrus could only hope to wound an opponent severely, perhaps fatally given time. The Sword gripped his neck and pivoted, and Cerrus immediately knew that his attack had done its job. Blood was flowed forth with such strength that it squirted between the Sword's mailed grasp. The older man grimaced and cursed, saw Cerrus backing away into the darkness, and then reached for his swords.

"I'll kill you, you little bastard," said the Sword. He reached back with both hands, gripped his swords, and drew them. The tight confines of the cellar hampered him, and he had to duck to pull his blades free, but then he was prepared to launch himself at his foe.

He had no inkling of a suspicion that the children were in on the attack. Madeline and the other girls grasped the man's boots as he tried to move, causing him to fall hard to the floor. His breastplate clanged and he huffed out in shock and pain before turning to see the children gripping his feet. They released him, and darted away, aware that he might attack them in desperation.

The Sword's neck was pulsing blood, and his face had already started to turn white, but he was still far from dead. "You little freaks!" He screamed out, now aware they were in on the trap.

Cerrus zipped in, chopped down at the man's neck again, and then disappeared into the darkness. The Sword gripped his new wound, leaving his swords laying on the ground, and screamed out in pain and anger. Next he forced himself up to his knees, gripped one of his swords, and then stood the rest of the way, faltering a bit as he tried to steady himself. Both of Cerrus's attacks had been perfectly aimed, leaving wide gashes on either side of the Sword's neck, both of which were gushing blood that coursed down the front of the man's breastplate, obscuring the inlayed symbol of his status as a Second-Sword.

"Fight me," said the man in a pathetic sputter. He wobbled, held his sword before him, and then focused on the three children huddled against the far wall. He pointed his blade at them and said, "I'll kill all of you."

"Go ahead and try, meat," said Madeline, taunting the man with the name that the half-deads used when referring to people not afflicted with the disease.

Cerrus emerged from the shadows and swept the Sword's arm aside with one hand while driving his other fist up into the man's throat in a fierce uppercut. The bladed knuckles pierced the Sword and ripped easily upward across his chin, leaving four long gashes behind as Cerrus danced away to join the three children.

The Sword staggered back, voiceless now, and moments from death. He gazed out at Cerrus and the children, and the three girls smiled as he dropped to his knees, weak and dying. He managed to croak forth one word, "Monsters." The Sword fell over backward, and gasped as his blood gushed from his multiple wounds.

Madeline drew a long sewing needle that she dipped into a flask of blood. Then she advanced and pierced the man's shredded neck with the needle. "Welcome to the family, meat."

* * *

"A prophet, a thief, and a thegn," said Hammer as he stood beside the open door of the prisoner's wagon. The other two surviving prisoners had already been let out, and told the Northland Marauders' leader about the remaining people lingering in the back of the wagon. "What am I to do with you three?"

"Let us go?" asked Tarik, smirking as if it was a humorous possibility that the man simply hadn't thought of yet.

Hammer ignored the scrawny man's suggestion. "I can fetch a good price for a thegn at Sailor's Rock, and maybe someone would be willing to buy themselves a prophet. A petty thief on the other hand," he shook his head and grimaced. "No one wants one of those. What were you caught stealing that earned you exile?"

"I wasn't caught stealing anything," said Tarik. "I was caught with relics. They exiled me because I dabbled in engineering."

"Oh," said Hammer, nodding and raising his brow. "Are you any good?"

"Good enough to get exiled."

"You don't have to be good to get exiled. Why would you bother tinkering behind the walls?" asked Hammer. "There are lots of your type out here in the plains. Some of them make a good living for themselves out here."

"I come from the plains," said Tarik. "I didn't fare well out here the first time. I prefer the safety of the walls."

"A coward then?" asked Hammer.

Tarik answered, "A survivor."

Hammer sneered and then winked before saying, "We'll see about that." He closed the gate and then locked it. "I'll let the three of you live for now. I'm not going to waste any food or water on you, but I won't kill you. We're on our way to Sailor's Rock, but we're camping in the plains for a few days in case the city sends Swords chasing after us. When we get to Sailor's Rock we'll see if there's anyone that'll be willing to pay some pel for you. I hope you ate this morning, because otherwise you're going to get mighty hungry. And here's a tip, no matter how hungry or thirsty you get, don't make a fuss. Most of the Marauders would just as soon slit your throat as listen to you whine."

The Marauder left, laughing and waving back at them.

The Prophet was the first to say anything, "What an ass."

"Agreed," said Tarik before reaching down to pick up the length of chain that had formerly tied them to the bars. Now it was pulled almost entirely into the wagon, with the shackles attached in intervals. It had been used by a few different prisoners during the battle against one another. Now Tarik was determined to prevent being eaten by zombies should any of the corpses in the wagon reanimate. "Help me tie these guys up."

The thegn looked confused. "Why?"

"Because they might turn, and I'd rather have them tied up if they do. I don't like the idea of being sold as a slave, but I like the idea of getting eaten alive even less."

"Turn?" asked the thegn, still bewildered. "You mean into a zombie? Can that really happen?"

Tarik stood and looked quizzically down at the strong young man. The thegn had blonde hair and blue eyes, and his skin was perfectly tanned. He'd probably spent his days basking in sunlight, spreading olive oil on his supple skin to help it tan. He was a near perfect physical specimen, with wide shoulders, a bulging chest, and well-defined muscles.

"Yes it can really happen," said Tarik. "Have you been living under a rock your whole life? The disease hits everyone different. Some people keel over dead in minutes and then stand right back up, and in others it lingers for days. Your best bet is to burn the bodies, but that's not an option for us right now. Didn't your master ever tell you anything?"

"Leave him alone," said the Prophet. "He saved your life, and he's probably only stepped off his master's land a few times in his life. He doesn't know the way of the world." She set her hand on the thegn's knee and pat it as if he were an abiding dog. "Is that the case, my dear?"

The young man nodded. The innocence he displayed was a bit sickening to Tarik. He couldn't fathom how someone could be content in life serving only as a slave to a wealthy aristocrat.

"What's your name, dear?" asked the Prophet.

The frightened man answered, "Beynor, Thegn of Icastus."

"Icastus?" asked the Prophet, impressed by the name. She also seemed slightly amused. "I didn't know he kept thegns."

"I was the family's only one," said Beynor. "I belonged to Icastus, but I cared for his children as well. I loved them all so much." He seemed ready to weep.

Tarik couldn't fathom his sadness. "Loved them? You were their slave. I'd think you'd be happy to be free."

"Happy? To be here in this hell?" asked Beynor.

"Might be hell, but it's better than being someone's sex slave."

"Don't dismiss me," said Beynor, glowering at Tarik. "I was proud to be his thegn. Icastus Leviathan was a good man, and I was lucky to be a part of his family."

"It's okay, Beynor," said the Prophet. "I know what it's like to feel like part of a family. It's nice."

"What got you kicked out of whatever aristocrat's mansion you lived in?" asked Tarik of the Prophet, certain she'd been exiled by the order of her former employer. "It's not often you see a Prophet on trial. You must've angered someone pretty bad."

"I thought it was customary among thieves to never admit your crimes."

Tarik smiled over at her and said, "You're not among thieves, and there're no Prophets in the plains. We're just survivors now."

"Not yet we're not," she said.

"You look alive to me, and so does the thegn, and I'm sure as hell not dead yet. That makes us survivors in my book. Now someone please help me tie these bodies down before one of them stands up and makes a meal of us."

Beynor looked at the prophet for approval, and the woman nodded to him. The thegn went over and helped Tarik, although he was sickened by the sight of the dead. Tarik didn't have keys to the shackles, so he just looped the chain around each of the dead men's necks and then did his best to tie them together.

"That'll have to work," said Tarik as he moved back over to the end of the wagon where the Prophet was sitting.

Beynor stood, his hands wet with blood, and asked, "How do we wash off?"

"Get used to be dirty, pretty boy," said Tarik. "There's not going to be any hot baths scented with essential oils in your near future."

The Prophet looked at Tarik and said, "You seem to have a problem with the way Beynor led his life. Tell me, what earns you the right to look down on him?"

"Don't get preachy with me, grandma," said Tarik. "As far as I'm concerned people can do whatever they want, whenever they want – so long as it doesn't hurt me or mine. I'm just not a fan of the idea of thegns in general."

"Neither am I," she said. "But I certainly don't look down on another person born into such a trade." She looked over at Beynor and asked, "Have you been a thegn your whole life?"

"Yes ma'am," said Beynor.

She looked back over at Tarik smugly and said, "See."

"Your whole life?" asked Tarik of Beynor. "Since you were a child?" He was confounded by the implication.

Beynor nodded, "Yes. Icastus purchased me from my mother when I was three. I don't remember my old family. As far as I'm concerned, the Leviathans were my only family."

"But you were a thegn," said Tarik, grasping at the underlying truth but not willing to say it outright. "Even as a child?"

"I think that's enough," said the Prophet, conscious of the information Tarik was digging at.

"No, no," said Tarik. "I want to know. Were you his thegn as a child?"

"Of course," said Beynor, uncertain why he was being questioned like this.

"Thegns are for sex," said Tarik bluntly. "You had sex with him when you were a child."

"We loved one another," said Beynor, ignorant of the fact that he'd suffered sexual abuse his entire life. As far as he knew, people who loved one another had sexual contact, and there was nothing wrong with it. "Of course we had sex."

"And that's the sort of thing you're defending?" asked Tarik of the Prophet.

This angered her, and she replied bitterly, "I never said I condoned that. I'm not defending the abuser, I'm defending the abused. Watch what you accuse me of, thief. I'm not the sort of person you want as an enemy."

Tarik laughed and then pointed at the dead bodies tied to the bars down the bench from them. "We just watched those guys get beat to death, lady. If you think you're the one I should be scared of then you've got a real weird sense of priority."

The two sat in obstinate silence until Beynor spoke up, "I don't know why you hate my master, but I'll tell you this, I'd give anything to be back in his arms right now." He stared longingly back in the direction of New Carrington.

"I don't..." Tarik started to speak, but was quickly interrupted as the Prophet set her hand on his leg and squeezed.

"He doesn't know any different," she said, her tone empathetic and soothing. "Leave him be. He's going to need us to teach him a lot."

"Us?" asked Tarik. "We're already surviving on borrowed time. I don't think we can teach him much before we're sold off to someone in Soldier's Rock."

"I don't think that's the way it's going to go for us, Tarik. That's not the way I see things turning out. We Prophets have a way of knowing our way around the future, and I think the three of us are going to need each other more than we know. There's a reason we were put in here together on this fateful trip."

Tarik laughed and said, "Haven't you been paying attention? There're no Prophets in the plains."

"There is now."

# Chapter Eleven

"Let me look at it," said Abraham after he'd made it outside of New Carrington with Murien. They were both beaten, wounded, and weary, along with a hundred other refugees on the outskirts of town. Whatever chaos had been unleashed was confined within the walls, leaving merchants along the river and at the gates curious and fearful of what was happening.

No one knew how to make sense of it. Many of the townsfolk were screaming and crying, explaining that there were zombies in the city as the people from the camps listened in terror. The merchants were wise enough to flee to their wagons and start preparing to leave, and the escaped townsfolk were left begging for transportation. Everyone agreed it would be best to head south, to avoid any entanglements with bandits in the Robber's Spine without Swords guarding them. Only a few merchants were willing to take strangers along, and they quickly started asking to see who was and wasn't bitten.

"He's got a bite," said one of the merchants up the hill from where Abraham and Murien were sitting. Another responded, "Kill him."

The man protested, and his wife came to his defense, screaming at the others to leave him alone.

"He's going to turn. You're better off killing him now."

"You leave him alone," said the woman, screeching and waving her arms at the others around her. "Get away from us."

Her husband was gasping for breath, already affected by the disease that would eventually claim his life. He'd been severely wounded, with gashes up and down his right arm. There was a strip of skin missing, revealing the muscle beneath, and the grass under him was turning dark from the blood that leaked its way down the hill and into the tributary. His breathing had already become a wet gurgle, and he was grasping up in the air, his fingers curling as if he were pulling at an invisible sheet.

"Move out of the way," said one of the townsfolk, a sword in hand.

The woman fought him, but she didn't see another man come from behind with a machete. The second man chopped down at the infected stranger, cutting deep into the man's throat.

"No!" The woman turned and ran to protect her husband, but it was too late. The blade had cut halfway through his neck, causing the man's head to hang off to the side and his arms to drop. His rattling breaths ceased, replaced by screams of sorrow from his wife.

Next the men turned their attention to Murien and Abraham. "Is she bit?" asked one of them.

The other pointed and said, "Yeah, she is. Look on her neck." The two men came at them. Abraham took Murien's sword and stood fast. He nearly lost his footing on the slippery shore, but he steadied himself with the sword held before him. "Stay away! I'm a Second-Sword of New Carrington and I command you to back away."

"You're not in New Carrington, and that's a zombie you're trying to save, kid," said one of the merchants. "You're best off letting us cut her to pieces before she turns and infects someone else."

"Get away from us," said Abraham.

"Don't be stupid," said the older, fatter merchant. His bottom lip was thick and purple, and affected his speech. He had wild, grey and black hair that matched his short beard, and there were rings in his eyebrows and nose. This was the man with the machete, still wet with the blood of his last victim, and he was ready to kill again. "Let us finish her."

"No, you'll have to kill me too, and you're not going to be able to do that. Feel like giving it a try?"

The man regarded Abraham with anger and apprehension. He shrugged and said, "You'll live to regret this. We've got to pack our wagons over there," he used his machete to point at the cluster of merchant wagons near where the tributary met back up with the Tennerblane river. "If you come near us, I'll murder you and your zombie bitch. Understood?"

Abraham didn't reply, and the merchant muttered something before heading off.

"Can you stand?" asked Abraham.

"Yes," said Murien. She was still in her armor, unlike Abraham, and he had to help her to her feet. Water and blood leaked out from beneath her breastplate as she grimaced and groaned from the pain. "We should go back. Help... Help them in there." She pointed back at New Carrington.

"You'll get cut down by our own Swords before you do anyone else any good. Come on, we need to find a way out of here."

She shook her head. "No, Abraham. You can't." She was struggling to speak as the infection spread. Her wound was serious, and her life was fading fast. "You can't stay with me."

"Yes I can, and I will." He led her away from the tributary, towards the greater Tennerblane across the short expanse of grassland. They were both struggling to stay standing. Abraham's muscles were beyond weary now, and each step threatened to cause his legs to buckle and send him rolling down the short hill. As they went, the sound of death and war flooded the land. The residents of New Carrington were being slaughtered.

"Keep moving," said Abraham after he looked at Murien and saw her grief. It wasn't her wounds that vexed her, but the knowledge that innocent lives were being extinguished; lives they'd been tasked with protecting.

Abraham thought about how everyone he loved and cared for was back in that town, facing a zombie horde. He thought of Saffi, and of Descarth, and the many other friends he'd had growing up in that town. They were all fighting their own battles now, and he knew there was nothing he could do to help them. For now, all he could do was try and save the one who mattered most. He held onto Murien, giving her much needed support.

"Stay strong, Murien. We can do this. We can make it."

"Make it where?" she asked.

He didn't know, and searched for an answer. "There." He pointed over the crest of the hill at the Tennerblane. That was where the greater river carved its path, and behind them was the city and the curved tributary. Merchant ships floated along the Tennerblane, headed south. "We can get on one of the ships."

"They'll never let me on," said Murien. "And they're all headed south. We can't go that way. I can't risk being near anyone else." She forced Abraham to stop as she stood her ground. Then, without warning, she dropped to her knees. Her armor rattled as her head bobbed, and Abraham caught her before she fell to the ground.

"Murien!" He held her and she stared up at him, but her eyes couldn't focus. She was dying. "No, no, no," he said as he cradled her. "Stay with me. Don't you die. You're not dying on me."

She coughed, and then smiled at him. Her lips had lost their color, and her already pale cheeks had turned white. Her hand reached up and touched his face, the chainmail cold to the touch as she traced her thumb across his cheek, wiping away a tear he hadn't realized was falling.

"Stay with me," he said desperately. "I need you."

The screams of dying townsfolk served as the distant chorus of his despair.

"No you don't," said Murien. "You're strong. Stronger than me."

"No one's stronger than you," said Abraham, and they shared a smile before her eyes fluttered and closed. "Murien, Murien!" He shook her, and tried to force her eye open, but she was gone now. Another victim of The Scholar.

* * *

"What did they do to deserve this?" asked Saffi as she looked out at the prisoner's wagon. The violence she'd been forced to witness had sickened her. The Northland Marauders had proved themselves to be heartless beasts, loyal to nothing but hatred and greed. She despised them, and wanted nothing more than to see them face retribution for their sins.

The marauders had led the caravan out to the crossroads, and then instead of heading off towards civilization they were led further north, towards the ruins of the old world. Sailor's Rock was located in this direction, situated near where the Ulean Bay fed the Tennerblane, but their path veered to the east. The marauders were taking them out into the Steel Plains to camp for a few days. It would be a long journey, past the carcass of a decimated age of man, where steel spires had once stood, now mere lumps of metal nearly buried by mounds of dirt. Where once fabled machines drove along cement roads, now existed only shattered remnants of what had been. That was where the curse of the dead held the strongest power, at least according to The Order. It was forbidden to tread there, but they were headed straight for it.

"Don't worry about them," said Ward. "Worry about yourself." They were atop their wagon, with Stephen leading them, but the mule was growing weary as they trudged along. The sun had dipped beneath the horizon, leaving a red glow in its wake that painted the clouds with its luster. There was no day left on the opposite side of the world, and night was quickly advancing.

They passed beside a marshy area, even having to change their route as the wagon wheels began to sink in the wet earth. The rocky area of the Robber's Spine was behind them now, but there were still outcroppings of rocks here as well, dotted with caves that Saffi watched for any sign of eyes peering out from the darkness.

Ward muttered as if an afterthought, "Worry about yourself, Saffi. It's the only way you can make it out in this part of The Masses."

"I thought you always used to say that you could tell a man's character by how he treated others," said Saffi, turning her father's own tutelage against him.

"We're survivors now. The only thing a survivor thinks about is surviving. Understood?"

"No," said Saffi, endearingly defiant as she grinned at her dad. "Sorry, but I don't agree. I'm not going to stop worrying about other people just because my own life's in danger."

"You should," said Ward. "We don't have the luxury of hiding behind the wall anymore. This is a different world, darling. A harsher one. No one out here cares about social order or justice. All they care about is their next meal. We're not in a good situation at the moment. I don't want to sugarcoat it for you."

Saffi looked backward, in the direction of the crossroads. "The stranger never came. He was supposed to meet us at the crossroads."

"Get used to being disappointed," said Ward. "If there's one tough lesson you need to learn right now, it's that you can't count on anyone but yourself."

"I can't even count on you?" asked Saffi in an attempt to lighten her father's dour mood.

"No," he said plainly. "Don't count on me. I had one job, and I screwed it up."

"What are you talking about?"

"Nothing," he said, trying to avoid the conversation now.

"No, what do you mean. Talk to me. You still need to tell me what's going on here. I've been quiet this whole time, but you said you'd tell me what was going on after we got to the crossroads, and as far as I can tell we're already a long way past that."

"Things didn't go like I'd hoped."

"No kidding," said Saffi, again trying to make light of their ordeal. Ward looked away as if ashamed. "Dad, what's the matter?" She was suddenly serious, struck by her father's dejected spirit.

Ward turned to her and smiled, but his eyes revealed a deeper sorrow. "I let myself get fat and happy. That's all. I messed up."

"What are you talking about?"

He bit his lip, and then took a deep breath as if fighting the desire to cry. "I love you, kid. The way things started, I was just supposed to keep you safe. Right? That's the way it was supposed to be. I'd take you on as an apprentice, but in the meantime I was going to make sure no one ever came looking for you. You were our treasure. You're my treasure."

"Dad, what's going on?" asked Saffi, disturbed by the direction the conversation was going.

"I love you, kid. Despite everything else that's going to happen, I want you to know that I really, deeply love you. You're my daughter, blood or not."

"I know that."

"But there are things I haven't told you; important things. Things that are going to change your life forever, and now I'm not sure it was the right decision."

"What sort of things."

Ward reached over to his daughter and placed his massive hand on her shoulder. He squeezed, massaging her as he smiled. "You're more important than anyone, Saffi. And I don't mean just to me."

"You're scaring me, Dad," said Saffi, again trying to offer a chuckle to ease the mounting tension. "What's going on?"

"I don't know everything, kid. I wish I did, but they kept me in the dark, and then they just stopped talking to me all together. That guy who came by the other night, I think he was with the Drakes in Golden Rock. They sent you to New Carrington because you were..." He paused, and took a deep breath. "You were special."

"Special?"

"There's a woman in Golden Rock named Adelaide Kessel. She's the one who knows what happened. I was hoping to take you there to meet her. Now..." He shook his head. "Now I don't know what's going to happen."

"Who's Adelaide Kessel?" asked Saffi. She had a slew of questions but tried to focus in on just a few. "What happened? Why am I special?"

"Adelaide's related to the man who found you." Ward snapped Stephen's reins, and the mule neighed in protest.

"Found me where?"

"In the field of battle, surrounded by the living dead, screaming and crying like the temperamental kid you've always been." Ward offered a smile at the memory, but his eyes were ringed with tears. "But those monsters ignored you. They walked on past like you weren't even there. Mind you, I've seen those creatures devour their fair share of babes, but not you. They passed you by like you were one of them. That's what Adelaide's son thought. He figured you were a half-dead, or a zombie yourself, and he nearly stuck a sword in your belly, but then he had a closer look and saw that you were in that cradle, naked and unharmed. A perfect baby girl. They tested to see if you were a half-dead, but you were just a regular baby. Back then they had a poison they'd use on half-deads. It reacted differently to them, but the Drakes kept the poison's recipe a secret."

Saffi listened intently, unwilling to interrupt the story.

"Markum Kessel took you back to the capital, and they debated what to do with you. They brought in all the prophets and seers, but I don't know what they said. All I know is that you ended up in New Carrington. You were put in the orphanage as a way to hide, and then they asked my father to protect you. Since I'd been demoted, he thought it would be a good job for me. I took you on as an apprentice. It was meant to be a way to hide you, and for the first few years we used to get visits from the Prophets of Golden Rock, to check up on you. Then, we all got lazy. The Prophets stopped coming, and I started eating more cakes than a Sword should." He rubbed his belly and offered a weak smile. "I got fat and comfortable."

"Who am I?" asked Saffi, frightened and sobered by her father's admission.

"I don't know. That's what I was hoping Adelaide could tell us. As far as I know, you're a little kid that the zombies didn't want to eat, but the folks in Golden Rock think you're more important than that, and so does The Scholar. Whoever it was that showed up last night was warning us to get out of the city because The Scholar was looking for you."

"I always hoped he was just a legend."

"He's no legend, kid. He's very real. Whoever he is, he's been looking for you for years now."

"Why?"

"I wish I knew," said Ward. "I truly do." He again reached out to her, setting his hand gently against her cheek. "You're the most important thing in the world to me, and not just because other folks think you're special. What started as an assignment turned into my only reason for living. You're all that matters to me, kid."

"Dad," said Saffi, displaying an equal amount of sympathy, appreciation, and mounting terror. "You're scaring me."

"Good," said Ward.

# Chapter Twelve

Abraham refused to leave Murien. He held her hand on the hill outside of the city.

New Carrington was still being destroyed from within, and the main gates remained closed, sealing up the massacre. Only the river gate was open, but the flow of refugees from that passage had ceased. The merchants in the nearby camp had hurried to escape, packing their things and whipping their horses to set off as soon as they could. There were still a few wagons left, but Abraham was certain they'd be gone soon as well. He would be stranded here, but he couldn't bear the thought of leaving Murien's side.

It wasn't until the dead started to pull themselves up from the depths of the tributary and onto the shore that Abraham knew he had to leave. The first corpse clawed her way up the shore, digging at the muddy embankment until she was free of the water, and then crawling up onto the grass. She must've been standing on a mound of other corpses or debris in the deep river, and she was just the first to surface. She opened her mouth, but only a weak gasp came forth. There was a slit on her throat, still open, with water pouring forth instead of blood. Her eyes were cloudy, and her black hair clung to her grey flesh as she staggered up the hill. Her dress had been torn, revealing her bony legs beneath as she climbed. Behind her, another creature emerged from the tributary, focused on Abraham as well.

"Murien, I'm sorry," said Abraham as he took her sword. It was an offense to use another Sword's weapon, but he'd lost his own when he fled the city. He was determined to fight off the creatures to keep them away from Murien's body.

He quickly realized that would be nearly impossible as more of the monsters began to climb out of the river. His footing was uncertain on the slick hill, and he wished that he'd dragged Murien up further to where the land leveled. His body was already weary, and the sword shook in his grasp as he prepared for battle.

The first creature struggled on the hill, and her bare feet slipped in the mud. Abraham took the opportunity to chop down at her, splitting the creature's head and driving her into the earth where she then slid back down a few feet towards the river.

Abraham's will strengthened as he prepared to fend off another of the creatures. This time it was a male, tall and fat, and he looked like a freshly turned corpse. His neck wasn't slit, and it appeared that he'd been eaten by the zombies before turning. His skin was riddled with bite marks, many of which had ripped off long strips of flesh. The creature had a long beard that was tied with twine at the end, and Abraham knew him.

"Tully?" asked Abraham as if his recognition might give the tavern owner pause.

Tully lunged, and Abraham tried to step back to get a better defensive position. However, the slick earth pulled away and Abraham fell to his right side. The only thing he could do to avoid being tackled was roll, and Tully collapsed down beside him. The big man's teeth snapped at him, and then he started to grasp at Abraham's wet clothes.

More zombies were trudging up the hill, enticed by Abraham's struggle to survive. Tully had a grip on Abraham's hauberk and was pulling relentlessly. Murien's sword was in the mud between them, and Abraham decided the only way to free himself would be to take off his chainmail shirt and then try to get the sword and run away to gain space between him and the zombies advancing from the river. He slid out of his hauberk and then grasped blindly at the sword, mistaking the location of the hilt and gripping the blade instead. The edge sliced into his palm, and he retreated in pain. Tully tore at the shirt, and then dropped it as he crawled closer to Abraham and over the blade. The zombie was flailing maniacally, grasping in desperation at the meal that was so close at hand.

Abraham had to run, which meant leaving Murien and her sword behind. He didn't want to do it, but there was no other choice. He got to his knees and crawled before launching himself to his feet and bounding away. As he was moving up the hill, he glanced back at Murien, hoping to get one last look at her.

Her eyes blinked as she looked at him.

He assumed she'd turned, and that in minutes she would join the horde chasing him. Murien sat up, with the zombies streaming past her, and she yelled out to Abraham, "Run!"

Panic and dread overwhelmed him. She wasn't dead, and he'd left her there to be devoured by the horde. He stopped long enough for Tully to catch up with him, and the tavern keeper tackled Abraham, driving him back down hard to the dirt. The zombie was relentless and strong, pressing down on his victim with the intention of chewing the flesh from his bones. Abraham managed to get his hand on Tully's throat and was pushing the man away, but he was losing this fight. Tully was too heavy to restrain for much longer.

A boot smashed into the side of Tully's head, and Murien said, "Get off him!" She stabbed her sword into the ear of the zombie, silencing the big man for good as the blade sunk deep.

Abraham crawled out from beneath the zombie with Murien's help and then looked back at the horde she'd cut down to get to him. He huffed, exhausted, and then asked, "How?"

"They're not attacking me," said Murien, confused but happy as she flicked the blood and brains from her sword. "I don't know why, but they were just after you. I guess they like it when their food screams." She smirked at him, but he didn't share her lightheartedness. "It wasn't until I started to cut them down that they even noticed I was there, but it was too late for them to defend themselves."

"You..." He stammered. "You were dead."

"Fairly certain I'm not," she said. "Now get yourself together and let's get moving."

Abraham grabbed Murien's hand and kept her where she stood. He looked at the wound on her neck and said, "You're a half-dead."

"I am not," she said, offended.

"You are," said Abraham, although he wasn't frightened. They'd both been taught to fear and despise the half-deads, but Abraham was just happy Murien was still alive, or half-alive as the case may be.

Murien touched the wound on her neck, and her previous zeal faded. "No, I... I can't be. Abe, I can't be a half-dead. You're wrong."

"Why else would the zombies leave you there and focus on me? They won't eat a half-dead. I was there with you," he pointed back down the hill. "You died in my arms."

"I didn't," said Murien, but her resolve was nearly lost as the realization of her fate sunk in. "You're no physician. What do you know?"

"You were dead, Murien. The infection took you."

She shook her head and said, "This can't be."

"It's okay," said Abraham, trying to ease her mounting concern. "All that matters is that you're all right now."

"No," she said and pushed him away. "If I'm a halfie, then you... You need to leave me here. Let me fight off as many of these things as I can before I die. Let me do some good."

"You can't," he said and reached out for her. She moved away from his grasp, but he came for her again, grabbing at her hands to stop her from running back into battle. "Listen to me. Stop for a second and just listen. If anyone finds out you're a half-dead, they'll burn you on a pyre. And the zombies won't ignore you if you fight them. They'll turn on you to defend themselves. You can't go back in there."

"I can't just leave either," said Murien. "If you're right, and I'm a half-dead, then it's better off I die. I'm a walking disease. There's no place for me anymore."

"Yes there is. There are plenty of half-deads in the plains. They hide in the smuggler's towns, like Sailor's Rock. We could go there."

"We?" she asked.

"Yes, there's no way I'm leaving you again. The last time I tried I nearly died and you had to get up from the dead and come save me."

"You can't stay with me," she said and pulled away from his grasp. "I won't let you."

"I love you, Murien."

"Stop it," she said. "That's not true."

"It is, and I've been meaning to say it for a long time, I just never had the courage."

"Abe," she said his name woefully. "Don't."

"I love you, and I'm not leaving you again. We can go to Sailor's Rock, and if they won't welcome us then we'll go to the plains and figure out how to survive there."

"I don't want to live as a half-dead," said Murien.

"And I don't want to live without you. So where does that leave us?" He held out his hand to her and said, "Come with me. There's still a merchant's wagon over there at the camp. Let's see if we can take it and head out north."

Murien didn't respond, and Abraham was frightened she'd refuse. They locked eyes, and then Murien nodded and took his hand, silently accepting, though he knew it broke her heart to leave.

* * *

The Scholar stood in the emptied storefront of the only First-Baker in the Northern District. He walked slowly, studying the shelves, cases, and decorations that gave the shop its simple character. The smell of bread still lingered, despite there being only a few scant rolls left behind. The owner had fled with his daughter mere hours before Dessidus had arrived that morning.

He rounded the counter, entering the part of the store normally reserved for the owners. There he stood and looked out at the front door, imaging himself as a simple baker welcoming his customers in. Next he went to the back room where the massive clay oven dominated the space. He lifted one of the peels from its hook on the wall, and examined the large, flat, wooden shovel that was scratched up from frequently sliding in and out of the clay oven.

The bells that hung above the front door jangled, and The Scholar placed the peel back on its hook before going to see who'd come in. When he went back to the front of the store he saw Ferragut there, a foreboding sight in his dusky leather and menacing helm. He was thick and tall, imposing and strong, with fresh blood spattered up and down his arms.

"She was here, my friend. This is where she spent her days."

"I know," said Ferragut after he removed his helm.

"What a waste of a life," said The Scholar. "Not that there's anything wrong with being a baker, it's a fine profession, but not for her. Not for her." He swiped his gloved finger across the counter, picking up a dusting of flour that he then ground between his finger and thumb.

"Maybe they don't know about her," said Ferragut.

"Why else would they hide her?"

"I mean, maybe they don't know what she's culpable of."

"You mean 'capable.'"

"Right, sorry."

The Scholar nodded and said, "And I agree, they don't know what she's capable of. If they did, she wouldn't be wasting her days baking bread, that's for sure." His demeanor turned more serious as he changed the subject, "How are things going out there?"

"Good," said Ferragut. "Most of the highborns retreated to their mansions, as expected, and a good amount of the Swords went with to protect them. Both markets are cleared, but we're searching the buildings for stragglers. We were able to secure the gates, except for the one at the south side of the river. Someone got there and opened it. We're not sure how many got out, but I don't think it's anything to be concerned with. I doubt any highborns leapt into the river to swim away."

"Let's hope not. And what about the merchants outside?"

"They've all fled," said Ferragut.

The Scholar nodded and grimaced. "Nothing much we could do about that. They'll no doubt send word to the other walled cities about what happened here. That might make it harder for us next time. Sooner or later they're going to realize we're attacking from the inside. If they decide to hole themselves up in fear, we might have a tough time taking down the final three."

"I'm sure you can figure out a way," said Ferragut.

The Scholar regarded his friend and soldier, although the man couldn't see his leader's smile behind the mask. "Thank you, Ferragut. Time will tell. Have you checked on Cerrus and the girls yet?"

"No," said Ferragut. "I was going to head there next."

"Is there anything else you have to report?"

"We found where Ebon was hiding," said Ferragut.

"Let me guess," said The Scholar, his tone laced with new malice. "Was he in the sewer with the rest of the scum and rats?"

"No, sir," said Ferragut, uncertain if The Scholar had been serious. "If you'll remember, this was his home town. His family owned the..."

"I know," said The Scholar. "Was he at the stables then?"

"It seems so, although he left before we got there."

"He's probably traveling with the girl," said The Scholar. "But where's he taking her?" He was asking the question out loud although he didn't expect Ferragut to offer an answer.

"Golden Rock?" asked Ferragut.

"Not likely. He's going to want to hide her."

"Sir, if you'd like, Cerrus and I could go searching for him. That little worm's a good scout."

"No, I need you two with me. Dessidus and his Black Riders are already on Ebon's trail."

"To be fair, we're not even certain he's abandoned us. For all we know, he might bring the girl back. Maybe he thought this would be the best way to protect her."

The Scholar looked at Ferragut for a long moment, allowing his expressionless mask to force the big man to question his own statement. Finally, The Scholar said, "You're not turning on me too, are you?"

Ferragut responded emphatically, "No, sir!"

"Because I know you and Cerrus and Ebon were friends. It would break my heart to learn that the three of you were in on this together."

"Nothing could be further from the truth," said Ferragut. "I know I speak for Cerrus too when I say that we're devoted to the cause. If Ebon betrayed you, then he deserves to die with the rest of them."

"No, I don't want that," said The Scholar. "He's too much of an asset to simply cast off. I want to know why he left. I want a chance to win him back. And if we can't get him back on our side, then we'll have to decide what to do with him, but not before I get to speak with him." The Scholar stepped around from behind the counter and closer to Ferragut. "I'm not a vindictive man. I'm practical, and I take care of my friends. If it were you who left instead of Ebon..."

"I wouldn't leave," said Ferragut.

"I know, but if it were you, then I'd afford you the same courtesy. I respect everyone in our group too much to abandon without due process."

"You don't have to worry about me. I'm with you until the end, no matter what happens."

"Good," said The Scholar. "I'll rest easier with you at my side. Now go check on Cerrus and the children."

Ferragut did as he was told, as always, and The Scholar was left alone again in the shop. He lingered, breathing in the air, experiencing the environment Saffi had lived in for so long. She'd been within his grasp, only to be snatched away at the last second. He looked at the flour clinging to tips of his fingers, and then blew them clean before leaving.

# Chapter Thirteen

Jeth could hear Payter moaning in pain in the back of the wagon. The two ousted members of the Northland Marauders were headed to Sailor's Rock, but it was still a long journey and daylight was giving way to dusk. The northern road was barely visible in the field, with only two slight paths carved in the grass from the occasional wagon that trudged along this way. Most of the merchants went east or west at the crossroads, and only outcasts made their way past the ruins to the smuggler's den on the Tennerblane.

"We'll have to camp here," said Jeth as he guided the steed off the path and to a clearing where the grass wasn't as thick. The wagon jolted and bounced on the uneven terrain, and then finally settled before Jeth got down to prepare for the night. He continued to tell Payter what he was doing, although his fellow Marauder didn't seem to hear him.

Payter was shivering in the wagon, and had awoken a few times to say that he felt cold despite the three hides Jeth had placed over him. His skin had turned white as bone for a while, but had since taken on a yellow hue. He was feverish and delusional, whispering of devils and chariots of golden fire streaking through the night sky, sprinkling flames upon the fields in their wake. It was the incoherent rambling of a man near death.

Jeth unfurled his bedroll and then started to clear a space for a fire. He didn't expect the night to get too cold, but it was impossible to predict what fronts the wind in this part of the kingdom could bring. He was creating a ring of stones to build the fire within when he saw men on horses approaching from the south. At first he saw only a few, but then more began to appear on the horizon and he wondered if this was a different bandit party headed back to the smuggler's town. He counted at least twenty of the horseback men, each keeping their distance as they surrounded the southern side of his camp.

Not many people traveled between the crossroads and Sailor's Rock, and the few who did were usually of ill repute. Jeth straightened his overcoat, put his goggles on, and then rested his hand over the hilt of the sword at his side. He raised his other hand in greeting, and the man leading the newcomers raised his as well.

Jeth watched as the group hung back, far from the campsite, and spoke among themselves. Eventually the leader rode over, a big man on a black horse, wearing leather armor without a helm. He wore a long, dark scarf that had a frayed end, and his face was viciously scarred. He carried two axes, one on each side of his waist, and his attempt at a jovial smile was thwarted by crooked yellow teeth.

"Hello there," said Jeth. "What brings you out this way?"

"I'm looking for someone," said the imposing figure as he stopped his steed, but didn't dismount.

Jeth thought to himself that he wouldn't want to be the person this beast of a man was after. "Not many people out this way. You're the first I've seen since I passed the crossroads."

"I'm looking for a girl and possibly two men traveling out this way."

Jeth shook his head, and kept his hand on the pommel of his sword. Something about this stranger and his hoarse voice unsettled the former Northland Marauder. "I haven't seen any groups like that."

"You'd know if you saw one of the men," said the stranger. His steed brayed, and then stomped a heavy hoof on the earth. The animal's eyes were wide, as if terrified.

Jeth was determined not to capitulate with the stranger anyhow, adhering to the unspoken rules of the bandits riding the plains, but he asked anyhow, "What's he look like?"

"Tall and thin, black eyes and grey hair, with armor like mine except he's got rings on his chest..."

Jeth didn't mean to admit anything, but his fear gave him away.

"You've seen him," said the horseback stranger, pleased with the reveal. "Where."

Jeth Regard stuttered as he tried to reply.

"You met Ebon," said the stranger. "Tell me where he went." He gently tapped the horse with his heel, spurring the animal to take a step close to Jeth. The hulking man grew more imposing as he neared, and his thick hand drifted to one of the axes at his side.

"The half-dead." Jeth's mouth had grown dry and each word came with great effort.

Payter groaned from the wagon, earning the stranger's attention and giving Jeth a short reprieve. The man guided his horse over to the wagon, and he peered in at the dying marauder. "Ebon stabbed this one?"

Jeth tried to say something, but just nodded instead. He looked out at the men on the path, the fading day's light making it look like they were shades seated upon black horses with red eyes. These weren't just bounty hunters from New Carrington or bandits of the plains – they were something else. These men were chasing a lost devil, and were anything but angels themselves.

"He's poisoned," said the stranger, and decided it was time to get down from his horse. His boots thudded on the earth, and his leather armor creaked and groaned as he straightened it. Wherever he'd come from, he'd been riding hard and long, evidenced by the way he stretched his arms and back.

"Poisoned?" asked Jeth.

The stranger nodded and said, "Ebon's a nasty one. You're right about him being a half-dead." He took out a short, thin knife from a sheath under his vest and pointed the weapon at Jeth as if using it merely for gesticulation instead of as a threat. "Which means the things that'll kill you won't do anything to him. A few years ago he had the bright idea to start drinking poison. That way, whenever he wants to stick someone or shoot an arrow at them," he stabbed the knife out like the strike of a threatening snake, stopping far from Jeth's face but scaring him none-the-less, "he gets poison into them." The stranger laughed in appreciation and shook his head. "I told you, he's a nasty one. His blood's already got the chance of passing on the plague, but when you add poison to the mix you get a real ugly effect. That's what's happening to your friend there."

"Will he die?" asked Jeth about Payter.

"Probably. Not many people get on the wrong side of Ebon's blade and live to talk about it. But there's always a chance he'll wake up a half-dead."

"Then should I just kill him now?" asked Jeth, certain that these men were hunting Ebon because he was a half-dead devil as well.

The stranger didn't answer right away, but instead stared at Jeth with what might be considered disgust. "You fancy yourself a Drake?" He spoke of the name given the Swords who traveled out into the plains to hunt down half-deads in years past.

"The only good corpse is one that stays dead," said Jeth, comfortable enough with the stranger's allegiances to assume he agreed. Why else would he be hunting the devilish half-dead named Ebon?

"Is that right?" The man sneered and then said, "Well then, let's not dawdle. Tell me where Ebon went."

"I met him out south of the Robber's Spine, in the grasslands. He paid us to ignore a caravan that was traveling north."

"Why'd he have to stab your friend?"

"We argued with him, and he dropped a sort of powder on the ground, like some warlock, and then bled himself. After that, I'm not sure what happened, but Payter ended up like that." Jeth motioned towards the wagon.

"And what about the caravan?"

"I'm not sure what happened to it," said Jeth honestly. "I split off from my group to take Payter out to Sailor's Rock."

Payter DeMalo was muttering curses in the wagon, sometimes even shouting out and reaching up at the darkening eve.

"And the rest of your bandits? Did they attack the wagon?"

"Probably. They might've just taken the tax, but I doubt it. They wanted to know why this Ebon fellow was so intent on paying for safe passage. Do you know why?"

"Doesn't matter," said the stranger. "I didn't see anyone else on this road. If your bandit friends did attack the wagon, where would they take the plunder if not north to the Rock?"

"Out to the plains," said Jeth as he nodded eastward. "They'll hide there for a few days. Again, that's if they didn't just take the tax, but if that'd been the case then I think you would've seen the prisoner wagons."

"Prisoner wagons?"

"That's what the half-dead said was coming from New Carrington. If he was right, then they would've headed north along this road and then out to the ruins and the marshes. That's where they usually dump the exiles."

"So then it seems a fair bet your friends attacked the caravan. Would they kill everyone?"

"Not everyone, no," said Jeth. "Some of them, and probably most of the guards, but not everyone."

"And I'll find your friends out east of here?"

Jeth nodded and said, "Out that way somewhere. Shouldn't be hard to find. Just keep going and watch for their fires."

The stranger eyed Jeth suspiciously and said, "You've been awful helpful, friend. Why would a thief tell a stranger where to find his fellow thieves? You're not lying to me, are you?"

"No," said Jeth. "If you're hunting the devil I met, then I'll help you any way I can. The world's better off without him."

"Is that so?"

"Of course," said Jeth, growing confused by the stranger's odd response. "Aren't you hunting him down to bury him for good?"

"I sure hope not," said the stranger. "He's my dearest friend."

Jeth leapt backward, ready for a fight. He'd spent the majority of his life battling to survive in the Steel Plains, and was confident in his ability to defend himself. His blade was sharp and true, tested in battle but new enough to still be strong. "You're a half-dead too?"

"I am," said the stranger, unprovoked by Jeth's defensive stance. "Name's Dessidus, and it's a pleasure to meet you." He bowed deeply, as if mocking Jeth, and then he called out loud while still knelt, "Kill him."

Crossbows twanged in the distance. Jeth was suddenly propelled backward over the fire pit he'd started to build before Dessidus arrived. He was confounded as he flew back, but then understood he'd been shot with at least a couple of bolts. Jeth reached for the wounds on his chest, and felt the ends of the bolts protruding from his light armor. Even plate couldn't have stopped the crossbows from sending their bolts into Jeth's flesh, and his thin leather had done little to impede them.

Jeth never had the chance to issue any mad ramblings like Payter, and knew he would die swiftly.

Dessidus approached, and smiled down at the dying man. "I bet you wish you were only half-dead now, don't you, meat?"

Jeth couldn't answer as his body was paralyzed by pain.

Dessidus walked over to his horse, but paused at the wagon. He glanced in at the dying marauder that Ebon had poisoned and said, "Maybe we'll have you on our side soon, Payter. Come and find us if you live."

Payter answered, "Fire. Just fire and blood in the steel. The rain's embers." He screamed it out again, "The rain's embers."

Jeth coughed, and felt liquid rise up into his throat. He wasn't able to swallow it back down again, and started to choke, but he laid his head back and stared up at the twinkling stars, eager for death to grant reprieve from his pain. Like so many merchants and Swords who died at the end of Jeth's sword, he was just another victim in the Steel Plains.

* * *

Saffi rattled her chains and stood in defiance as the marauders forced their prisoners to sit in a large circle. Her father was beside her, and he pleaded with his daughter to sit down.

"No, I'm not going to let them do this."

The Northland Marauders had used the chains from the prisoners' wagons to cuff the survivors. They'd spent the day marching out across the Steel Plains, off the paths and out into the wilderness. The hills were taller here, rockier and less forgiving to the wagons, delaying their progress although Saffi wasn't sure where they were headed. Once the sun had started to set, the marauders decided to make camp, and now they were going to entertain themselves.

A marauder was behind Saffi, and pushed her back down to the ground hard. It was Tye, the smug little bandit that had found Ward's armor when the caravan was first set upon. "Sit down, girly."

"I'm not going to let you do this," said Saffi, furious, disgusted, and horrified by what was about to take place in the middle of the circle they'd been forced to create.

Tye pressed his boot down on Saffi's wrists, causing her shackles to bite into her skin. She cried out in pain, but the bandit didn't ease the pressure. "Sit down and shut up, or I'll cut your tongue out and spare us all your whining."

"Saffi, you need to stop fighting with them," said Ward, his tone desperate.

"They're going to make them kill each other," said Saffi. She'd seen what they did to the prisoners, and knew the same was about to happen to the First-Swords that had been forced to march alongside the caravan out to here. The guards had been stripped of their clothes and weapons, and were now standing nude over by the prisoners' wagons. All of the surviving merchants and prisoners who'd survived the fights in the wagons had been chained together to create this circle. The only people left out of the circle was a young thief, thegn, and prophet who Saffi saw watching from a nearby wagon.

Gandry was among the First-Swords who'd been stripped of their clothes and their pride. The surprise attack had stolen the Swords opportunity to fight, and everyone had expected the Northland Marauders to simply collect a tax and move on instead of kidnapping the entire caravan. Gandry had tried to convince his fellow Swords to fight off the marauders once their intention was revealed, but no one else was willing, and he was forced to lay down his sword. Now he was standing with the others, each of them covering their privates and waiting for the bandits to finish preparing for the night's festivities.

Hammer walked into the center of the circle, and hushed the crowd. His golden hair looked red in the firelight as he staggered drunkenly. One of the merchants was transferring a load of mead that belonged to a Third-Brewer in New Carrington, and the marauders had quickly pierced the casks and taken their fill. It was during their drinking that one of them had decided to set up the night's entertainment, and the prisoners were forced to capitulate.

"Quiet, you filthy trouser stains," said Hammer. He was shirtless, revealing his hairy chest and strong midsection. The crowd jeered, and he yelled out louder, "I said quiet! Nine have mercy, this lot's louder than whore house with the ships in. You want a fight, right?" The crowd hollered out their approval, but Hammer pretended like he couldn't hear them as he cupped his hand beside his ear and turned in a circle. "I can't hear you. I asked if you wanted a damn fight!"

The crowd screeched louder, and mead flowed over the rim of their cups, raining down on the shackled prisoners beneath them.

"Pitt says I'm too drunk to fight," said Hammer. "He says I can barely keep myself up. What do you think? You think I can fight?"

He received a mix of jeers and cheers.

Saffi looked down, refusing to take part in this. The crowd was so loud that it drowned out most of what Hammer was saying, but then she heard, "...pick. Go ahead. I don't care. You pick which one, and I'll beat him down. I'll let you pick."

"Make this one pick," said Tye from behind Saffi before he slapped the top of her head. "Make her pick!"

Ward rattled his chains, but was held down by another marauder. "No, don't. Don't!" Someone struck down at him with the handle of a weapon, hitting her father hard on the top of the head as he commanded him to be quiet.

Tye had gotten Hammer's attention, and the drunk man was walking over their way. "This one?" asked Hammer when he stood in front of Saffi. "Why her?"

"Because she's throwing a fit," said Tye. "She thinks we're mean. She doesn't want you to fight one of her Swords."

"You scared?" asked Hammer as he knelt down in front of Saffi.

She refused to look up at him, but then he reached out and took her by the neck. Ward yelled out in protest, but the marauder behind him slipped a blade across his throat and forced him into submission at risk of his life.

"Look at me, little nymph," said Hammer as he easily gripped Saffi's neck and chin with just one of his big, dirty hands. "Do I scare you?"

Saffi still wouldn't answer.

"Unlock her," said Hammer to Tye. "We'll let her choose which of those boys get beat down tonight."

"I won't," said Saffi. "You can't make me."

"Oh, I'm sure I can think of a hundred ways to make you do whatever I say, little one." Hammer was amused by her feisty response, and was then inspired. "Listen, I've got an idea. I'll let you pick one of those Swords, and all he's got to do is knock me down and I'll call him the winner. Got it? That's it. He's just got to knock me down once and he wins. Want to know what he wins? Look at me." His anger came out suddenly and viciously as he squeezed Saffi's neck and shouted, "Look at me! That's right. That's a good girl. You want to know what he's going to win if he can knock me down? He'll win his life. Yeah, that's right. And you want to know what'll happen if you don't pick someone? I'll go ahead and pick for you, and whoever I pick won't get the same deal. I'll kill them no matter what."

"I'll fight you," said Ward.

Saffi became suddenly frightened as she turned to her father and said, "No!"

"You want a good fight," said Ward, "then pick a good fighter. You know I was a Sixth-Sword. I'll give you a better fight than any of those First-Swords."

Hammer stood, intrigued.

"No," said Saffi. "I'll pick. Let me pick."

"Let me fight him, Saffi. I can knock him to the dirt. There's no doubt in my mind." Ward was staring down the Northland Marauder's leader, daring him to fight.

"I'll pick!" Saffi stood, free of the chains, and pulled away from Tye's grip. She grabbed at Hammer, doing everything she could to get his attention off of her father. "I'll pick someone to fight you."

"All right, little one, you can pick" said Hammer, although it looked like he was still considering a fight with Ward as he stared down at the First-Baker curiously. "But I might take you up on your offer sometime, Sixth-Sword."

"Any time," said Ward.

"Any time?" asked Hammer before glancing up at the marauder standing behind the Sixth-Sword. "Even after what happened to your leg?"

Ward didn't know what he meant and asked, "My leg?"

Hammer nodded at the marauder behind Ward, and the man reached over with a dagger and plunged it deep into Ward's right calf. The baker cried out in anger and pain as his daughter screamed out in protest. Saffi tried to go to her father, but Hammer grabbed her by the arm and tossed her into the middle of the circle.

"I'm okay, Saffi," said Ward through clenched teeth.

She looked back at her father with concern, and then started to walk out of the circle and in the direction of the gathered First-Swords. They were in a line, some standing strong and proud while others cowered. Gandry was among the confident ones, although she wasn't sure if it was just bravado or if he thought he could take Hammer down.

She approached her friend and they exchanged a glance that she was certain meant that he wanted to be picked. "Can you?" she asked, her heart thumping as she forced herself not to think about what she was volunteering him for.

He nodded and whispered to her, "They called me Gandry the Bull for a reason. Let me take him down. I'd love to do it."

Saffi turned to Hammer and said, "Get him some clothes at least."

"This the one you're picking?" asked Hammer before laughing and turning to the crowd. "She picked this one! He's not going to last three seconds. Someone get the kid some clothes so that he's not too embarrassed when I beat him into pulp and bone."

"You're sure you can do this?" asked Saffi of Gandry while the Northland Mauraders captain boasted.

"I am," said the young First-Sword. He was trying to sound bold, but his concern showed through.

The bandits took him away, and Saffi was led back to her spot in the circle. She was chained up again, beside her father.

"Are you all right?" asked Saffi as she looked at the blood that now sopped his leggings.

"I'm fine," said Ward. "The blade barely cut me."

She could tell by the amount of blood that he was lying.

"I'm sorry about all of this," he said. "I'm sorry you had to pick your friend for this."

"It's okay," she whispered. "Gandry can take him down, I'm sure of it. I don't know how, but I'm sure he's going to win."

"I hope you're right."

Hammer blustered in the circle, stomping about and raising his hands in the air as the crowd cheered him. They brought him more mugs of mead, and he downed them fast, spilling ample amounts on his hairy chest. Saffi watched and hoped he would keep drinking until all Gandry had to do was push him once to knock him on his rear.

The bandits brought Gandry to the ring, and he was met with howls of laughter. They'd forced him to wear a dress that they'd found in one of the merchant's wagons. It was long and formal, and he nearly tripped on it as he made his way into the circle, inciting more peals of laughter. Saffi would've felt bad for him if she didn't know what was coming. He looked over at her, and she could see that he shared her confidence.

"I didn't know I was supposed to fight a little girl," said Hammer. "Should I bend you over, lift your skirt, and plug you up a few times first?" He thrust his hips to mime a rape, and the marauders cried out their approval.

Gandry was unfazed. He stood tall and proud. When the crowd's noise ceased, he yelled out at his opponent, "Are you ready, or are you going to stand over there blabbering all day?"

The crowd let out a chorus of 'Oohs', and then started to tease Hammer. They enjoyed the boy's bravery, and Hammer seemed unaffected by it, even laughing along with the crowd. "He's got some stones under that dress, I'll give him that. Well, come on then, little girl. Give me your best shot. I'll stand here and take it."

"Don't fall for it," said Ward loud enough for Gandry to hear. The bandit behind him smacked him again with the handle of his weapon as the crowd yelled at him to shut his mouth.

"You going to take your free shot?" asked Hammer of Gandry.

The First-Sword stayed where he was and said, "I thought you were the one that had something to prove."

The crowd cheered, amused by Gandry's boastfulness. They were turning on Hammer now, and some of them were even starting to say that they wanted to put pel down on Gandry winning. Hammer's former cheer faded, and he began to grimace. Saffi saw him falter in his stance, addled by mead.

Saffi heard her father whispering, "Use his weight against him. Let him come at you, boy. Trip him up and send him to the dirt."

Gandry seemed to be following Ward's advice as he stood on the far side of the circle from Saffi, waiting for the bandit to charge. Hammer started to move slowly around the circle, and Gandry moved with him, staying opposite from him at all times. Hammer started to make sudden jerking movements at the center, as if he were about to charge, but then retreated. Gandry didn't flinch, and kept moving with Hammer.

The crowd grew impatient, and they started to scream at Hammer to 'Get on with it, already.' Hammer hushed them, and continued his predatory stalk around the ring. "You ready for this, little girl? You want to go home? Run home to mommy?"

Gandry didn't reply.

Hammer finally followed through with one of his feints, and lunged across the divide. Gandry spun, and put his hands down to push Hammer to the side. A moment later Gandry was bouncing away and Hammer thundered off into the gathered crowd, plowing over a prisoner and knocking down some of the onlookers.

The Northland Marauders laughed at their leader, taunting him and saying that he was losing to a girl. Gandry positioned himself across from Hammer, and was ready for the man's next attempt.

Hammer had only avoided falling down because of the people on the side of circle. Had they not been there to catch him, Hammer likely would've dove face-first into the earth. Saffi couldn't help but smile as she realized her decision to pick Gandry was turning out well. Her old friend was a more than capable fighter.

"You're a quick one," said Hammer as he pointed across at Gandry. "Little rabbit. That's what we'll call you when you join us, kid. Little Rabbit. How's that sound?"

Again, Gandry refused to be goaded into a conversation.

Hammer dusted himself off as he said, "Little Rabbit. I like the sound of that." Even Saffi could tell he was feigning nonchalance, and it was no surprise when he rushed at Gandry a second time.

The First-Sword hadn't been caught off-guard, and performed an almost identical dodge as he had before. This time Hammer stumbled and almost fell to one knee, barely keeping himself up and then using his momentum to jog around the circle a bit before slowing. Gandry kept up, staying opposite Hammer at all times.

"You almost got me that time," said Hammer, but it was clear his former enjoyment with the ordeal had disappeared. He was getting perturbed, and looked weary, ready for this fight to end.

Gandry smiled, and then beckoned Hammer back for another try.

Hammer obliged, tearing across the gap with his arms held wide, eager to just get his hands on the boy. Gandry couldn't spin away from this assault, but he ducked and avoided Hammer's grasp before turning and striking the big man with a well-aimed shot to the kidney. Hammer immediately curled backward, reaching at his spine in pain before Gandry kicked out at the back of the man's knee. Hammer toppled, his knee falling first and thudding on the ground. Hammer fell to his side, arched and grasping at the spot where Gandry had hit him.

The entire crowd cheered, but no one as loud as Saffi. "You did it!" She yelled out to her friend, ebullient and relieved. "I knew you could."

Someone in the crowd yelled out, "Little Rabbit." Then they began chanting the newly earned nickname over and over.

Hammer stood, pained but smiling, and said, "You did it! I can't believe it, but you actually knocked me down, Little Rabbit. You earned your life, and worked harder for it than most of these men."

Saffi was grinning as wide as she had in weeks, and looked over at her father to see if he was enjoying the moment as much as she was. His eyes were wide and fixed on Gandry and Hammer, and his expression was one of concern. She wasn't sure why, and looked back at Hammer as the Northland Marauder walked over to congratulate the First-Sword.

Gandry thought it was over, and reached out to shake Hammer's hand.

Hammer took the boy by the arm and pulled him forward before delivering a punishing strike to his neck. Gandry's feet flew up in front of him as he fell over backward, slamming into the dirt hard enough that everyone could hear his lungs expel all their air.

Saffi screamed out, "No!"

Gandry curled up and grabbed at his throat where Hammer had struck him. His eyes were bulging, and his mouth was agape as his lungs searched for breath. Hammer took a short celebratory walk around the body of his opponent, and then he reached down and plucked him up by his neck with just one hand.

The crowd laughed and cheered as he taunted the First-Sword. "What's the matter, Little Rabbit?"

Gandry was choking, and all he could do was hold onto Hammer's wrist for support. His legs were stomping, his body's unconscious reaction to the trauma.

"You said..." Saffi started to stand, but Tye forced her back down again. "You said if he knocked you down..."

Hammer heard Saffi, and brought Gandry over, dragging him along like a child with a stuffed doll. He threw Gandry to the ground, and Saffi could hear her friend finally drawing breath. He gasped and then retched, his eyes still wide with terror as he looked at her.

Hammer took Gandry by the hair and slammed his face down into the ground before raising it so that Saffi could see the fresh wounds. "What's that, little girl?" asked Hammer while looking at Saffi.

"You said you'd let him go if he knocked you down."

Hammer again slammed Gandry's face into the dirt, breaking the boy's nose so that when he was raised back up again there was a stream of blood gushing out. "What's that?" asked Hammer, mocking Saffi. "I didn't hear you."

"You're a liar," said Saffi. "Leave him alone."

"Oh, is he your friend?" asked Hammer, pretending to be sympathetic.

"Yes," said Saffi, uncertain what Hammer wanted her to do. Gandry was looking up at her, but his eyes were unfocused globes amid his bloody mask.

"Ever watched a friend die?" asked Hammer before wrapping his thick arm around Gandry's throat and squeezing while keeping him facing Saffi.

She looked away and screamed out for him to stop while Tye tried to force her to watch. She glanced once more, and saw Gandry's terrified gaze as Hammer squeezed the life out of him. She closed her eyes, now wet with tears, and cried as she listened to Gandry die.

Hammer finished the deed, and then stood, wiped off his hands, and said, "Good night, Little Rabbit."

# Chapter Fourteen

Saffi had been shaken by the murder of Gandry, and hadn't stopped crying for hours. She wasn't hysterical, but she couldn't stop thinking about her friend's face in the moment before his death. No matter what her father said, she knew it was her fault he was dead.

The Northland Marauders decided that the best way to keep the merchants from trying to run off in the night would be to lock them in the prisoners' wagons. There were corpses in them already, and they were dragged out and tossed off into the tall grass of the plains to make room.

The young Apprentice-Baker had become a target for the marauders, and they taunted her every chance they got, pretending to cry with her and making comments about having rabbit stew for dinner tomorrow. She wanted to scream out at them, but Ward helped keep her calm, hushing her and holding her close. He promised it would be okay, but she knew those were hollow words meant to soothe a younger version of herself; a version who hadn't just witnessed the murder of a friend.

"Let's figure out where to put the weepy little bitch," said Tye as the marauders sorted the merchants into the wagons. He was talking to one of the other marauders, enjoying her torment. "Which of the wagons has the most blood and vomit in it?"

"This one," said the other man as he tapped the bars of the only wagon that already had occupants. "They didn't clean it out none because of the three in there already."

"That'll work," said Tye. "You can sleep in there, little girl. Try not to get covered in all that blood and piss and shit and vomit." He spoke slowly, enjoying every second of her despair.

They opened the back door of the caged wagon and forced her up into it. Her hand slipped on the bloody floor, and she nearly hit her face as she fell. Tye was pushing at her rear, forcing his hands into her crotch and laughing as she scrambled to get away from him. Ward stepped up to get in after her, but Tye pushed him back and said, "Where do you think you're going?"

"In there with her," said Ward, trying hard to keep from revealing his hatred and anger.

"Not a chance, fat man," said Tye. "You're going to have to say bye for now." He slammed the door and locked it as Ward stood helplessly outside.

"Saffi, it'll be okay. Just get some sleep, baby."

There was a woman in the wagon to greet Saffi, holding out her arms in a welcoming embrace and guiding the young girl to one of the clean parts of the bench. Tye led Ward away with threats if he didn't comply, and Saffi watched as her father was taken to another of the wagons, closer to where the marauders were camped.

"I'm sorry you had to go through that," said the woman sitting beside Saffi. "We'll keep you safe now. My name's Joyce, and this strapping young man is Beynor, and over there is Tarik."

"Saffi," her whisper was nearly silent. She repeated her name so that they could all hear her, "I'm Saffi."

"You're Ward First-Baker's daughter?" asked Joyce in an attempt to make conversation to keep Saffi's mind off of Gandry's murder.

"Yes."

"I've eaten food from his shop," said Joyce. "It was quite good. Do you help him with that?"

Saffi didn't want to participate in Joyce's conversation, but also didn't want to be rude. She nodded, and then gazed out at the place where the fighting ring had taken place. Gandry's body had been taken away to be thrown on the pyre with the others, and would be burned like the rest.

Joyce understood that Saffi didn't want to talk, but she stayed beside the young girl anyhow. She offered support without forcing it, which Saffi appreciated.

Beynor tried to offer his condolences, though he seemed just as shaken up as Saffi about what happened. Tarik didn't say a word, and kept to himself on the opposite side of the wagon, staring off into the dark stretches of the Steel Plains beyond the bloom of firelight.

Although they tried, none of them slept. Joyce and Beynor took the corners, sitting and trying to lean back and fall asleep. Tarik laid down on the bench across from Saffi, and she watched him as he crossed his arms over his chest and stared up at the ceiling of the wagon, as awake as she was.

There were guards posted, and they wandered back and forth along the line of wagons, laughing and poking at any prisoners they thought were asleep. At one point Tye was among the guards, and he pushed Tarik off the bench by shoving his sheathed sword's scabbard into his side. Tarik cursed, but there was nothing he could do in retaliation, and he just climbed back up onto the bench as Tye taunted him.

More time passed, and Saffi had no way of knowing how much longer she had to wait until dawn. She tried to look up at the stars through the prison wagon's bars, but there was just a blanket of dark clouds lit up by the moon. It was while she was staring up at the clouds when she heard something move through the weeds. She sat up fast, as did Tarik.

"You heard that?" he asked.

Saffi nodded and said, "It came from out there."

"Probably just a fox," said Joyce.

"It's a mule," said Tarik, amused and relieved.

Saffi looked in the direction that Tarik pointed and saw Stephen. "That's my mule. He must've slipped his reins." The animal was calmly walking along the outskirts of the camp, searching for food. "Get on out of here, Stephen, before one of them hears you."

"He must be staying for you," said Joyce.

"I doubt that," said Saffi. "We've only had him for a day, and he's not the best behaved animal you've ever met." She whispered the mule's name again, worried that the guards would hear. The animal looked up at her and she said, "Go, get out of here."

Stephen snorted, and then seemed to do as she said, wandering off through the grass and into the darkness beyond. Saffi breathed a sigh of relief, happy that at least the mule would live through this.

Not long after, Saffi heard more movement from the weeds and she sat up fast while saying, "Stupid mule." She looked towards the camp to see where the guards were, and saw that there were two marauders coming her way. She looked back out into the grass, concerned that Stephen would make another appearance and get caught, but didn't see anything there.

Saffi was almost able to relax when she heard movement in the weeds again.

The guards heard it as well, and the two of them came over to investigate. Neither of them were overly concerned, certain it was just an animal. Saffi watched as the two guards walked casually over to the other side of the wagon and gazed out into the weeds.

The grass rattled and something emerged, small and furry, peeking out as if about to charge, but then stopping suddenly. The two guards were startled, but then laughed at one another, each claiming the other had been scared. Saffi had expected Stephen to come loping out from the grassland, and was relieved to see it was some other nocturnal creature. She looked closer in an attempt to identify it.

Saffi was the first to notice the creature that had emerged from the grass was dead, but she didn't say anything, and instead just watched in confusion. The guards realized this as well, and took a step closer to the creature. They were about twenty feet away, with their backs to the wagon, when someone emerged. The dark figure had been hiding beside the prisoners' wagon, and Saffi saw him drop a long stretch of twine that she realized was tied to the dead creature in the grass. He'd created a diversion, and was now moving in to attack. He crept on the tips of his boots, not making any sound as he went. He carried what looked like a short scimitar, nearly a hand scythe, and it glimmered in the moonlight as he prepared to attack.

Tarik, Joyce, and Beynor saw what was happening as well, and they all stayed as quiet as Saffi, unwilling to warn the men responsible for their imprisonment. Saffi was the only one among them who recognized the assassin. He was the stranger who'd come to the shop and met with Ward, the same who was supposed to have met them at the crossroads.

Ebon reached the first guard, and wrapped his hand over the man's mouth from behind before chopping down viciously with his weapon, cutting deep enough to silence him. The noise of the attack was impossible to hide from the other guard, and Ebon let his first victim fall before lunging into the second. Ebon had produced new blades from somewhere on his chest, and plunged them deep into the second man's gut before lifting him and pushing him backward into the weeds. The man squeaked and nearly cried out, but was then silenced.

The first guard was mortally wounded, but not quite dead. He was struggling to remove the curved blade that was lodged deep in his throat, and he continued to open his mouth in an attempt to scream, but only gurgles escaped. He rolled to his side and tried to get up, which caused even more blood to stream from his wound. He was crawling towards the wagon when Ebon emerged from the grass to come and finish the job.

Ebon pressed his foot into the small of the guard's back and then gripped the handle of his blade. He ripped it up, slicing even deeper into the guard's jugular and finally stilling him. Ebon retrieved the keys to the wagon, and then wiped his blade off on the dead man's clothes before walking over.

He came straight over to Saffi and said, "We're leaving."

"Who are you?" asked Joyce.

"None of your concern. I'm only here for her," said Ebon. "I'll let the rest of you out, but you're on your own."

He was about to head over to the door of the wagon when Saffi said, "No."

"What do you mean, 'No'?" asked Tarik.

"My father's in that wagon over there," said Saffi. "I'm not leaving without him."

Ebon considered his options, and then said, "Okay. You stay here and stay quiet."

"Let us out first," said Tarik.

Ebon looked at the thief and said, "Keep your mouth shut."

After Ebon had left, Tarik grumbled, "Why didn't you tell him to let us out first?"

Saffi hushed him and tried to watch as Ebon snuck over to the other wagon. It was hard to see what was happening by the dim light of the campfires, and Ebon seemed to disappear into the shadows as he went.

More time passed than seemed necessary, and Saffi began to worry. Joyce, Tarik, and Beynor were all watching as well, but none of them said anything. Saffi was just about to complain when Ebon appeared at the side of their wagon, away from where they were looking, startling all of them.

"You scared me to death," said Joyce, her hand over her heart.

"Here's the plan." Ebon pointed at Saffi and said, "I'm taking you first. I gave your dad the key to his wagon, but he's going to wait until we're safely away before escaping. The same goes for the rest of you." He pointed at Joyce, Beynor, and then lingered on Tarik.

"Why's she so special?" asked Tarik.

"Would you rather he leave us here?" asked Joyce. "Learn when to keep your mouth shut."

Ebon unlocked the gate and eased it open. It started to creak, and he stopped before putting up a finger to make sure Saffi paused as well. He produced a vial of oil from a pocket in his duster and wet a rag with it. Then he used it to wet the hinges before attempting to open the door again, this time silently. He helped Saffi down, and then closed the gate back up again, but without locking it.

"Wait here until the other prisoners get out. If you open this door earlier, I'll know, and I'll kill you for it."

"Will the hinges on their wagon squeak too?" asked Saffi, concerned about her father's escape.

"No, it's fine," said Ebon as he led Saffi toward the grass.

"How do you know?"

"You'll have to trust me. Now come on, we can't risk staying here any longer."

He was pulling her along by her arm, and she pulled away from him. "No, stop. Why can't we get my father now?"

"It's too risky," said Ebon as he ducked low to hide in the weeds. "His leg's hurt, and he might not be able to move fast. He'll be fine, but we have to get you out of here first. All that matters is that you stay safe."

"I'm not leaving him here. I'll go get him myself if I have to."

Ebon stared at her, and she wasn't certain what he was thinking. His mask hid his mouth and nose, leaving only his black eyes as a way to gauge his thoughts, and it was uncomfortable to look into the black orbs.

Ebon sighed and said, "Go out to that hill." He pointed away from the camp, towards a hill where a lone, dead tree stood, its limbs like skeletal hands reaching up into the moonlit night. "Wait for me there. I'll go get your father."

Saffi agreed, and then did as she was told. Ebon headed back to the camp as she kept low and moved as stealthily as she could, pushing aside the tall grass and occasionally glancing back at the Northland Marauders' camp. She got to the dead tree, and moved to hide behind it, peering around the side and down the hill to watch as Ebon freed her father. Her attention strayed to other silhouettes in the distance, their forms revealed by the moon behind them. There were at least twenty men on horseback on a hill to the west, on the other side of the camp from where Saffi stood.

* * *

Ebon had oiled the hinges of Ward's wagon, and was opening it when they heard a horn blowing in the distance. Ebon stopped, and Ward gazed out at the camp in the direction that the noise had come from.

"An alarm?" asked Ward.

"They know we're escaping," said one of the merchants. "Hurry and let us out."

"We need to move, fast," said Ebon.

"Where's Saffi?" asked Ward after he got down from the wagon.

The camp was erupting in chaos now as the marauders awoke and left their tents to see why the alarm had been raised. The other prisoners in the wagons weren't going to wait any longer to make their escape, and started to leap down. Marauders yelled out that the prisoners were escaping, and several of them were headed their way.

"She's safe, up on that hill," said Ebon as he pointed back at the dead tree. "I can get her to safety, but she wants you to come with."

"I can't," said Ward. "Not with my leg like this. But I can buy you some time. Get her out of here."

"Let's get you a weapon first," said Ebon before glancing over at the marauders charging their way. The other prisoners had fled into the weeds, scattering as they ran away.

Ebon waited for the marauders to advance, taking advantage of their reckless assault. The first wielded a sword, and the other a battle axe. Ebon slid one of his knives from his chest and threw it with deadly precision. The throwing knife lodged into the battle axe wielder's left eye, causing him to drop his weapon and fall to the ground, screaming in agony. The other marauder paused and looked over at his friend, giving Ebon time to rush in, grab his arm, and then chop down with his curved blade, cutting to the bone and forcing the marauder to drop his weapon. Next, Ebon jabbed his elbow into the man's throat, which knocked him off his feet and to the ground hard.

Ebon used his foot to flip the man's sword up into the air, caught the handle, and then walked over to offer it to Ward. "Are you proficient with swords?"

"Not as crafty as you, but I can hold my own," said Ward.

"Meet us in Sailor's Rock," said Ebon. "I'll protect Saffi."

"You'd damn well better, stranger," said Ward.

Ebon left the wounded former Sixth-Sword and headed back into the weeds. He paused when far enough away to feel safe, and then gripped the pull-string on his sleeve. It was attached to a pouch hidden along his arm, and when pulled it would release a noxious concoction that an alchemist had brewed up for him that, when wet, would burst into flames and issue forth a dramatic amount of smoke and gas. He pulled at the string, and the grey powder fell to the dirt. Next he used his hooked blade to slice his throat, sending a torrent of poisoned blood down to ignite the powder.

Once the powder exploded, he fled into the night, headed for the tree where Saffi waited. He wasn't sure if she would be willing to leave without her father, but he didn't plan on giving her an option. He couldn't risk her safety now that the camp was aware of the escape. If he had to, he would knock her out and carry her away from here.

Saffi was waiting by the tree like she was supposed to, and Ebon was about to explain that Ward was fighting to buy them time, but the girl pointed out at the camp. She asked, "Who were those men that attacked?"

"What do you mean? What men?" asked Ebon.

"The men on the horses over there," said Saffi. "That's why they sounded the alarm."

Ebon looked back at the camp, although the smoke he'd unleashed hid most of it from view.

"A group of men on horseback rode down into the camp. They were attacking the marauders. Who were they?" Then she looked around and asked, "Where's my dad?"

Ebon came to an awful realization as he looked back down the hill at the plume of smoke. He realized that he'd been trailed, and that his use of the powder had served to reveal his location to his hunter.

Dessidus rode forth through the smoke, unaffected by the noxious fumes, his dual axes raised as his mount charged up the hill.

"Get behind the tree," said Ebon as he produced two more throwing knives. "If I die, then run. Do you hear me? Just run, and don't stop. Whatever happens, don't let them take you to The Scholar."

"Why? What's going on?" asked Saffi, terrified and desperate.

There was no time to explain. Dessidus was upon them, screaming out the name of his old friend and new foe, "Ebon!"

# Chapter Fifteen

Tarik watched as the other prisoners tried to flee through the poisonous smoke and re-emerged coughing and choking. "We can't go that way," he said and guided Joyce and Beynor away from the growing cloud. The fumes were already beginning to sting his eyes, and he wiped away the tears as he headed back towards the prison wagon that they'd just escaped.

"We can't go that way either," said Joyce in reference to the camp where the mysterious riders had swarmed in and were cutting down any marauders emerging from their tents.

"Look over there," said Beynor as he pointed towards one of the other prisoner wagons. "Isn't that Saffi's dad?"

Tarik saw the portly, middle-aged man with the red beard standing closer to the noxious cloud. One of the attackers on horseback rode past him, and Ward tried to stop him, but the rider kicked him aside before forcing his horse into the thick cloud and disappearing within.

Hammer was following close behind, chasing the horseback stranger, and almost went into the cloud before retreating. He was holding his massive war hammer, and yelled out in anger when he realized he couldn't follow his target. His fury focused on Ward, and he lunged with his hammer held high, driving the flat end down into the dirt as Ward rolled away.

"We have to help him," said Beynor as he started to head towards the wagon that was closer to the camp where the marauders were fighting off their assailants.

"Are you crazy?" asked Tarik. "We need to get out of here before they see us."

"No, he's right," said Joyce. "We have to help Saffi's father."

"You can do whatever you want, but I'm leaving with my head still sitting properly on my shoulders," said Tarik.

"You'd leave us to save yourself?" asked Joyce, thoroughly disgusted with him.

"Damn right," said Tarik as he moved a few steps further from them. She glared, and Beynor looked as if he felt betrayed, but Tarik had no desire to prove himself in battle or to save the baker. He'd spent too long in the plains to think that risky behavior garnered rewards. He was a survivor, not a teammate or a friend.

He turned his back to them and fled into the night.

The camp had been unprepared for whoever had attacked, and Tarik assumed the men on horseback had come with the stranger who'd taken Saffi. He didn't know who they were, but he'd seen how one of them had dealt with the guards, and he had no desire to stay and watch any more of their brutality.

The Steel Plains had sparse woodland, but the grass was tall enough to hide in if needed, and Tarik ducked low every time he heard someone else nearby. There were marauders here who had fled the camp along with other prisoners and First-Swords who were trying their best to stay alive. Tarik knew he was better off alone. There was less of a chance of him getting caught if he stayed by himself, sneaking through the grass and hiding when necessary.

He was climbing higher than he wanted along a rocky ridge, and moved over to the edge to seek lower ground where he would be harder to spot. This part of the plains was dotted with boulders and jutting rocks, as if there were mountains buried just beneath them. Tarik found an area where he could climb down to a lower spot, and decided it was better than continuing along the higher path. He gripped the outcropping and eased himself down the shelf, dropping the last few feet and landing hard on the stone there.

A small cave was beside him, and at first he didn't pay any attention to it as he focused on what direction he would head next. He didn't see the man hiding there, nursing his twisted ankle.

"Back off," said the man in the cave.

Tarik turned, startled, and saw the nondescript figure cowering in the dark, a short sword in hand. "Sorry," said Tarik. "I'm..."

"You?" asked the man in the cave as he stood and then stepped forward into the moonlight. It was Tye, the marauder who'd taken such pleasure in tormenting Tarik earlier.

"What are you doing here?" asked Tarik, uncertain why the man would be hiding in the cave like this. He looked up, and then deduced what had happened. "You ran." He said it with an emerging smile. "You got scared and you ran, and then you fell off that rock."

"No I didn't," said Tye.

Tarik didn't believe him. "You got scared and ran away. Some marauder you turned out to be."

"Watch your mouth, thief," said Tye. "I'm the one with the sword."

"There's no point killing a fellow coward," said Tarik. "I'm running just like you are."

"I wasn't running," said Tye, still trying to maintain what measly honor he had left.

"All right, fine." Tarik started to walk away, unconcerned with the wounded marauder. "Good luck in the cave."

"You're not going anywhere," said Tye as he stepped forward. "Get back here, thief. Way I see it, if I cut you down then I can tell them I chased you out here when you tried to escape."

Tarik realized he was in trouble, but was still certain he could run if needed. He turned to face Tye and raised his arms in a non-threatening manner as the marauder limped towards him. "Don't be stupid. You don't want to fight me. You're just going to get the attention of those men on horseback. They'll come out here and cut you down just like the rest of your clan."

"It'd be worth it if I get to stick you a few times," said Tye, taking another step forward.

"What did I do to you?" Tarik was moving blindly backward, and took his steps carefully on the rocky terrain. "You've got no reason to hate me."

"I don't have any reason to like you either," said Tye as he lunged, swiping his sword at Tarik and forcing the thief to dodge.

Loose rocks rolled beneath Tarik's foot, causing him to slip and fall. He caught himself before he hit the ground, and his palms pressed into sharp stones as he scrambled to get away. Tye followed with another swipe, but Tarik was able to easily dodge that one as well. The sword clanged against the rock, and Tarik was sitting with his arms behind him, propping him up as he slid away. His feet kicked at the loose gravel, but he managed to get up again before Tye had a chance to strike again.

Tarik grabbed a handful of pebbles and threw them at the marauder, but it barely fazed the man. This had turned suddenly and dramatically from a taunting encounter to a fight for his life. He tried in vain to find a larger rock to hurl, but was then forced to flee again as Tye swung out at him. The marauder wasn't as addled by his injury as Tarik had assumed, and he was moving fast across the rocks and weeds.

He held out his hand and said, "Wait, wait," hoping to get Tye to back off so they could talk about their options. He wanted the chance to bargain for his life.

The marauder had no interest in talk, and swung his short sword out at Tarik's hand, catching his fingers and cutting deep into them. Tarik pulled back his hand against his chest and seethed in pain before moving further away.

"Got you," said Tye. "Come here and let me get you again."

Tarik felt the warm blood flowing down his arm as he started to run, now fearing for his life as the marauder gave chase. They were headed out into the plains, but the sounds of battle at the camp still echoed around them. Tye was laughing as he followed Tarik, taunting him as he followed close behind. The darkness and the thick grass hid the land from Tarik, making every step treacherous. There were rocks everywhere, and he nearly tripped several times, but managed to keep moving forward. Blood was dripping from the tips of his fingers as he pushed aside the grass and reached a thicker, taller patch. The ground became moist, and he realized he was headed into a swampy area of the plains, which would tax his every step.

"I'm coming," said Tye, still chasing close behind.

Tarik pushed through the muck, but his boots started to go deeper with every step, each time threatening to get stuck in the swamp. His feet made suctioning noises as he pulled them free, and the water sloshed around him as he fell forward and reached out for support. His hands splashed down, coming back up covered in mud and blood.

"There you are," said Tarik, standing only a yard or two back. "Stuck like a rat in a trap. You ready, rat? You ready to die?"

Tarik tried to keep moving, but he knew he couldn't get away now. He pleaded, "Don't... You don't need to kill me."

"I might not need to, but I sure do want to."

"I'm just a thief," said Tarik. "I never did anything to you."

Tye was going to reply, but then stumbled in the swamp. Tarik wasn't sure what caught the marauder, whether it was a rock or root in the mud or if the suction had caught his boot, but Tye fell forward and his sword hand sunk beneath the water.

Tarik knew this might be his only chance.

He leapt as best he could, covering the gap between them and landing face down in the water as he reached for the sword. He felt the blade beneath his hand, and pushed it down into the mud as he continued moving forward. Tye pulled the sword backward, slipping it out from under Tarik's hand, but the delay was enough to allow the thief to bridge the gap between them. He rose above the water a mere foot from Tye, and then lunged over him, taking away the marauder's advantage of having a sword. If they were fighting in the water at close range, then the weapon wouldn't do Tye any good.

The marauder cursed and swung at Tarik with his left hand, whacking the thief upside the head. The marauder kept his other hand on the sword's handle, still hoping to use it to kill his attacker. Tarik fought with the only weapons he had, fully aware that his life was on the line. He reached for the marauder's eyes, and got his thumbs over them before he started to press in.

Tye cried out, and shook his head violently to keep from being blinded. The swamp was only knee-deep, but they were on their sides now and the muddy water was splashing into their mouths as they struggled. Tye had let go of the sword now, and instead reached out to claw at Tarik's face. They spun, and suddenly Tarik found himself on the bottom, with the marauder rising up above the water and pushing his foe down. He wasn't sure how he'd lost the advantage, but knew that he had to figure out a way to get back up again as Tye reached for his throat. Tarik took a gulp of air before Tye forced his head under, and then he reached out and found the man's crotch.

The marauder's guard duty had been over when the men on horseback attacked, and Tye had removed his armor, leaving him susceptible to any attack Tarik could fathom. He gripped the man's testicles and squeezed as if trying to force out the last drop of juice from a bone-dry lemon. Tye released his victim's throat, giving Tarik the chance to sit up and take another breath, but he refused to release the marauder's manhood.

Tye was screaming out in agony, and started to punch down at Tarik in desperation, but the thief refused to let go. "I give. I give. You win," said the marauder.

Tarik let him go, and then watched as Tye fell into a seated position, cupping his testicles and moaning. "You'll let me go," said Tarik as if commanding the man. "You hear me?"

Tye muttered, "Yes, go. I don't care. Just go."

Tarik backed away, refusing to take his eyes off the wounded, weeping marauder. He saw the tip of the sword break the surface of the water and gleam in the moonlight. Tye had found his weapon, and wasn't as willing to let the thief go as he pretended.

Tarik knew he had to finish the fight, and tried to stomp down on the blade before Tye had a chance to raise it. He missed, and Tye swung madly upward, slicing at the thief's leg and then attempting to stab at him. Tarik was lucky that Tye had misjudged the distance, and he was able to bat away the sword, but not without suffering a deep cut along his arm. He fell down over Tye, and forced the man backward, into the swamp. The marauder splashed down, and swung furiously with his fists after abandoning the sword a second time. Tarik absorbed the abuse, and focused on keeping the marauder's head down.

Tye was pushing himself up, and taking breaths when he could, but Tarik had a good grip on his throat with one hand and his face with the other. He forced the man's head under the water, and kept it there as the marauder kicked and struggled.

Eventually, the man's feet stopped splashing, and his arms ceased flailing. The bubbles from his struggle to survive quit popping above the surface, and the swamp lost the chorus of their battle, replaced again with the distance screams of other fights.

Tarik might've won, but he was badly wounded. Tye was dead, but Tarik was dying. The wound on his arm was deep and bleeding profusely. He climbed off his victim, and looked around at his surroundings. There was nowhere he could go for help, and he was certain an escape into the Steel Plains would just prolong his inevitable death.

He examined the gash on the underside of his right arm, and winced as blood gushed forth. Tarik stumbled through the swamp, heading back towards the camp. His only hope was that a survivor of the battle there might take pity on him, if he could even muster the strength to get back.

As he grew weaker, he resorted to his last hope and yelled out, "Help. Someone please help."

* * *

Ward dodged the hammer and it crashed down beside him while his attacker screamed out in rage. The camp was being assaulted, and the other prisoners had fled into the plains, but Ward's injury had forced him to stay. Whatever magic Ebon had used to ignite the poisonous cloud had addled everyone as the wind spread the fumes. Ward's eyes stung and his lungs burned, but he ignored his pain as he fought for his life.

"Who are they?" asked Hammer as he hoisted his weapon and held it defensively as he faced off with the former Sixth-Sword. "Who are the riders?"

"I don't know," said Ward honestly. He was on his feet again, his sword before him, ready to strike when he saw an opening.

"Liar," said Hammer, his anger obvious. His golden beard was specked with blood, and there were cuts on his arms. He was still shirtless, like he'd been when he fought Gandry, and Ward assumed he'd passed out shortly after murdering the First-Sword only to be awoken when the alarm was raised. "They came to save you, didn't they?" It was as much an accusation as a question. "They came to save that girl. You're no baker. You were her guard. Who is she that she earns a Sixth-Sword as a personal guard?"

"Leave him alone," said the prophet. She'd come to help along with the thegn, but Ward didn't want their help with the fight.

"Do you know where Saffi is?" asked Ward.

"I'm not sure," said the prophet. "I think I know which way she was headed."

"Then go find her, and keep her safe. Leave this one to me," said Ward, never taking his eyes off the marauder. The prophet and the thegn agreed, but couldn't go through the cloud of smoke. Instead, they headed back towards their wagon to go around the plume.

"You think you can keep her safe?" asked Hammer. "You think my men won't hunt her down? I'll make it my personal mission to find her after all this is over. I'll kill her nice and slow."

Ward moved in a circle, staying opposite of Hammer as they both waited for the other to strike. He didn't respond to the man's taunts, and instead watched his eyes, looking for any sign that the marauder was about to charge.

"I'm going to kill you, and then find that girl," said Hammer. "You don't want to know what I'm going to do to her – the little royal pig. That aristocrat bitch. Is she a Leviathan? A Kessel? Which family does she belong to? I bet they'd pay good money to get her back. But maybe I'll keep her for myself. My own, personal, royal thegn."

Ward didn't respond, hoping silence would antagonize the brute.

"Sworn to secrecy, Sixth-Sword? Is that it?" Hammer stopped moving, and Ward did the same. Hammer's back was to the wagons, and Ward's was facing the camp.

Hammer glanced up past Ward, revealing the ploy. His movements and delay had been purposeful.

Ward darted to the side, aware that he'd been led into a deliberate trap by Hammer. The other leader of the marauders, Pitt, had come from the camp and was trying to catch the former Sixth-Sword by surprise. Ward's discovery of the ploy didn't deter the behemoth, and Pitt lunged with a long sword in one hand and a dagger in the other.

Ward spun and slashed, but his dexterity had waned over the past decade. He wasn't capable of the same maneuvers he'd mastered in his youth, and nearly paid with his life as Pitt's dagger ripped through his tunic and sliced his belly. Pitt was just as wide as Ward, but his girth was one of strength earned from a hard life in the plains. Ward hadn't been certain he could take down Hammer, but now with Pitt joining the fray he knew he was doomed.

Pitt recovered from his failed assault easily, ducking and pivoting to avoid a high attack from Ward. He didn't retreat, but slashed out at the First-Baker's boots, almost slicing his shins. Ward had to leap back, and his wounded leg caused him to stagger when he landed. As Pitt moved away, Hammer stepped in, completing his part in what Ward knew was a series of attacks they'd practiced before. These men had fought together in many battles, and knew how to complement each other's style. There was no chaos in the way they fought, and Ward knew he was outmatched.

Hammer swung from right to left, but his intent wasn't to hit Ward. Instead, Hammer was using his attack to guide his opponent into the position he wanted. Hammer and Pitt were trying to get on opposite sides of Ward, making it impossible for the baker to defend himself. They fought like a pack of wolves, choreographed and in unity, but Ward had been trained by the best Swords in the kingdom, and was prepared for this.

The key to defeating two enemies at once is to create as much separation as possible and focus in on one of them. Hammer's weapon was unwieldy, and would be hard for him to deliver precise blows, so Ward focused on Pitt first. He turned his back on Hammer and feinted a strike at Pitt, causing the marauder to raise his sword to parry. Next Ward moved to the side, concerned that Hammer would try to attack from behind, and twirled his sword so that the pommel faced up as he punched at Pitt's face, connecting and sending the marauder reeling back.

Hammer took the opportunity to attack, just like Ward had hoped. The marauder's war hammer swooped through the air, and Ward easily dodged it by moving to the side. He was hoping to catch Hammer off-guard, but the marauder leader was too good a fighter to be caught by such a simple tactic. The marauder dodged right, and then lifted his hammer defensively as he protected Pitt, who'd already recovered and looked ready to fight again.

Ward had given them a good fight so far, but he was beginning to question whether or not he could fend them off much longer as his wounded leg continued to pain him. He put too much weight on his right leg, and it nearly collapsed beneath him as he moved backward.

"What do you think, Pitt?" asked Hammer. "Should we just kill him already?"

Pitt nodded, a smile breaching his stern mug. The two marauders advanced, ready to finish the fight. Ward was watching them both, looking for any reveal about who would attack first, when he saw a large, black figure emerging from the fog. It was Stephen, the mule, charging through the cloud of smoke as if coming to help. The mule thudded into Pitt from behind, knocking the man down. Hammer looked over in surprise just in time to see the mule kick out at him. The animal's hooves missed Hammer, but caused him to stagger back and fall.

"Thanks Stephen," said Ward as he moved over to Pitt. The big man had fallen to his knees, and Ward chopped his sword down into the marauder's shoulder, cutting deep and dropping the man flat on his face in the dirt. The mule neighed, and shook its head. Mucus dripped from the animal's nose, and its eyes were red and teary, a result of charging through Ebon's poisonous cloud. Ward stroked his muzzle and said, "Get on out of here, boy. Go save yourself." He slapped the mule's hind, sending Stephen running off into the night.

"You killed Pitt," said Hammer in shock.

Ward looked at the surviving marauder and said, "You're next."

Hammer charged, spurred by rage, and his weapon whooshed through the air, barely missing Ward as the baker dodged left and right. The marauder wielded his heavy weapon with surprising ease, twirling with its momentum and striking high, then low, and back to high again. It was impossible for Ward to dodge them all and he was forced to use his sword to parry, which he'd hoped to avoid. The hammer clanged against the steel, and Ward's weapon was almost knocked out of his hands as its point was driven to the dirt. Ward let go of the sword, and grabbed the shaft of the hammer instead.

The marauder pulled at the hammer, bringing Ward closer before delivering a punishing head butt. Ward was dazed, and fell to one knee, but he had the presence of mind to keep his grip on the shaft of the weapon. Hammer was stronger than the baker, and ripped the weapon free. He raised the war hammer, prepared to deliver a final, crushing blow. Ward lunged up, wrapped his arms around the barrel-chest man, and pushed him backward. They tumbled to the earth, and the marauder dropped his weapon in favor of beating his opponent with his fists.

Ward eagerly endured the abuse because this was the type of fight he stood a better chance at. His years training with the guild had taught him a variety of different fighting styles, and he always excelled at wrestling. Hammer was strong, and every blow he delivered was punishing, but Ward had a better strategy than simply wailing at his opponent. Ward wormed his arms around the marauder while ducking his head to ensure he didn't take any blows that could stun him. Hammer focused on beating at his sides, and Ward waited until the marauder twisted to use the momentum to twirl them both over. It worked, and now Ward had his arm around the man's throat from behind. He used his legs to wrap around the marauder, pinning him as he choked him.

Hammer wasn't ready for this. He'd spent his life battling men in the plains, not studying a variety of fighting styles like Ward had. Despite Hammer's experience as a marauder, he was wholly unprepared for a fighter like Ward, and soon the marauder lost consciousness as the baker squeezed the breath out of him.

Ward got up, retrieved the hammer, and then stood over his felled foe. The marauder was breathing, and his eyes were open even though he was unconscious. His hands were tensed, as if gripping something invisible, and his throat let forth a croak as if the wounded muscles within were coming back into shape. Ward lifted the hammer, remembering the marauder's threat to hunt down Saffi. He didn't hesitate, and delivered a killing blow to put an end to the marauder's reign in the Steel Plains.

Hammer's head burst upon the first strike, splitting wide and causing blood and brains to jettison forth across the dirt like the juice of a squashed tomato. Ward dropped the hammer onto its previous owner, and then turned to look at the still lingering smoke. The wind had carried the majority of the smoke away, pushing it south towards the marshlands, but there was still a lingering mist here that Ward knew would be harmful to breathe in. It didn't matter though. His daughter was on the other side of the haze, and he needed to get there to help. He took a deep breath, and then ran as best he could on his wounded leg, willing to do whatever was necessary to save Saffi.

# Chapter Sixteen

"The damn wind," said Beynor between coughs as he tried to wave away the smoke. "It keeps blowing this way. Maybe we should head back towards the camp." They'd been trying to make their way to Saffi, but the wind kept pushing the poisonous cloud towards them, forcing them further south.

Joyce's foot splashed in the marsh, and she knew they were far off track now. Saffi had been headed up a hill to the east of the camp the last time the Prophet had seen her, and she knew that was far from the marshy area that the marauders had avoided when choosing a place to camp.

"I think you're right," said Joyce.

Beynor had been trying to brave the smoke, and was paying the price for it. The wind seemed intent on pushing the entire cloud their way, and its effects were causing the young thegn to double over and retch. Joyce took his arm and pulled him back, guiding him further into the marshland, away from the noxious fumes.

"We can head that way," said Joyce as she pointed west. "Hopefully the wind dies down a little and we can..." A far off, desperate plea for help stilled her. "Did you hear that?"

Beynor was coughing and shook his head. He wiped his lips and said, "No."

"Listen," said Joyce. "There's someone calling for help. It sounds like..." She listened and again heard a faint cry. "It is him."

"Who?" asked Beynor.

"Our little thief," said Joyce with new purpose. "Come with me. This way." She guided Beynor further into the wetlands. Their feet sloshed through the shallow water, and the sound of Tarik's pleas grew louder as they went.

Joyce shook Beynor's arm and said jubilantly, "That wind was no accident. We were guided this way. The world's full of wonder, my friend. If you're willing to let it guide you, you'll be shocked where you end up."

Beynor called out to their friend, "Tarik!"

The thief heard them, and yelled back, "Here. I'm here."

They trudged through the deepening mud, and finally found their wounded friend. He was covered with blood, and barely able to stand on his own. His arm had suffered a deep cut, and he was grasping it close to his body in an attempt to stop the bleeding. Joyce commanded Beynor to retrieve some of the white flowers around them, explaining the petals could stop an infection, and then she commanded Tarik to remove his shirt as she found a suitable branch nearby to help tie a tourniquet.

Beynor returned with a handful of the flowers and gave them to the Prophet. She rolled and mashed them in her hands before spitting on them and doing it again. She created the best poultice she could with what was available, and then mashed it up into Tarik's wound, causing him to curse and shudder in pain.

"It's going to hurt, but that'll help," said Joyce.

Tarik weakly said, "I'm dying."

"No you're not," she said. "It's a bad cut, but you'll live. Remember what I told you about the three of us staying together? There are certain forces at work in this world that you'd do well to stop ignoring, Tarik." She used the branch to continue tightening the tourniquet.

The thief nodded, winced, and then said, "Sure, whatever you say."

Joyce stopped tying the tourniquet. "You owe us your life. He saved you in the wagon, and I'm saving you now. How much more has to happen before you open your eyes to what's going on here?"

"I'll believe whatever you want," said Tarik. "Just help me out of this damn swamp."

Beynor knelt down to help the thief up, but Joyce stopped him. "Wait, I need to know he's going to be loyal."

Tarik gazed up at her in consternation. "You're serious?"

"Very," she said. "I'm not asking you to be our slave, just our friend. Stay with us. You've lived outside the walls. You know how to survive in the smuggler's towns and out here in the plains. We need your help, and you obviously need ours."

"If saying that I'll help you means you'll get me out of here, then so be it," said Tarik. "I'll do whatever you say, Prophet."

"Good," said Joyce. "Then we'll get along fine. Now let's head back out there and see if we can help the girl, Saffi. She plays a part in this too, somehow."

"As long as the wind cooperates," said Beynor.

"We'll go where the wind takes us," said Joyce, smiling and patting Beynor on the back. He looked confused, as if he didn't understand why he was being commended.

* * *

"Ebon!" Dessidus screamed out the traitor's name as he charged up the hill. Ebon was protecting the girl, and Dessidus paused at the sight of her. She was hiding behind the dead tree, peering around the side at him. She had auburn hair that the moonlight turned silver, and comely, sharp features. Her eyes were wide with fear, and the blaze of the fires below sparkled in them as she watched.

Dessidus slowed his horse to a stop several yards from Ebon. Had it been anyone else, he would've used the steed to his advantage and chopped down at the opponent, but this was his friend and he needed to understand why he'd turned against The Scholar.

"Let us go, Dessidus," said Ebon. "I don't want to fight you."

"Why are you doing this?"

"We can't give her to The Scholar," said Ebon, throwing knives in hand.

"Why not?" asked Dessidus after dismounting. "That's the whole reason we started this damn war."

"No it's not," said Ebon. "And that's the problem. The Scholar proved himself to be just as bad as the aristocrats running The Five Walls. If he can't get this girl to do what he wants, then he'll kill her. You know that as well as I do."

"Then we'll get her to do what he wants," said Dessidus.

"Why? So that he can be the new king? So that he can rule?"

"Better him than the church or the rich. You know what they did. Is that the world you want to protect, one that would burn us both if they knew what we were?"

"I'm not going to destroy a ruthless kingdom to replace it with an equally ruthless king," said Ebon. "I won't take part in that."

"So it's true then," said Dessidus. "You are a traitor. I had to see it with my own eyes to believe it. After all those years together, fighting side by side, murdering anyone who stood against us; after all those nights by the campfire telling stories about the ways The Five Walls murdered our friends and family; after all that, you still turned against us."

"I did what I had to," said Ebon. "If this girl is capable of what The Scholar says, then we can't risk her life by giving her to him."

"You'd rather The Five Walls keep her?" asked Dessidus.

"No," said Ebon, clearly still hoping to convince his friend to see his point of view. "I want to take her away from here. I'll take her to Sailor's Rock and then off to one of the isles, out where she can avoid the war. If we take her back to The Scholar then she'll be at risk – not just from him, but from the Drakes they'll be sending out to hunt him. She's better off with me. You know that's true."

"I'll give you one last chance to reconsider," said Dessidus. "Come back with me. We'll tell The Scholar that you were trying to protect her, and you can beg his forgiveness. It's either that, or I kill you here and take her myself. You know I can beat you, Ebon."

"Not this time." Ebon threw the blades, each of them hitting Dessidus, one in the arm and the other slicing his cheek. Neither wound vexed the stronger man, and Dessidus breached the gap between them, whirling his dual axes as Ebon struggled to avoid the attacks. Both of the men were half-dead, meaning neither were concerned by minor strikes. Ebon had pulled forth his hooked short sword, and was hacking at Dessidus's arms as he spun and parried his former friend's more brutish chops.

They twirled and struck out at one another with quick and vicious accuracy. Each of them scored hits, but Ebon suffered the worst of them. He was an agile fighter, but couldn't contend with Dessidus's overwhelming strength. Before long, it became apparent to all of them that Ebon would lose.

"Run, Saffi," commanded Ebon.

Dessidus saw the girl hesitate behind the tree.

"Run!" Ebon knew he would fall, and wanted her to have a head start.

"I don't want to kill you," said Dessidus after delivering a deep wound to the side of Ebon's right leg.

"Then don't," said Ebon before stabbing up at Dessidus and catching him on the chin, ripping away a chunk of flesh.

Dessidus staggered back, and then laughed as he wiped his chin with his arm. "Nice one."

"Thank you," said Ebon. "Want another?"

"You'd be willing to kill me to save her?" asked Dessidus as he looked out at the fleeing girl.

"I would."

"You're the closest thing I have to a brother," said Dessidus.

"Then let me take her," said Ebon as he stayed in his fighting stance, ready for any trickery. "I'll go to the isles, and you can tell The Scholar you never found me. He doesn't have to know. It'll be better that way. Give the girl a chance to learn what she can do on her own. She could save us all."

Dessidus kept quiet for a moment as he considered the offer. "You're certain you can keep her safe?"

"Yes," said Ebon.

Blood was dripping from Dessidus's chin as he considered the offer. He looked out at the fleeing child and then nodded and said, "So be it, old friend. I'll sleep better without your murder on my conscious." He didn't bother shaking his friend's hand, certain Ebon wouldn't risk accepting the gesture anyhow. Dessidus returned to his horse to mount it. When up on the saddle he put his axes back in their loops on his side before plucking the throwing dagger out of his arm and tossing it down to his friend. "Go to the isles, hide there, and pray we never have to fight a second time."

"Thank you, Dessidus," said Ebon.

"I could've beaten you," said Dessidus. "I was always the better fighter."

"I know."

"But I always thought you were the cunning one," said Dessidus, a mocking grin starting to crease his scarred face. "Yet here we are, with me on a horse and you on foot as the game runs off." He dug his heels into his steed, spurring it forward to chase down Saffi.

Ebon realized his folly, and screamed out at Dessidus before running after the girl as well. The assassin removed one of the throwing knives from his chest and tossed it at the horse instead of Dessidus in an attempt to slow the animal. The steed reared up and neighed in pain, but Dessidus was able to calm him and then get the animal back on course.

The girl had moved far through the plains, but the horse easily caught up. Dessidus leapt off the animal and tackled the young girl. She struggled, but he only needed to get her to The Scholar alive – it didn't matter what condition she was in. He grabbed her by the throat and then punched her hard enough to knock her out.

Ebon was running as fast as he could, screaming Dessidus's name as he came, but there was still time to throw the girl over the front of the saddle and then mount the horse. "You lose, Ebon," said the Black Rider as he escaped.

"Dessidus, no!" Ebon screamed out helplessly as The Scholar's man rode off with the girl.

* * *

"Where's Saffi?" asked Ward when he reached Ebon. The noxious cloud had dissipated enough to allow him to make it through and he found the assassin on the other side on his way back to the camp.

"He took her," said Ebon.

"Who did?"

"Dessidus. He's one of The Scholar's men."

"How did he get her?" asked Ward. "I thought you were going to protect her?"

"I tried," said Ebon.

"Not hard enough."

"He's headed back to New Carrington," said Ebon. "I poisoned his horse, so he's not going to make it the whole way. We have to try and catch up with him. Can you ride?" He knew the baker was already injured.

"I'll figure out a way," said Ward.

"I'm not waiting for you," said Ebon. "You'll just slow me down."

"You sure you can take him alone?" asked Ward.

"No, but I'll die before I let The Scholar have that girl."

"I'll find a horse and be right behind you," said Ward.

"Get a wagon," said Ebon as he looked down at the baker's leg. "You won't be able to ride horseback with that sort of wound."

"Okay, I will. Go get my daughter, and I'll owe you my life, stranger."

Ebon nodded in agreement, and then ran back toward the camp. Ward limped along after him, determined to do whatever he could to save Saffi. The dark stranger seemed to disappear into the chaos ahead, but then moments later Ward saw him mounting one of the marauder's steeds and tearing off. The battle between the riders and the marauders was still raging, but Ebon was able to avoid the conflict and disappear into the darkness.

Ward was certain he wouldn't have the same luck, and resorted to stealing one of the prison wagons instead. He released the rope that tethered the horses, and then attached the bit, trying to be stealthy to avoid getting the attention of anyone in the camp. He got the bit into the mouth of the first horse, and then moved to the next when someone grasped his shoulder.

Ward turned with his fist raised, ready to strike, and saw that it was the Prophet who'd been in the wagon with Saffi. A strong young man was with her, carrying a wounded, pale man. "We can help," said the woman.

"No," said Ward. "I can't afford the weight. Sorry, but you're on your own."

"I'm a Prophet," said the woman. "You have to trust me."

"Sorry, I'm not a believer."

"I was put in that wagon with your daughter for a reason, Baker. I can help her, but first you have to help us."

"I can't," said Ward. "I have to hurry."

"If you leave us here, we'll die."

Ward knew she was right, but he couldn't risk wasting any more time, and they would only slow him down. He answered, "No, I told you, I can't afford the weight."

"Those horses can pull us without a problem," said the Prophet.

"If you don't let us in then we'll hang on the bars and slow you down anyways," said the thegn. "Just let us in!"

"All right, fine," said Ward, tired of arguing. "Hurry up already."

The three of them went to the back of the wagon and climbed in. The Prophet moved to the front and whispered to Ward through the bars, "We're ready."

The Northland Marauders were focused on the Black Riders as the attackers darted into the camp, murdering any who stood in their way, and then retreated back to the hills. The Riders seemed to meld with the darkness, disappearing into the night and then returning from new positions and streaking through the campsite, slashing down at anything that moved. Ward watched and waited for them to retreat again, and then snapped the reins to cause the horses leading the wagon to move.

The horses tried to walk, but the wagon jostled up and then back down again, its progress impeded. Ward realized his error. In his haste, he'd forgotten to remove the triangular block of wood that was placed in front of the wagon's wheels.

"What's the matter?" asked the Prophet.

Some of the marauders had heard the escape attempt, and started to scream out for someone to kill the prisoners.

"The wheels are stuck. I forgot to pull out the blocker."

"I'll get it," said the thegn.

Ward looked over at the camp, and saw that some of the marauders were headed their way. "You'd better hurry, kid."

The thegn leapt out of the wagon and ran around the side opposite of the camp to pull away the log. A throwing axe thudded into the side of the wagon, sticking in the wood frame just behind Ward's head and causing the Prophet to yelp in shock.

"Hurry up!" Ward screamed out to the thegn.

"I got it," said the young man. "Go, go, go!"

Ward snapped the reins, and the horses started to move. He saw movement to his right, and realized that the thegn had been trying to climb onto the wagon when Ward had commanded the horses to move. The young man fell off, and was being left behind.

The Prophet called out to the young man, "Beynor!"

"Go without me," said the thegn, his voice growing distant now.

Ward cursed, and then pulled on the reins to force the steeds to make a hard left turn. He wanted to go in a circle, but this path took him dreadfully close to the marauder camp. Then, to make matters worse, he saw the black riders reappearing from the night and heading back into the camp for another attack. He reached over to the axe beside his head and tore it free of the wood. He yelled out in fury as the horses followed his command and continued moving in a circle, crushing tents and supplies as Ward guided them back around to pick up the abandoned thegn.

"Here's your axe, you son of a bitch," said Ward as he threw the axe down at one of the marauders who'd started chasing after the wagon. The weapon found its mark in the marauder's face, knocking him backward with enough force that Ward saw his feet fly up in front of him. The former Sixth-Sword cheered in self-congratulatory glee, once again remembering the thrill of battle that he'd all but forgotten in his years as a baker.

Beynor was quick to grab hold of the wagon, and Ward hardly needed to slow the horses down for the thegn to get on. The young man jumped up onto the seat beside Ward and said, "Let's go."

Ward obliged, and they headed off into the night, free of the marauders and the devils that had been set loose upon them.

# Chapter Seventeen

Saffi awoke, groggy and in pain, laying on Devon's Road somewhere near the Robber's Spine. The night sky had lost its stars, and the pervasive black had started to turn a dark shade of blue. Fog blanketed the plains, and she wondered just how long she'd been unconscious. Her eyes stung, but that was inconsequential compared to her thundering headache. She reached up and pressed her hand to the side of her head and groaned, surprised at how tender her face was when she touched it.

"Good, you're awake," said a gruff voice from nearby.

Next came a heavy snort and gasp from just behind Saffi, and she turned to see a black horse laying nearby. It was on its side, mouth open and eyes wide, struggling for breath. Dessidus stood beside the creature, collecting his gear.

She remembered the fight on the hill in the Steel Plains, and how the Black Rider had chased her down. "Where are we?"

"On our way back to the city," said Dessidus. "I was afraid I'd have to carry you."

She looked at the wounds Ebon had inflicted, each of them now appearing like scars from a battle fought long ago. "You're a half-dead," she said, repulsed by the revelation.

"Just now realizing that, are you?" He smiled and then motioned with his finger for her to stand. "Get up. We're leaving."

"I thought the Drakes wiped out all the half-deads."

"Not by a longshot. Now get up, we're leaving."

"What happened to your horse?" asked Saffi as she moved closer to the pained animal. She set her hand on the creature's cheek, and its nostrils flared as it gazed at her in fear.

"Ebon poisoned it, the crafty bastard. I thought he'd missed me, but he stuck the mare on purpose. He'll be headed this way soon. We passed a merchant wagon camped out that way," he pointed north, back the way they'd come. "We can go steal it and be on our way."

"No," said Saffi. "I'm not going anywhere with you."

"Don't make this harder on yourself than it needs to be," said Dessidus. "I'll give you a matching welt on the other side of your head if you don't do what I tell you." He took out one of the axes from its loop at his waist.

"Why do you need me? What does The Scholar want with me? I'm just an Apprentice-Baker."

Dessidus smirked and eyed her quizzically. "Is that what you really think?"

"It's the truth. I'm just an orphan. My father said they found me after some battle, and they thought I was special because the zombies didn't eat me, but that's all I know. Whatever you think I can do, whatever The Scholar's hoping I can do for him... You're wrong. I'm nothing but a baker." She was on her knees beside the horse, petting its cheek in an attempt to soothe the dying beast.

"That might be, but it's not for me to say. All I know is The Scholar wants you, and I'm going to get you to him."

The black mare huffed, and started to kick its back legs as if suffering as the poison coursed through its body. Saffi hushed the animal, and moved closer as she pet its muzzle.

"Come on," said Dessidus. "I'm not going to tell you again." He spun the axe in his grip so that the flat end was facing outward, and then raised it as a threat.

The horse struggled and lifted its head up and away from Saffi's hands. The massive animal rolled itself over so that it was on its belly, and then surprised both Dessidus and Saffi by getting back to its feet, huffing and shaking its head back and forth.

"Beast still has some fight in her," said Dessidus, pleased at first but then shocked as the mare stomped her feet down in front of him. "Settle down, girl. Settle down."

Saffi backed away, afraid that the horse was dangerous.

Dessidus tried to grab the beast's reins, but the animal began to kick, angry at the man's attempt to subdue her. She spun, and then knocked Dessidus to the ground. He was shocked by the attack, and rolled away as the animal came stomping toward him. "Damn thing," he said as he scampered away, readying his axe to kill the creature if needed. "Why're you fighting with me?"

There was no mistaking the steed's attempt to hurt Dessidus. It was stomping the ground all around him, chasing him away as he did his best to avoid the angry creature. He raised his axe and said, "Quit it or I'll cut your legs out from under you."

"No!" Saffi screamed out and started to run towards him. The horse moved to stand between her and The Scholar's man, keeping Saffi from harm.

Dessidus threw his axe, and the weapon lodged deep into the animal's neck, causing the steed to neigh in pain and anger. Saffi yelled as well, tearing up as she heard the animal's pained cry. The horse staggered, but was too strong a beast to be felled quickly. Dessidus had moved further away, and was holding his second axe, ready to finish the job.

"Leave her alone," said Saffi as she again tried to intercede, but the horse moved away from her, pushing towards Dessidus despite the man's threats. The creature was determined to kill him, and it was becoming clear to Saffi that the horse was protecting her at the expense of its own life.

The Scholar's man decided it was time to end this, and rushed forward to deliver a quick chop at the horse's neck. At the same time, he retrieved his first axe, ripping it from the creature and causing blood to gush from the wound. Saffi screamed out in horror as the animal tried to keep fighting, but succumbed and fell to its knees. Instead of fleeing, the horse kept its place between Saffi and Dessidus, and dropped down to the ground, huffing and snorting as its blood filled the path carved in the plains by wagon wheels.

"You bastard!" Saffi wept as she put her arms over the dying animal.

"I don't know what got into her," said Dessidus, perplexed. "She's ridden with me for months, and never gave me any trouble at all." He looked at the girl that The Scholar had tasked him with retrieving and asked, "What did you do to her?"

Saffi didn't answer, her head down on top of the animal's mane as she wept and comforted the dying beast.

* * *

"Wake up," said Murien. "Get your sword."

Abraham awoke with a start and looked around in confusion. "What's wrong?"

Murien spoke in hushed tones in the early morning, as fog drifted across the plains, masking the various rocky outcroppings of the Robber's Spine that surrounded them. "Something's happening out by the road."

A woman's scream echoed through the plains, and Abraham quickly got up from his bedroll. They'd taken a merchant's wagon that had been left behind outside of New Carrington, and had been headed north along Devon's Road when nightfall convinced them to make camp. The sun had yet to rise, but the night's veil had been lightened with the promise of a new day.

Murien hadn't slept. Instead, she kept watch through the night, never feeling the onset of exhaustion or the compulsion to close tired eyes. Perhaps it was one of the effects of being turned into a cursed half-dead, or it might've been the lasting effects of battle, but either way she still didn't feel weary. She'd removed her breastplate, but was still wearing the leather and chain hauberk armor, and was ready for a fight should they stumble into one.

Abraham had lost most of his armor and his sword back in New Carrington, but they'd found a short sword in with the merchant's things on their journey here. He grabbed the weapon and hurried to join Murien as they investigated the noise out on Devon's Road.

There was a horse neighing angrily, and a man's voice shouting out. Then a girl shouted, "Leave her alone."

Murien looked at Abraham and asked, "Was that Saffi?"

"It sure sounds like her," said Abraham as the two of them made it out to the road from where they'd camped. The fog hid the location of the fight, but they were both certain it was coming from the south. They started to run, ready to do whatever they needed to save their friend.

Shapes began to materialize from within the fog, and Murien heard Saffi say, "You bastard!" A man replied, but he was speaking softer than she was.

Murien didn't see Saffi from her vantage, but instead saw a man looking down at a dead horse, his back to Murien and Abraham. "Hold," said Murien as she neared.

The man spun, cursed, and then flashed his weapons, dual axes that he threatened to throw. Murien and Abraham moved to each other's side, trying to flank the stranger. Saffi called out Murien's name, and then pleaded with her to run.

"You can't have her," said the brute as he held his axes before him. "I've worked too hard to give her up."

"Put the axes down," said Murien.

The man was tall and strong, with wide shoulders and thick arms. He was wearing leather armor, the sort that traveling bandits preferred, and he wielded his axes with obvious expertise, flipping them around in his hands as he held them out, one pointed in each of his opponent's direction.

"If you turn back now, I'll let you live," said the kidnapper.

Murien called out to her friend, who she now saw sitting on the opposite side of the felled steed, "Saffi, are you okay?"

"Don't fight him," said Saffi as she stood up. "He's a half-dead."

"That's right," said the man with a grin. "Listen to your friend. Tuck tail and run, meat. You can't kill me."

"This is your last warning," said Murien. "Drop the axes and run away as far as you can, or you'll be all-dead before the sun comes up."

The kidnapper chuckled and then said, "You've got spirit, girl. Shame it's about to get you killed." He ran towards Murien, focusing his attention on her as Abraham yelled out for him to stop. Murien deflected the first axe easily, but that was her attacker's intention as he followed up with an underhanded swipe that Murien nearly caught on the chin. She moved back, and Abraham came forward, chaotically swinging at the man.

The brute was far more skilled than Abe, and knelt low before spinning and chopping low. Abraham was able to leap in time to avoid getting his foot severed at the ankle, but when he came down again he was beset upon by their foe as the man thrust his shoulder into the Second-Sword, knocking him back and to the ground.

Murien regained her composure and came back into the fray, confident that she could catch the man off-guard as he focused on Abraham. She was mistaken, and the kidnapper spun again, this time focusing the arc of his attack on Murien as her sword missed, leaving her side vulnerable. His axe thudded into her, but her chainmail prevented it from cutting into her skin. However, the sheer force of his attack was enough to knock her to the ground and break a rib. She cried out in pain and twisted in agony.

"Dessidus, stop! I'll go with you," said Saffi. "Don't hurt them."

"Too late for that," said Dessidus as he moved to stand beside Murien.

She knew he was above her, but the pain inflicted from the last attack had dazed her. She'd lost her sword, and was disoriented as she tried to roll away from him. He caught her by the hair, and thrust her head back down to the ground. She heard Saffi and Abraham scream out, and then she felt Dessidus yank her head up. She looked at him just in time to see his axe coming down at her throat.

"No!" Saffi cried out as she saw Dessidus mercilessly cut her friend's throat. His axe buried deep into Murien, and when he pulled it out a spurt of blood came with it. Abraham was already charging, crying out in fear and hatred, but Dessidus easily avoided the Second-Sword's attack. He was laughing as he jumped away, and then taunted Abraham to try again.

"Come on, meat," said Dessidus. "Was she your lover? Did you just watch me kill the woman you love? Isn't that just awful?"

"I'll kill you," said Abraham, his grief turning to fury.

"Go ahead and try."

The men were moving in a circle, facing off with one another as Saffi cried out for them to stop. She pleaded with Dessidus to leave Abraham alone, and wanted to do something to help. She picked up a fist-sized stone from the road and was prepared to run over and launch herself onto Dessidus to fight him anyway she could, but then something else caught her eye.

Murien reached for her sword.

Dessidus was facing off with Abraham, and his back was to his previous victim. He had no idea that Murien Third-Sword was still alive.

She stood up, sword in hand, ready to fight. The wound on her throat was still bleeding, and her skin had turned ghostly pale, but her eyes blazed blue as she stared at the man she meant to kill.

Dessidus was taunting Abraham, "Come kill me then, meat. Let's see if you're a better fighter than your girlfriend."

Murien reached over Dessidus's face, grasping his forehead and pulling him back, and then viciously cut down at his throat with her sword, nearly severing his head before throwing him to the ground. He hit the ground and rolled, shocked as he reached for his grievous wound. He'd dropped his axes, and was scrambling to get away. Murien kicked his side hard, hopefully breaking a rib or two in the process. He reached for her leg, but she was too quick and sliced down at his arm.

Dessidus tried to speak, but his words gurgled as he continued to defend himself. Finally, he was able to ask, "You're a... You're a half-dead?"

Murien Third-Sword didn't respond before she stabbed her sword down and through the black rider's eye, piercing his head and clanging into the rock beneath. She freed the blade, and then moved back before delivering a final blow to make sure the bastard was truly finished. His head rolled aside, and then she kicked it off into the grass.

"Murien," said Saffi in shock. "You're alive!"

The sound of hooves clopping on the path interrupted their celebration. Murien led Abraham and Saffi off the road, prepared to flee as a new stranger approached. The rider appeared in the fog and slowed his horse upon discovering the slaughter.

"Ebon," said Saffi before stopping her friends from retreating. "It's okay, I know him." She led them back to the road where Ebon was dismounting.

"How did you do this?" asked Ebon as he looked down at the beheaded man.

"It wasn't me," said Saffi. "It was Murien."

Ebon looked up at Dessidus's murderer and saw the wound on her neck. "You're a half-dead?"

Saffi moved to stand between Ebon and Murien. "She's my friend. It doesn't matter if she's a half-dead."

"I don't have a problem with half-deads, my friend. I'm a half-dead as well." Ebon pointed down at the headless body on the road and said, "There's not a man, living or dead, who I've ever known to be strong enough to kill that man. So it's fitting it would be a woman who finally cut him down."

"You're a half-dead?" asked Saffi, uncertain how to feel about the revelation about Ebon. "My father said you were a Drake from Golden Rock." She suddenly remembered that her father might still be at the marauder's camp and said, "Where is my father? Did he make it out safely?"

"I believe so," said Ebon. "We parted ways at the camp. He wanted me to make sure you were safe. Although with friends like yours, I needn't have worried."

Saffi turned to Murien and Abraham and asked, "Why were you two out here?"

Abraham told Saffi about how New Carrington had been attacked, and their flight down the Tennerblane. He explained that he thought Murien had died, only to discover that she was still alive. They knew they couldn't go back to New Carrington, and decided to flee north instead. That's how they ended up on Devon's Road when Dessidus and Saffi came along.

"I guess I'm just lucky," said Saffi.

"By luck or providence, it doesn't really matter," said Ebon. "All that matters is that you're safe, and that we keep it that way."

"I still don't understand what's going on," said Saffi. She was struggling with the knowledge that her home had been attacked by The Scholar, and that her best friend was revealed to be a half-dead. "Did The Scholar attack New Carrington just to get to me?"

"No," said Ebon. "He plans on attacking all of The Five Walls before winter sets in, but he hastened his plans to attack New Carrington when we learned you were there."

"We?" asked Saffi. She pointed over at the corpse in the road and said, "Back at the camp it sounded like you two knew each other. Were you both working with The Scholar?"

Ebon hesitated, and then said, "We were, but I abandoned his cause to save you."

"Why?"

Ebon turned and looked north along the road. "There's a wagon coming. It might be your father, but we should hide in case it isn't."

The four of them laid low in the grass and waited for the wagon to approach. It was indeed Ward, and Saffi ran out to embrace him. The baker ignored his injury and leapt from the wagon to embrace his daughter. He spun with her in his arms and bellowed with joyous laughter that turned to tears as he said, "My girl. My sweet girl."

Saffi recounted all that had happened, and Ward explained why he was traveling with a thief, a thegn, and a prophet. Ebon insisted they move fast, because the black riders might leave the marauders camp to come back to New Carrington at any moment. They all agreed it would be best to head off into the Steel Plains, and then back up north to the safety of Sailor's Rock. Abraham, Beynor, and Ebon worked to drag Dessidus and the horse off into the weeds, and then used dirt to cover the blood in the hopes that the Black Riders wouldn't discover their murdered leader.

Murien let Joyce tend to her wound, although it had already almost healed. Afterward, Ebon explained that it was because she was a half-dead, and that there were many gifts that her kind enjoyed; gifts he'd teach her about.

As they were preparing for the journey, Saffi pulled Ebon aside and said, "I'm not done with you yet. If you worked with The Scholar, then you can tell me why he's after me. Why am I so important to him?"

"Because, Saffi, he thinks you're the only one who can stop him."

"Why? I'm just an Apprentice-Baker. What could I possibly do to stop someone like him?"

"Just a baker?" asked Ebon. "Is that really what you think?"

"It's the truth. I'm not a warrior or a leader. I'm not even a very good people-person. I know my dad said they found me in the middle of a bunch of zombies, but so what? Maybe they didn't see me there."

Ebon shook his head and said, "You've got it all wrong."

"Then explain it to me," said Saffi, attempting to lighten her frustration with an exasperated laugh. "I'm sick of the secrets. Tell me what's going on."

"You weren't simply found among a horde, Saffi," said Ebon. "You're the one that brought the horde to life."

"What?" she asked, confused.

He took her hands and looked down at them. "If you really are who they say, then these hands have more power than you could possibly imagine."

"I don't have any power."

"No, perhaps not," said Ebon before looking over at Murien. "Or perhaps you're the reason your friend there is still alive. Perhaps her time beside you gave her the second life of a half-dead. It's a disease that was supposed to have been wiped out almost two decades ago by the Drakes, yet you seem to be surrounded by us."

She pulled her hands away from him. "I don't understand."

"Have you ever brought something back to life before, Saffi? A person, or an animal – something you were sure was dead or dying, but then by your grace was brought back to life?"

Saffi was going to say no, but then looked back over at the road and remembered how Dessidus's horse had reared back up and attacked its master. She couldn't speak, and just looked in wonderment back at her hands.

"I know a lot about the power you hold," said Ebon. "Because I've spent many years beside someone else with the same abilities."

"The Scholar?" asked Saffi.

Ebon nodded. "The power to raise the dead, to build armies from graveyards. That's why he needs you, because with you at his side he'll be twice as powerful. But with you against him..." Ebon paused, and grinned. "The world just might stand a chance."

* * *

"Wake up."

The Scholar knelt among the dead and dying, his hands held out over the victims his army had brought. What had once been the Central Market of New Carrington was now a graveyard, with row after row of corpses laid out shoulder to shoulder. Women and children lay beside the men, because there was no benevolence afforded the living in war.

Cerrus, Ferragut, Madeline, and the rest of The Scholar's trusted few were waiting beside the field of the dead. The zombies that had demolished the town had been herded to the north side, where they were tormenting the wealthy residents and aristocrats hiding in the mansions, behind their thick walls, desperate to survive. They wouldn't.

The Scholar laid his hands upon the face of a panting, pale young woman. She'd been stabbed, and would succumb to the wound soon. He placed his hands on her face and whispered, "I forgive you."

She coughed up blood, but he didn't flinch as fluid struck his cheek. He said again, "I forgive you. Now get up." He guided her to a seated position, and tears flowed across her cheeks as she looked at him. "That's right, my dear. Stand with me. There you go. That's it." He stood with her, and then held her close, his lips near her left ear. "I'm your God now. Go, fight for me."

Ferragut stepped forward to take the girl's hand, and pointed her northward, towards where the rest of the horde was tearing at the walls of the aristocrat's mansions. She staggered off, limping but determined to do as her master commanded.

The Scholar moved to the next body, a child who was certainly already dead. He knelt, placed his hands on the boy's face.

"Wake up."

To Be Continued

# Author's Note

I've always wanted to delve into the fantasy genre. In fact, through most of my life I assumed that if I ever became an author, I would write fantasy. My earliest novels (the ones that will never see the light of day) were about groups of warriors setting off to save the world from demonic forces, and epic battles fought with wizards and dragons. To this day, I still adore that genre, even though I've written exclusively horror.

As I write this, it's October of 2014, about three years to the day from when I started writing the novella that would become the start of my career as an author. That novella, Deadlocked, was inspired by the breast cancer my mother was fighting at the time. If you've read those books, and the Author's Notes in them, then you know all about how the storyline was designed to mimic a battle with cancer, and the creeping sense of doom and demise that it can inspire. It can be a harrowing journey to battle a disease like cancer, and I wouldn't wish it on anyone. After struggling through chemotherapy and radiation treatment, my mother finally beat her cancer.

The Deadlocked series helped to change my life, allowing me to quit my job and write full time, let alone achieve my lifelong ambition of being an author. What started as a cathartic exercise to deal with the emotions my mother's cancer created had turned into a life-changing and fulfilling experience. It was on April 2nd of this year when I finally finished that series with Deadlocked 8, and it felt like I was closing a major chapter of my life.

It's funny how life works, and how sometimes those chapters just refuse to shut.

This year, my mother-in-law lost her battle with bone cancer. It had been a tough fight, and one she didn't give up on easily, but a few months ago I found myself standing at her bedside in a hospice, holding her hand as she took her final breath. As has often been said, and I'll repeat, "Fuck cancer."

After the funeral, my family and I headed back to Colorado from Indiana, our hearts heavy and our minds taxed, eager to get home and use my mother-in-law's passing as a reminder that life is fleeting and to enjoy every minute we can. It was on this trip that we received a call about my own mother, and how her cancer had returned.

Triple negative.

Those are two words anyone familiar with breast cancer doesn't want to hear. My mother was plunged right back into a battle for her life, and I found myself again struggling with the same emotions that had inspired my first series.

What worked once... right? Time to write about death and zombies some more.

But this time I didn't want to focus on death looming over people, chasing them down. Instead, I thought about how when a loved one is dying, all you want to do is reach out and heal them – take away that pain and get them back on their feet. We all know that we're going to die, but that doesn't make us want to believe it. If there was something... anything we could do to stop it from happening to those we love, we'd do it. That's where the original idea for this new series came from. The power that Saffi and The Scholar has, to bring back the dead, is something that I think a lot of us wish we had. Yet there are so many things that can go wrong, many of which I want to delve into in future books in this series.

Among the Dead and Dying melds some of my favorite things about the fantasy genre with the zombie apocalypse. I wanted to combine these two genres in a way that would help this series be unique among the horde (pun intended), and craft a world that feels familiar yet entirely new.

This first book is designed to give an introduction to the world, as well as the characters. It brings the major players together, and sets the main story in motion. The Scholar is planning his destruction of The Five Walls, and Saffi has learned why she's so important to the struggle. Will she decide to follow Ebon's advice and flee to the isles, or will she refuse to abandon the Kingdom of Golden Rock to The Scholar's planned slaughter? If she decides to stay and fight, how will she protect people who would never trust her?

You're just going to have to wait to find out!

Before I go, I want to plead with you that if you liked this book, please take a moment to write a review for it. You can't fathom just how important those reviews are to an independent author like myself. They mean the difference between success as an author and utter failure, and I appreciate every single one of you who writes a review.

Lastly, if you'd like to keep up to date on my work, then subscribe to the A.R. Wise newsletter by sending me an email at aaron@arwisebooks.com with the title: AR Wise Mailing List. Also, you can find me at the AR Wise fanpage on Facebook, where I like to go and mumble incoherently after a night of drinking and writing.

Other Books by A.R. Wise

Deadlocked Series

Deadlocked 1

Deadlocked 2

Deadlocked 3

Deadlocked 4

Deadlocked 5 – Aftermath

Deadlocked 6 – Uprising

Deadlocked 7 – Legacies

Deadlocked 8 – Sons of Reagan

Deadlocked Broken Pieces Collection Books 1-3

The Widowsfield Trilogy

314

314 Book 2

314 Book 3

Daughter of Bathory

Sex, Drugs, and Dead Things

# Sample of Deadlocked

CHAPTER ONE - INFECTION

The apocalypse began when people were stabbed by tiny needles in crowded subways. Victims reported a stinging sensation on their thigh, as if someone in the crowd had jabbed them. They returned home to discover a swelling, purple lesion where the sting had occurred. Most people didn't pay attention to it the first day, but the infection spread quickly and soon the sick crowded ER rooms around the world.

Rumors of other causes of the disease started as well. People got cut by razors taped to the handles of gas pumps, water supplies were tainted, cafeteria food was infected; there was a never-ending stream of new theories on how it had been spread. I assumed it was paranoia, but I was wrong. This was far worse than anyone's worst fears.

The moment the paranoia turned to panic was caught on camera, but I'd been panicked all morning. Not because conspiracy theorists swore the world was ending, but because mine had fallen apart around me.

I planned to leave work early that day. My wife, Laura, was going to drop off our daughters at a neighbor's house and pick me up at noon. I found a lump on my left testicle a week ago and Laura insisted I get it checked out. After a physical, the doctor said he wanted me to get an ultrasound. That test came back with concerning results and I had to follow up with a serum tumor marker test.

They got the results back from the lab yesterday and asked me to come in as soon as possible. We knew it was bad news. If the test came back negative they would have told us over the phone.

Everyone else in the office was focused on the terrorist attacks. The burgeoning panic allowed my disease, and the concern it caused, a level of anonymity I wouldn't have gotten otherwise. I was able to slip into the office, my face drained of color and my palms wet with sweat, and duck into my cubicle.

My best friend, a short, tubby man named Barry, had started working here around the same time as me. He sat in the cubicle next to mine and always had someone in there, usually chatting about the latest episode of a new, favorite reality show or some other exercise in wasting time. He'd been written up more than once for watching shows on his computer during work. I could hear his computer now, blaring the local news. The difference today was that the sales managers were in there with him.

"What hospital are they at?" asked Jerry. He was supposed to be managing the floor, but he had no interest in telling people to get back to work on a day like this.

"Saint Peter's," said Barry.

"A bus full of kids just showed up." Gloria clasped her hand over her mouth. "This is horrible."

"Has anyone died?" asked Jerry.

"Not yet," said Alan, one of the company's accountants.

"How many kids are sick?" Jerry pushed his way past the others to get a better view of Barry's screen.

"They didn't say. They're taking the camera over to the bus now," said Barry.

Everyone silenced and I could hear the reporter tell viewers he was going to get on the bus. After a few moments of rustling, which I assumed was the reporter's microphone rubbing against his coat, he asked, "What happened here? Are these kids okay?"

"Oh my God," said Gloria. "How terrible. Look at them, the poor babies."

Then the screaming started. Everyone in Barry's cubicle jumped and the walls shook as people pressed against them. Barry's speakers crackled with the shrieks of children.

My daughters are three and five, so I was studied in the various screeches a child can make, and these were a mix of pain and terror. The pained screams weren't the sort that came from a stubbed toe or skinned knee. These were a violent expulsion of every ounce of breath and energy the child could muster. I can still remember the sound that came from that speaker as if it were happening now. It was horrific.

I couldn't ignore this event any longer. I got up and peered over the divider.

"What are they doing?" asked Gloria. "Why are they doing that?" She was panicked and had her hands on her cheeks as if ready to cover her eyes.

Barry turned off his monitor, but the sound continued to wail through his speakers. He scurried to turn them off and eventually had to rip them away from his desk. The cord whipped out from behind his computer tower. He held the speakers and stared up at me, his face drained of color and his eyes wide and unblinking.

"What happened?" I asked. "I didn't see. What happened?"

Jerry had his hands on his head and sounded like he was going to hyperventilate as he stumbled through the crowd and fell back against the wall outside the cubicle. James and Marcia announced they were going home and Jerry just nodded his acceptance. The office had been tense all morning and everyone was uncertain if they should've stayed home due to the rumors of a terrorist biochemical attack. Watching a bus filled with children devour one another was more than enough to convince everyone to clock out. Work was officially over.

"What happened?" I asked again as I went out into the hall.

Gloria came out of Barry's cubicle and steadied herself against the threshold. "They were killing each other."

"What?"

"The kids..." she couldn't continue.

"They didn't just kill each other," said Barry. "They were eating each other."

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah, Dave, I saw one bite another girl on the neck. He ripped that little girl's throat out. He fucking ate her throat, man."

Gloria said something about this being the end times, but I ignored her when I heard sirens outside. This would've been part of the normal ambiance of working in the city ten minutes ago, but now it terrified us. I ran to the floor to ceiling windows that lined our third floor office.

The street below was packed with people that milled about like normal. The traffic was bad, as it always was, but no one seemed to move faster than you would expect on a normal Wednesday morning. Most of them were on cell phones, but there was nothing unusual about that. No one was acting as if there was anything wrong at all. They were still stuck in the malaise of the daily rat race that had just been shattered for us. We'd caught the first glimpse of what was to come.

"What's going on?" asked Barry as he came up behind me.

"Nothing from what I can tell," I said and turned away from the window. "Are you sure you saw what you said? On that bus?" It seemed too horrific to be real. I wondered if Barry had mistaken a horror movie for reality; something filmed to mimic a real life news broadcast. Perhaps my office had just been pranked by a War of the Worlds style broadcast.

Barry nodded. "It's pretty hard to not see something like that. I can't stop seeing it. It just keeps replaying over and over in my head."

"Can I get everyone's attention?" Jerry stood in front of the large whiteboard where the employees gathered each morning for their sales meeting. His voice was more timid than usual and his hands shook as he waved them in the air to get our attention. "We're calling it a day. We want everyone to head on home. We'll send out an email about how we're going to move forward. Go be with your families until we can get this straightened out."

"Do they know what's going on?" asked Eugene, the IT manager, as he stuck his head out of his dark corner office.

"I don't know," said Jerry.

"They said people are going insane." Gloria was on her cell phone. "My husband's watching the news. He says they're telling people to stay away from hospitals."

"What hospital?" I asked.

"What hospital?" Gloria asked her husband. She repeated his reply, "All hospitals."

"What the fuck?" Barry shook his head in disbelief.

Gloria continued, "Stay home. Come home now." Gloria then directly responded to her husband, "I will, just tell me what they're saying. I'm telling everyone here. What else are they saying?" She continued her announcement, "Stay in your homes, lock the doors and windows, and keep watching CNN."

"Always worth keeping viewers, I guess." Barry smirked and patted me on the shoulder.

"I'm going to need a ride home," I said.

"Yeah, no problem. Let's get the hell out of here."

I glanced at my watch and realized that Laura would be leaving to pick me up soon. I tried to call her on my cell, but the service was dead. "I can't get through."

"Let me try mine." Barry couldn't get through either.

I was about to tell him to leave without me when my phone rang. I looked at the caller ID and saw that it was Laura.

"Hello?"

"Oh thank God," said Laura. "I've been trying to call you forever."

"Did you see what happened at the hospital?"

"No. Did you see what happened in Central Park?"

"No. What happened?" I switched the phone to speaker so Barry could hear.

"I can't find any local news. They just have information coming out of New York. Twenty people were murdered. Eaten alive. People just started eating each other. The cops started shooting people, but they just... they just wouldn't stop. They kept eating each other. It was on the news. I saw it happen."

"Stay home, Laura," said Barry. "I'll get Dave there safely."

"Okay." Her voice quivered. "David?"

"Yeah, honey, I'm here."

She started to cry. "I'm scared."

"I know. I'll be home soon. Just get the girls upstairs and lock all the doors. Get some knives or something and just get upstairs. Okay?"

"Okay. I think I see Alfred coming over from across the alley. He might be able to help. I'll take the girls up to the attic. We'll be safe there."

"Good idea. Tell Al and Kate that they can hide with us if they want. I'll be home as soon as I can get there."

"You promise?"

"Trust me." It was something I said to Laura all the time and had become a joke over the years. I was a salesman after all, and you should never trust a salesman.

Barry and I told everyone goodbye and started to make our way to the hall, past the wall of windows that looked down to the street.

"Why the hell does everyone outside look so calm?" I asked as I stared out the window. If this was turning into such a catastrophe, why did everyone look so serene? What would happen when they learned about the attacks? I was afraid of the chaos that would engulf the city once that happened. We had to get out as soon as possible.

A man limped out of the alley across the street. He was a vagrant I recognized from my years working downtown. I'd never seen him walk in such a jarring manner before. His arms were pressed against his chest as if he was lying down and his legs wobbled beneath him as he walked. His feet struck the pavement in haphazard flops and his mouth sat open as he stared at the sky.

Barry and I were in a rush to get out of the office, but when I saw this man walk down the alley I couldn't help but stop and stare. There was something wrong with him that grabbed my attention.

"What's with that guy?" I asked Barry. He had to turn around and come back to me.

"What? The bum? Since when do you get freaked out by the drunks around here?"

We watched the man attack. He emerged from the alley and took sudden notice of the people around him. It was like watching a starving man emerge from a desert to find a buffet stretched out before him. He reached out and grabbed the first person his fingers grazed in the flow of pedestrians. It was a young woman, in her mid twenties, with her hair tied up in a bun and a well-fitted, striped blouse and skirt. He grabbed her arm and pulled her out of her steady pace. She stumbled in her heels. Her right ankle crumpled and she fell against him. I could see her expression turn from anger to terror and she slapped her assailant's chest.

The homeless man bit her face.

Barry and I screamed out a slew of curses and everyone still in the office ran to the window. We watched the scene unfold, as if staring at a massive television screen that couldn't be turned off; the horror movie was now reality, and we were stuck in it. The man's teeth latched onto her with inhuman ferocity. She pushed and hit him with her clutch, but as she pulled away he stayed attached.

It took the nearby people far too long to notice what happened. A man in a yellow and orange construction vest was the first to do anything. He grabbed the assailant and tried to pull him away, but this dragged the woman forward and she lost her balance. She tumbled to the pavement. Her cheek ripped off in the bum's clenched teeth as she fell.

Blood rolled down the man's chin as he chewed on her flesh. The woman scrambled to move away and clutched her cheek. She wailed loud enough for us to hear behind the thick glass of our office building. Some people nearby rushed to help while others moved to confront her attacker.

"Someone call the police." Barry turned away from the window.

"Line's busy," said Jerry, who was already trying to call.

The bum wouldn't stop. He moved forward and swiped at the people that tried to keep him away. The construction worker took a swing and hit the transient on the jaw. The man's head whirled to the side, but his body didn't follow. His head hung limp to the right while his hands gripped the construction worker's vest. The vagrant's head rolled back to bite his new victim.

The construction worker fell backward with the man holding on to him. The bum bit his neck and blood sprayed forth like someone stuck a knife in a shaken can of soda. The construction worker cried out and tried to push the bum away. Finally, the crowd ripped the maniac off his second victim and threw him to the ground.

They stomped on him. The crowd circled and kicked at his side. The man tried to grab their legs and bite their ankles, but they wouldn't stop. Over and over, their feet collided with his face and chest. He was covered in blood and the wounds on his head gaped wide. I saw his teeth in the pool of blood beneath him, but he wasn't fazed. He pulled at the legs of the businessmen around him. He tried to grab their expensive slacks, their hundred dollar shoes, their gold wristwatches, but his movements weakened. They had beaten him to a pulp, but he still twitched. I could see his eyes blink through his new, red mask. He was still alive, but they kept trying to kill him.

They stomped him.

Kicked him.

Crushed him.

"Come on, man." Barry pulled at my sleeve. "We've got to get out of here."

The sight of the crowd trying to murder that man shook me to my core. The thought of dying at the hands, and feet, of an angry mob made my stomach turn. Could there be a worse way to die?

