Author's Note: My apologies for the long delay between sections. I've been busy working on another project, but that's done and I'm back to stay. The end is in sight, and things are really moving fast. As always, I appreciate your comments and suggestions.

Janice (janicecox@peoplepc.com)

Chapter Ten

They were losing.

Erik rubbed his stinging eyes wearily and saw with no surprise that his fingers came away stained with blood. His head throbbed from a deep gash received at some point during the battle. The bleeding had slowed to a trickle, but not before coating his face and turning the front of his tunic bright red. Other wounds, while minor, hampered his movement and made his limbs feel like lead. A sword came at him out of the din, and he batted it away without thinking, his own weapon coming up and skewering his opponent before Erik had registered who the man was. Pulling his sword free he looked up, curiosity long since dulled to numbness.

"Oh, no. No, please." He barely heard his own words. It was no man standing in front of him, foe or one-time friend. The hand holding the sword belonged to Marissa Tronin, King Tronin's youngest daughter. She had been the prettiest and sweetest of all of them, radiating purity and good will. They had played together as children, and at one time there was even talk of a possible betrothal. Now that beauty and innocence was gone. Marissa smiled vacantly, her skin a dull gray, her eyes blank. Fresh blood still trickled from a mortal wound to her chest, while the rest of her seemed to be decaying before his eyes.

"I can't do this." Erik lowered his sword as a wave of despair and exhaustion hit him. No matter how many they destroyed, there were always more. Good soldiers, knights, friends, family…it was too much. He closed his eyes.

"Erik!" He opened them again almost immediately. It was Marko. "We've got company! Outside the main doors!" His vassal shoved a zombie out of his way. It was an old one, and it fell to pieces as it hit the wall. The sight both revolted and cheered Erik, who parried the late Marissa's attack and shoved her back with a well-placed boot. Marko tossed another zombie, sending it tumbling into several others. At least, Erik thought they were zombies. By now everyone was so coated with blood and sweat that it was hard to tell friend from foe. Four went down, and were promptly attacked by men whose stunned, haggard faces revealed them to be human. "I don't think the door's going to last much longer!"

Erik nodded and looked toward the main entrance. They'd barricaded it well, but the door had never been meant to hold back an army. Even above the din he could hear the rhythmic pounding of several strong fists and heavy weapons. The ornate door shook in its frame. In another minute whatever was out there would be through, and then all of them were finished. He couldn't keep the despair from his face, and saw it instantly reflected in the faces of his remaining men. Biting his lip, Erik forced his face back to neutrality. He was supposed to be leading these men. Without thinking his gaze went to his father.

Zombies swarmed around the dais, slashing with blades and bare hands at the nobility clustered there. Baaldorf and his wife were there, as were the Tronins and a handful of others. They were surrounded by half a dozen soldiers, all bleeding and torn. His father was among them, his great sword flashing in the torch light. Richard fought as if he were ten, no twenty years younger and had an entire regiment at his back. There was no fear in his face, only a fierce determination that Erik could never hope to match.

But no one else needed to know how tired he was, how afraid. Not for the first time, Erik buried his own weakness beneath a shell of calm bravery. It was a thin, brittle shell, but it was the best he could do. His stomach in knots, Erik impaled the zombie that had once been Marissa Tronin and called out in a loud, strong voice. "All right, men! We can do this! I need every available man to the main entrance, now!" Marko nodded and took up the refrain, urging the soldiers around him to fall back toward the doors. Erik nodded gratefully. For a moment he'd been afraid that the men weren't going to respond.

"Come on you guys! Listen to Prince Greystone! We've got to keep more of those things from coming inside. I've got it on very good authority that not a one of them has an invitation. Let's go!" Even Marko's legendary strength seemed to be fading. He started to lift another zombie over his head, then stumbled and sent it crashing to the floor. It stirred and began to rise immediately. One of Baaldorf's men, his face set and grim, hacked the thing's head off. Marko nodded his thanks, and the two began edging toward the doors. A handful of others followed. Most remained locked in combat. A few others simply stayed where they were, leaning against the wall, too dazed or tired to move.

"Let's move, men! There's a war on!" Erik tried to catch the eyes of the men he passed, but most returned his gaze with a blank, indifferent stare. Three simply shrugged and turned away, and Erik took that like a blow. It's not working. They're not listening to me. His worst fear. He wasn't a natural leader like his father, just a shallow imitation. Those men saw it, he knew. He was failing his kingdom, his father, at the moment he was needed most.

"Here they come!"

Erik tightened his grip on his sword, trying to block out the sounds of fighting behind him, the thick smells of blood and decay. Who would be leading the charge through the doors? More friends, soldiers and knights he'd fought alongside? Kinsmen? Justin? He should never have sent his brother out there, Erik knew. Another failure, one from which their father might never recover. The wood gave way with a shriek, a blood-stained axe halfway through the left door panel. Powerful unseen hands jerked it back. A second swing demolished the door, and the next instant it crashed inward to shatter against the wall. Beside him, Marko shifted, the vassal's massive hands settling more firmly on the hilt of his weapon. Who would it be? A large shadow form stepped into the light, massive weapon raised.

"Prince Greystone!" The tip on the great sword dipped as a man Erik recognized as one of Tronin's knights bowed his head respectfully. The man's eyes widened as he took in the scene behind them. "Forgive me, sire, we came as soon as we could." Behind him other men appeared out of the darkness, two dozen or more. They wore the uniforms of different kingdoms, and all were bloodied from battle. Bloodied, and, thank all the gods, alive. Erik felt the tightness in his chest loosen just a little. The fresh air gusting in felt good. Clean. He nodded decisively.

"Let's get to work."

###

The wind slapped at his face and hands, making forward progress almost impossible. The empty courtyard was light up just about as bright as day from the lighting that arched back and forth across the sky. Balled lightning danced across rooftops and spun atop flagpoles as if it was dancing a jig. Every hair on his body felt like it was standing at attention, but Justin had no idea if that was a warning sign or not; the energy from all that lightning was practically dancing across every surface out here, and that included him. And with all the thunder crashing around, I wouldn't hear a whole squadron of bug bears sneakin' up behind me. Justin, old son, this ain't good.

There was an understatement. Justin staggered back as an especially nasty gust of wind nearly knocked him head over tail. The storm was getting worse by the minute. Most of the tents put up for the Tournament were long gone, and as he passed the first set of stables the wood moaned as if it was in pain. He ducked without thinking, and a piece of roofing narrowly missed his head, hitting the cobblestones with enough force to shatter the wood like glass. He shuddered. Man, what in three kinds of hell am I doin' out here? Fella could get hurt. Matter of fact, a lot of them had. A knight, one of their own, lay sprawled between two water barrels, his head canted to one side, neck clearly broken. Jonas, his name had been, Justin remembered. Yeah, that was it. A nice guy, with a wife and three little ones he was always bragging on. As Justin approached the body shuddered, its eyelids fluttering wildly. Jonas' body began to jerk, the flesh of his face twitching as though a hundred ants were crawling around beneath it. Justin had seen it half a dozen times tonight, but the change still held an uneasy fascination for him. It was unnatural, seeing the dead Jonas start moving again. Dead was supposed to be dead. Permanent-like, even. Grimacing, Justin drew his sword. They were slow and clumsy at first, easy pickings if you had the stomach for it.

"Sorry, buddy." Cutting the poor guy's head off wouldn't kill the zombie, but it would sure inconvenience it some, he reflected as he completed the sad business. Not for the first time Justin wondered what made some folks turn out in such a way as to make the creation of something like this seem reasonable. Most wars came down to ugly little scenes like this one, another reason he liked to stay as far away from them as possible. That made him think of Erik and their father. Neither of them liked warfare, but they seemed to accept it as the natural order of things. Justin wasn't so sure, but then who ever said he was a great thinker? Ladies were more his area of expertise.

Except maybe he wasn't any great expert there, either. Leastwise, that's what Tessa would say. As if the weather itself agreed with his assessment a gust of wind chose that moment to nearly flatten him, and he heard a window give way with a loud crack. The acrid smell of lightning was thick in the air, as was the smell of rain, though not a single drop had fallen. Gathering his strength, Justin pushed away from the side of the building and ran for the rear stables. Tessa needed him.

###

The pain was excruciating. Roland Deerborne blinked fresh blood from his eyes and strained to concentrate. Ignore the pain. Pain is transitory. Pain is nothing. He repeated the mantra, learned when he was still a beardless boy, over and over as he tried unsuccessfully to contact his master. His wards were holding, more or less, but with every passing moment he became more certain that, unthinkable as it seemed, the girl was going to win.

Oh, not because of her superior skills. He allowed himself a small smirk at the thought. She was as rough and untrained as he and his master had believed, perhaps even more so. But this foolish slip of a girl had access to power that no one had controlled in more than a thousand years, and was flinging it about with the abandon of a child throwing a temper tantrum. She had forced him into a defensive position and she, unlike he, showed no signs of tiring. Unless he found a way to counter her, and soon, she would overpower him. The fact that, unchecked, she would likely go on to tear this misbegotten continent apart was small comfort.

"Avek, avek, mes saruman korum—" The words slipped through cracked lips as another lightning bolt slipped—barely!!—off his wards. The deflected energy nonetheless hammered him to the ground and he tasted fresh blood. Wind tore at his eyes and slapped dirt and straw against his skin, leaving it red and raw. Where is he? Did the old fool Traquill actually defeat him? His master had assured him it was impossible. Traquill's powers were waning, the wizard growing old and decrepit. His master was still relatively young, with the tactical benefits of prior planning and surprise. It was supposed to be, in his master's words, a cake walk. But the contact he'd finally managed had been weak, and had shattered under the girl's sudden attack.

Roland was forced to break off the incantation as a support beam groaned and gave way, crashing to the floor where he'd been a scant second ago. He rolled to his feet, forcing himself to ignore the way the room dipped and swayed around him. The girl laughed and it sent an involuntary shiver down his spine.

"Where is your bold talk now, wizard?" There was nothing human in that voice. The trouble was, there was no sense of control, either. Steeling himself, he whispered the necessary words and gout of fire erupted from the floor, courtesy of the fourth abyssal hell. It enveloped the girl immediately and he had the satisfaction of hearing her scream in pain.

The trouble was, once on this plane it was just ordinary fire, and the girl either knew it or sensed it. An instant later the fire disappeared as the air that fueled it was abruptly withdrawn. There was a faint popping sound as more air rushed in to fill the empty space.

"Ohhh." The girl's eyes widened in surprise and pain. Her skin was blistered and blackened in spots, her dress a smoldering ruin. For just a moment the wind died, the lightnings ceased their attack. She was just a girl again, a girl who had never known real pain. Roland grinned.

"Shiren." The small imps he could summon with a word appeared at her feet, their long claws digging into her calves and ankles. Imps were weak and cowardly, but he needed to keep her off balance. He drew his sword. Now that he had the advantage once again, he could keep her reacting instead of acting long enough to physically overpower her. Once that was done he would have ample time to reach his master and arrange for their return.

The girl made a revolted mewing sound and gestured frantically at her feet. In response, the ground opened up, thick roots reaching up to grasp the two imps. They skittered away, chattering fearfully. Her hands came up to her face, as if trying to assess the damage there. She looked panicked, uncertain. He decided to try one last time to best her by magical means. Magic that would keep her physically unharmed, which would undoubtedly please his master. He had one last spell prepared, waiting only for the right word of power to be spoken aloud.

"Submit." He put all of his remaining energy into that one word. Magical energy strong enough to see with the naked eye flowed from him to the girl. It was several magnitudes above what he had used on the servant girl, and should have Tessa, have any mortal for that matter, on her knees begging to serve him. His skills were primarily those of manipulation, and there was no man better in all the world at this particular trick.

"Mmmm." As he had hoped, she moaned and fell to her knees, hands clutching spastically at straw and dirt as the spell did its work. Hot exultation flooded through him. She was his! It might be hours before he was strong enough to contact his master, but what of it? There were all kinds of ways to while away the hours, and the thought of having this one, compliant yet fully aware and utterly at his mercy, was intoxicating, to say the least. Desire, hot and heavy, ran suddenly through his veins. He walked to her and knelt to caress her face.

"Oh, Tessa. We'll have such fun, you and—"

Out of nowhere something hard slammed into his skull, knocking Roland back and making his thoughts reel in confusion. He would had sworn on his soul that the girl was helpless. So how had she--?

"You know, somehow I don't think the lady's all that wild about your idea of fun." A male voice, with a countrified accent coating an unmistakable tone of command. Justin Greystone. Of course.

"I don't need her approval." Shaking off the last of the dizziness, Roland rose and drew his sword, assessing the situation as he moved to stand between his new enemy and the prize he had won. "Any more than I need your interference. The girl is mine, Greystone."

"See, now, that's where you and I disagree." Greystone took a step forward, raising his weapon menacingly. "Why don't you just come on over here and we'll discuss it, real polite-like."

"Sorry, Greystone. I'm afraid that my plans for the girl have nothing whatsoever to do with carousing or avoiding responsibility. And unless I'm mistaken, those are your only areas of expertise." He took a calculated shot in the dark. "That's what your family says, at any rate. Were they wrong?" The sudden flush on the other man's face told him he'd scored a hit. Power tingled across Roland's fingertips and the warlock smiled inwardly. Not much power, true, but more than enough to deal with this half-witted younger prince. Roland took a step forward, closing the distance between them, and with the briefest flicker of concentration, flung out his off hand. An instant later sparks exploded into painful light and heat directly in Greystone's face. He saw the prince flinch, the man's eyes closing reflexively, too late. The Camarand prince was blinded. With a heartfelt prayer to his dark gods Roland swung his sword. If the gods were with him, he could finish this with a single blow and be gone with the girl before anyone was the wiser. The blade flashed through the air, headed unerringly for Greystone's defenseless throat.

###

The sun had exploded.

It was the only thing that could explain the light that seared his eyes and sent needles of white-hot pain shooting into his skull. Justin blinked fiercely, tears streaking down his cheeks unheeded as he tried desperately to clear his vision. What Deerborne had been doing to Tess had had Justin seeing red, sure enough, and now it looked like the warlock was trying to--

move

Justin had been listening to the small, quiet voice all of his life, and it had kept him out of more nasty scrapes than he could count. Listening to it now saved his life. Still unable to see, Justin jerked back just as a sword blade bit through the air where his throat had been an instant before. That same still voice brought his weapon up, not to parry, but to slash at the enemy he couldn't see. The blade bit flesh, and he was rewarded with a cry of pain as he completed his swing and brought his weapon back to ready. Through a red and black haze Justin could just make out the shape of a man, hunched over and moving away.

"So there is more to you than meets the eye. Interesting." The warlock was trying to sound tough, but Justin could hear the pain and strained desperation in his voice. Blinking fiercely through the red haze, Justin took a step forward. Another few seconds and he'd nail the bastard to the wall, Justin vowed. Just a few seconds more…

"That's far enough." Deerborne sounded more confident now, and as the last of the magic-induced haze cleared from Justin's vision he could see why. Deerborne stood just out of sword's reach, one arm holding Tessa tightly against him, a knife at her throat. He was holding the near-unconscious girl in front of him like a shield, a tight grin on his face. "Drop your sword."

"I don't think so." Justin let the tip of his blade drop, watching intently to see if the warlock's gaze would follow it. The guy wasn't fool enough to do that, but Justin breathed a sigh of relief all the same. Wizards could bleed just like normal folks if you cut them, and Deerborne was bleeding plenty from the severed stump that was all that was left of his good left hand. The bleeding was already slowing, but from the way Deerborne was holding it up and the pasty white look on his face, it was hurting the guy plenty. He was swaying a little, and leaning more and more on Tess for support. Tessa looked stunned, but Justin could hardly blame her for that. Once things settled down she'd be fine, he figured. But in the mean time,

"Why don't you put that pig-sticker down," Justin suggested in a calm drawl. "Somebody's gonna get hurt if you keep waving that thing around." Give me an opening, buddy. Just one…

"That was the general idea," Deerborne replied through gritted teeth. All of the magician's concentration was focused on Justin, like a guy who'd had too much to drink before picking a bar fight. "Put the weapon down and step back, or I will kill her."

She's not the one gonna get hurt, son." Justin's voice was low and calm, but his eyes told a different story. Had any of his friends or family been present, they would hardly have recognized the carefree scoundrel prince in the grim, determined man who stood there now. Backed into a corner, the red-headed bastard might well kill the girl to save himself, Justin knew. No way was he going to let that happen. No way.

And maybe it wouldn't. Tessa was stirring, her face flooding with animation as she came back from wherever she'd been. She hadn't started to struggle yet, but it wouldn't be long, now. Deerborne was looking real rocky, and it was taking all of the man's strength just to keep an eye on Justin. An elbow to the gut from Tess, or even just a good bard-quality scream, and Deerborne would lose his concentration. And right after that the murdering, thieving bastard would lose his head.

"Tessa and I are leaving now. Aren't we, Tessa?" The magician nudged his captive, an ugly smile on his pale, sweaty face. "Tell him, Tessa. Tell Prince Greystone how much you want to go with me." Deerborne's confidence gave Justin pause. There was no way Tessa would go with him voluntarily. Was there?

"Mmm." Tessa looked like she was waking up, shaking off the tail end of some unpleasant dream. "What?"

"Tell your paramour that you've changed your mind, Tessa. You can't wait to return home to Daddy." There was a hint of malicious glee in Deerborne's words that made Justin's hand tighten on his sword hilt. What was this?

"Go home?" Tessa echoed. She looked confused, still sleepy, like she was…under his spell?

"Stop it." Justin took a step forward.

"The girl is mine, Greystone. Body and soul. Guess you'll have to find yourself another bed warmer, hmm? Don't worry. In a week's time you'll have forgotten all about—"

"Stop it." Tessa's voice was stronger this time, but her face still had a remote look to it Justin didn't much like.

"That's enough, Tessa. We'll have plenty of time for chit-chat once we get you—"

"Stop it. Stop touching me. Stop…I can feel you inside me." Trembling hands went to her temples, as if to shut out a voice only she could hear. "I won't…"

"You will. Listen to the sound of my voice, Tessa. Only my voice. You're going to—" What he had planned for Tessa Justin would never know. The warlock broke off, a funny look on his face. The knife blade moved just a fraction away from the girl's neck, and Justin knew he'd never have a better chance. He lunged forward, grabbing the wrist that held the knife.

"Tessa, move!"

The girl stood stock still, as if she hadn't even heard him.

"Damn it, Tess, can't you just do what I say this once?" His other hand still holding his sword, Justin didn't have a free hand to push the girl aside. A tingle sensation ran through the hand holding the warlock's wrist. More magic, more like. "Move, girl!"

"No," Tessa whispered. She seemed a million miles away, her face even more remote than before, her eyes closed as if in a trance. He'd have to drag Deerborne away, then, and hope like hell he could put an end to the warlock before the guy pulled off whatever trick was making Justin's hand tingle so. Funny thing was, the guy didn't look like someone about to throw a magic whammy on anyone. His eye were wide with surprise, his red hair standing on end like he'd just gotten the scare of his life. It was almost funny.

Then Tessa opened her eyes.

"No." The single word was cold, ruthless. Dirk Blackpool could have taken lessons, Justin thought with the small part of his mind that wasn't frozen.

What has frozen him as solid as a tankard of ale left overnight in the icehouse was Tessa's eyes. They were normally a pale blue, slightly unfocused but filled with a warmth and animation that he'd gotten pretty fond of. All of that was gone now, replaced by something that chilled him to the bone. Where Tessa's eyes had been was now a roiling storm. A deep blue the color of the mid-day sky filled her eyes, and as he watched clouds rolled across those inhuman eyes. As if in response, the skies above roared. Thunder so loud it shook the building crashed around them, making the horses nearby scream in shrill fear. Tessa reacted to none of it, her face a mask of rage and loathing far beyond anything Justin would have thought his kind, shy minstrel capable of.

"No more," she whispered.

A bright flash of light lit the stable brighter than day, and Justin had a confused instant to register that the light seemed to come from the ground and explode upward before he was sailing through the air, the hand that had been touching Deerborne throbbing with white-hot pain. Justin hit the far wall with tooth-rattling force and slid to the straw-covered floor, barely consciously. What the hell had hit him?

Tessa had. A wind had come from nowhere, lifting her hair and turning her tattered gown into a living thing that danced and flapped around her. Her small pale hands were clenched into claws and her body seemed to tremble with effort as she stared at the man hanging in the air before her.

It was Roland Deerborne, Justin saw, as he struggled, still dazed, to his feet. Had the warlock managed to cast whatever spell he'd been planning? Was that what had happened? The taste of blood strong in his mouth, Justin leaned back against the wall, trying to get his bearings. No, Tessa didn't seem hurt, he saw. Deerborne, on the other hand, looked like he was having a real bad day. The warlock's clothing was blackened and tattered and seemed to be smoking in places. His hands (well, okay, hand) hung limp at his side, his feet a good two feet off the ground. The roof above him was gone, and the smell of lightning was strong in the air. Another crack of thunder shook the air, and just as suddenly everything went quiet. Too quiet.

"…dead. They're all dead. Everything's death. Death you brought." Her voice was devoid of anger, of any kind of emotion. It was worse than any tears or rage would have been, Justin thought. The hairs on his back began to rise, as if in agreement.

"No." Deerborne's voice strangled on that simple word. His hand rose unsteadily in the air, as if in supplication. The knife he'd been holding fell to the ground, unheeded, and the sound it made when it hit seemed very loud in the weird, uncanny silence.

"Yes." Tessa didn't so much as twitch, but the ground began to ripple like waves in a pond. Wooden planks split and shredded, revealing dirt beneath that tossed and turned like a living thing. Deerborne shifted awkwardly, struggling to keep his balance. The warlock looked like he was going to make a break for it, but Tessa never gave him the chance. Soil rose up in waves, crashing down to the wooden planks in an almost perfect circle around Deerborne. In the center Deerborne seemed to be shrinking as the pit he found himself in grew deeper with every passing moment. He clawed at the dirt, trying to pull himself out, then fell to his knees as he finally lost his footing. Justin had to give the guy credit. Deerborne never stopped struggling, not even when the dirt began to cascade back into the pit, running like water over his legs, waist, and finally up over his chest.

"Tessa, it doesn't--" Deerborne broke off, coughing, as dirt filled his mouth. He spat it out and tried again. "I can help you! I can show you how to use your gifts. Together we could rule--" The warlock gagged as dirt again filled his mouth. He spat it out, only to have more dirt spill in with his next breath. Now the warlock showed real fear for the first time, and Justin watched without a twinge of regret as the man clawed frantically at his throat while the soil continued to rise. Justin caught one last glimpse of the man's wide, staring eyes before the ground swept over him at last. It was over. Or was it?

"Tess? Justin walked unsteadily toward the girl, his boots crunching on upturned soil and fragments of the wooden boards. The wind was picking up now, spinning debris and straw in restless whirlwinds around them. A whisper of thunder rang overhead, followed immediately by a heavy grumble that brought with it the crackle of lightning. The storm wasn't done yet, it looked like. Through all of it Tessa stared fixedly at the ground where Deerbrone had been. What did she see, he wondered.

"…to dust you return." Tessa swept one hand parallel to the floor and the dirt smoothed out, groaning as it compressed back down into its original shape. If she'd heard Justin she gave no sign.

"Tessa?' Justin reached out, but something kept him from touching the fair-haired girl. This was the "royal witch" Deerborne and his master had searched a continent for, he knew now. The thing Traquill had warned them would be the end of the world. But she looked tired, lost, and fragile, and most of him wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and comfort her. It was the part of him that wasn't in love with her yet, the part that was a Greystone and heir to a lot more than crowns and fancy costumes, that had his hand reaching for his sword. Even as his fingers tightened around the sword hilt Justin wasn't sure which part of him would win out.

###

Find Sir Hugh. Find Sir Hugh. The refrain ran through Darrell's head like a mouse on a wheel, and it was the only thing that kept the young squire from curling up under a table and closing his eyes until it was all over. Prince Erik said that they were winning now, and if he said such a thing it had to be true. But men continued to fall and rise in the Great Hall, rise as horrible zombie creatures that were almost impossible to kill. Darrell ducked as a great blow swung over his head to impact in the chest of one of the zombies. It should have been a mortal blow, but the creature only smiled, a terrible sight and one that seemed to burn itself into Darrell's mind, before swinging an axe already clotted with blood and flesh. The axe bit deep, and Darrell turned his head away. There were so many of them, with more joining the battle each time one of the living fell. The world was awash in death, it seemed.

Find Sir Hugh. He'll know what to do. But were was he? Darrell jumped up into the air, hoping to see that familiar face above the crowd. No such luck. What if Sir Hugh was already dead? The thought didn't bear thinking on. Darrell knew his own skill with a sword was fair at best, and the knights and soldiers on both sides of the battle towered over him, with a reach and strength he couldn't hope to match. Darrell's duty as a squire was to support his knight, providing whatever aid he could before, during, and after the battle. What if Sir Hugh needed a fresh weapon, or a message sent, or had a wound in need of bandaging? There was no one there to help him!

"Sir Hugh!" Pointless to cry out in this din, Darrell knew. But what else was there? Leaping onto one of the few tables still standing, he called out again.

"SIR HUGH!"

Several heads turned at his cry, but none of them belonged to his master. But…there. In the far corner, near the King's dais, several knights stood in a rough circle, holding off what seemed to be dozens of zombies. One of the knights looked familiar enough to momentarily stop Darrell's heart. Could it be…?

It was! A hundred pounds of weight slipped off Darrell's shoulders as he watched his master decapitate one of the dread creatures, his strong face covered with gore but filled with enough determination for ten men. For a shameful moment Darrell thought he might weep, the feeling of relief that swept through him was so strong. An instant later he was shaking it off and scolding himself for such womanly weakness even as he leapt from the table and darted toward his master's side. Fresh energy flooded him, and he moved easily through the crowds of warriors. In what seemed to be the blink of an eye he was darting between the legs of a massive zombie soldier to take his rightful place at his knight's side.

"Darrell?" Green eyes flickered briefly to the squire before returning to his opponent. Hugh frowned, and when he spoke his voice was firm. But Darrell saw the relief and surprised pleasure in his master's eyes. "Lad, this is no place for you."

"My place is at your side." Darrell lifted his chin, stifling a grin. Prince Erik was right, he thought. They were going to win. How could they lose, with men such as his master fighting for them?

"Darrell, son." Hugh broke off to deal with an especially vicious blow, then continued. "In close quarters like this, all you'll do is get your fool head cut off. If you're lucky."

"I haven't yet. Sir."

Hugh frowned at the impudence, but Darrell had the feeling he was hiding a smile behind that fierce glower. "Well, since you're here, you might as well make yourself useful. To the north, in the far corner, lies the kitchen. That's where the infirmary was set up. I want you to make your way there, and bring back supplies. We have wounded here."

"Sir Hugh! You've been injured!" Darrell stared, aghast, at his master's side. How had his missed it before? Thick blood had welled up between the plates of armor and streamed down past his master's waist. Just above it lie a small slice in the armor itself, undoubtedly where the blade had bit.

"Eh? No, that's nothing, lad. But King Baaldorf has been injured, as have several others. Nothing mortal, but serious enough that I'll risk you to go for aid, if you're willing." He paused to parry a clumsy blow, then continued quietly. "I'll not order you to do this, lad. But we need those supplies."

"I live to serve. King, honor, country." Words he'd memorized in his first days of service. Just saying them aloud, and knowing that he meant every one of them, gave Darrell strength he didn't know he had. Something flickered across Hugh's face, but the knight only nodded.

"Go, then. And may the gods go with you."

Darrell saluted, then darted back into the throng, a smile on his face. There were two dozen or more zombies between him and his goal, and if he got past them once he'd still have to do it a second time, this time loaded down with medical supplies. But that didn't matter. His king needed him. Sir Hugh needed him. And he called me son! Heedless of the danger, Darrell ran for the infirmary.

###

It wasn't fair.

This was supposed to have been one big party. The biggest one of the year, in fact. She'd been supposed to shop, flirt, and gossip. At first all the excitement had been interesting, Ariel thought. Daddy always protected her from the nasty, boring stuff of politics, and Ariel had been surprised to learn that some of it was actually kind of interesting. Almost like gossip, even. But then people started getting hurt, and it got icky. Now all Ariel wanted to do was go home, and a small, shrill voice in her head was telling her even that might not be possible.

Geoffrey bumped into her and Ariel bit back a cry of surprise. She'd been trying to think of something, anything but the battle they were in. Leaving the small infirmary hadn't turned out to be a very good idea, she thought with a small shake of her head. The guards they'd been hoping would save them had turned into yucky zombies, and now they were stuck fighting two of the things instead of just one.

Well, Geoffrey was stuck fighting it, she amended. And doing a pretty good job of it, though her dress was never going to be the same. One of the things that had attacked them had come apart when Geoffrey hit it, showering both of them with the most disgusting stuff you could ever imagine. Another had come to take its friend's place, and Geoffrey was fighting two of the biggest zombie-things she'd ever seen, leaving Ariel to cower behind him against the infirmary door. She could still hear the first zombie pounding on the door, but so far the chair Geoffrey had shoved against it seemed to be holding. It had been in two pieces and on fire, but the darned thing just wouldn't quit. Still, maybe it would be better to go back inside. There was only one of the things in there, after all. And it wasn't any too perky, what with it missing its lower half and all. Ariel put one hand on the chair, biting her lip in thought.

"Geoffrey…?"

"Ariel, I think you'd better--ah!!" Geoffrey cried out as one of the things got an ugly looking axe past his defenses, burying it in Geoffrey's stomach. Geoffrey doubled over, his sword point dropping to the stone tile. The zombie pulled its weapon free, and the sound as it did so made Ariel's stomach flip-flop.

"Geoffrey?" Please, let him be all right, Ariel prayed to whoever was listening in. I know he's the enemy, but he'd not my enemy, if you know what I mean. In fact, he's actually kind of nice, once you get past the crazy big brother and smelly wizard thing. I mean, well--

"Ariel." Geoffrey had straightened up, which was good. But she didn't like the way he sounded. Funny, kind of choke-y, like he was gargling or something. "Run. Now." He was swaying like he'd had too much to drink, and through the noise Ariel could swear she heard…rain? Something tapped against her foot, and Ariel looked down to see red liquid puddling at her feet, ruining her new leather shoes. Blood. That's blood, you ninny. Geoffrey's blood.

For just a minute Ariel almost ran. Geoffrey wanted her to, she knew. And it wasn't like she could fight these yucky things by herself. She was just a girl. More than that, a princess. Princesses were protected, taken care of. They didn't break nails and ruin dresses fighting horrible zombie things. Some of the men fighting out there were Baaldorf men, she saw. They would protect her if she ran to them. With their lives, if need be.

But what about Geoffrey? He was leaning against the wall beside her, holding his sword with one hand and clutching the other to his stomach. He'd been nothing but kind to her. Geoffrey didn't think she was some shallow idiot to marry for political reasons, or an empty-headed daughter to be protected and kept from the world. He had listened to her, and fought to keep her safe. Even now he was holding them off, thinking of her rather than himself. Could she leave him to die?

No. Before she could have second thoughts Ariel jerked the chair away from the door, swinging it up at one of the zombies attacking Geoffrey. The chair shattered like glass, trapping the zombie's sword in a tangle of wood and cloth. Ariel reached behind her and twisted the door knob then shoved inward, breathing a sigh of relief as the door swung inward easily. She reached out for Geoffrey and grabbed his arm.

"Geoffrey! This way!" Geoffrey turned his head toward her with painful slowness. Ariel saw his eyes widen and his mouth start to open. "What are you waiting for? Let's go!"

"Ariel, oh no," Geoffrey stammered, his pale face suddenly dead white. Ariel felt a surge of irritation. Men! Just because it wasn't his idea, Geoffrey was going to get all stubborn and grouchy. Ariel opened her mouth to give him what for, then squeaked as a heavy arm came down across her throat, cutting off her air. The next thing she knew Ariel was being dragged back into the infirmary, a cold, dead arm wrapped tightly across her throat and chest. The other hand held the biggest sword she'd ever seen, and it was coming down straight for her.

To be continued...