“You escaped,” said Argyll, as if he was barely surprised. “What brings you here?”

Farris stepped forward. “The city won’t hold for much longer. If protecting the king is still your highest priority, then I recommend we escort him out from the city. Skirmisher can—”

Argyll raised a hand. “What authority do you have, to come in here and demand what our next actions are?”

“I have no authority,” began Farris. “But we have no real hope of fighting the horde. If their leader really wants the king dead, we must ensure that doesn’t happen.” He gestured towards Nicole. “We are leaving Penance by airship. Anyone who would like to come too can join. The decision is yours, not mine. Will you come?”

“Let’s ask the king himself,” said Argyll, smiling as he bowed to Diarmuid. “What does His Grace think of this plan?”

King Diarmuid sat upright and threw Farris a peculiar glance. “This was not meant to happen,” he muttered. “None of this was. We no longer walk in the Light of the Lady.”

“See,” said Argyll. “His mind is not sound. He is incapable of making a decision for himself.”

Farris paused, considering his next move. He turned towards Padraig. “Captain Tuathil. You have taken responsibility before for the king’s well-being. If anyone is able to answer for His Grace, it is you.”

Padraig threw a peculiar glance from Farris to Argyll. He swallowed deeply. “If I leave, this will be the second time I’ve fled from the horde. But where are we to flee to? Is there any land left untouched by the dead?”

“To the south,” said Farris. “Over the Sea of Storms. We’ll keep flying until we find land.”

Argyll let out a short, sharp laugh. “And then what? Settle? Make a new life for ourselves? Establish a new kingdom?”

A loud crash rang out from below, followed by several scattered screams.

Each strand of hair on Farris’s body stood on end.

It’s over. There’s no escape.

Across the room, Argyll dashed to the window. “They’re here!” he cried; his voice quivering with terror. “They’re filling the streets. One of the gates must have fallen.”

Nicole stepped forward and removed her helm. Her expression was stern and unmoving.

“There is no shame in running when your foe cannot be beaten,” she said. “Come with us if you value your life over some archaic notion of valour. If you do not value your life, then do so for the king you have sworn to protect with it. Spending more lives now will only grow the horde. You can come with us or join the horde and fight against us. Your choice.” With that, she turned to leave without looking back. If she had, she would have seen that even King Diarmuid himself had risen to follow her.

***

“Get behind me!” cried Aislinn, positioning herself in front of Fionn.

The mage held his severed hand against his chest and could do nothing but look up at the great figure that protected him. Plates of Simian steel covered every inch of her body, leaving nothing but her jaw and mouth exposed. In two hands, she gripped a massive greatsword, which she wielded as easily as if it were made of wood. Even with the horde approaching from down the valley, her stance did not waver.

Fionn gritted his teeth and slowly stood to his feet.

“I’ll fight,” he said, trying hard to ignore the blood dripping from his hand. “I can still fight.”

“You need to retreat,” said Aislinn, not turning back. “You’re in no state to be here.”

Fionn narrowed his eyes and focused on the wound. With all the time he had spent mastering Pyromancy, the other Schools of Magic had somewhat faded from his memory. He was still capable of boiling water with Hydromancy, and one occasion he’d use Aeromancy to turn the page of a book.

But can I still Heal, he thought, reaching into his soul to pour power into the open wound. He felt the torn flesh resonate within his soul. He flared the fire in his heart and turned all his might into stopping the bleeding. His heartbeat began to slow, and a warm, soothing feeling enveloped his hand.

The ground rumbled beneath him, and Fionn found himself surrounded by hundreds of charging soldiers. Living soldiers. Those who had come from the gate didn’t slow as they passed Aislinn and the others, but instead continued on to face the horde.

“Follow them,” cried Aislinn to the others. “Let us take the fight to the dead this time!”

The others around her let out an uplifting cry and broke away from their position.

“Return to the gate,” Aislinn said. “Your wound is too great. You’ll only be putting yourself at—”

She paused on seeing Fionn’s hand. He hadn’t fully healed his fingers, but the bleeding had stopped, and a thin layer of skin covered the holes where they had once been.

“I’m not turning back,” said Fionn. He could barely think straight over the agony in his hand, but he wasn’t about to share that with Aislinn.

She sighed. “Mages,” she muttered as she turned. “Don’t fall behind. I’ll do my best to protect you.”

Fionn smiled. “As I will you.”

Loud cries of battle rang out ahead, but by the time they reached the fray, it was difficult to tell who was fighting whom. Some men and Simians fought against those obviously undead, for it was easy to discern the skeletal and headless soldiers from those of the Triad. But some wights wore the armour of the Triad, and they fought against those clad in the same.

A crossbow bolt whizzed past Fionn’s head, but he pressed on, keeping close to Aislinn. The mighty woman swung her greatsword in wide arcs, severing wights all around. A skeletal soldier mounted atop a horse galloped towards Aislinn, but she deftly dodged aside and plunged her sword into the beast’s chest. The horse let out a harrowing cry and fell to the ground, crushing another corpse beneath its mighty weight.

Fionn turned to find an undead soldier behind him. With an ounce of Geomancy, he pushed the soldier’s sword aside, letting it fall to the ground. Unarmed, the soldier still bounded towards him. The mage balked in response, but suddenly Aislinn stood between them. With little effort, she cut the wight down, barely acknowledging Fionn.

I’m little use without my fire. Fionn glanced around for an open flame to manipulate. Instead, his gaze fell on the sword dropped by the wight. He bent down to pick it up, holding it awkwardly with his oversized arm.

That’s not your main hand, said the Sir Bearach. Although it was once mine. Have you experience wielding a sword?

Fionn gripped the hilt tight and swung the sword to gauge its weight. The force of the swing caused him to stumble, almost dropping the weapon in the process.

Stay with Aislinn, urged Sir Bearach. You are no fighter. You never should have followed!

Shut up, said Fionn, looking around to find Aislinn again. You’re not helping. You’re—

The sight across the battlefield caused Fionn’s trail of thought to stop in its tracks. Mere throwing distance away, a short, black figure stood within the horde. At first, it appeared to be covered in feathers, but as Fionn stepped closer, the image resolved itself to that of a girl. Blood was clotted in her hair, as black and tangled as the feathers of her cloak.

She raised a dainty arm overhead, and something rumbled from across the battlefield. On the far side of the valley, a huge chunk of the surrounding mountains broke away, collapsing on top of the soldiers below. The girl smiled at this sight and turned her attention back to the battle.

Then her gaze fell upon Fionn. Her wicked smile widened, and she began moving towards him.

Put an arrow in the bitch that leads them, echoed Plackart’s words from Fionn’s memory. That’s the only way to beat the horde.

Ignoring all else going on around him, Fionn pressed on. He tightened his grip on the sword, but something stirred beneath his fingers. The blade began to bend inward, twisting under some invisible force. Fionn cast it aside. Instead of falling, the sword’s hilt spun around and hit Fionn’s leg, knocking him to the ground.

In a daze, Fionn tried to pull himself to his feet. But when he looked up, the face of Morrígan was all he could see. Lengths of knotted hair obscured her features, with dried blood speckled across her skin. Her cracked, dried lips revealed a smile, more terrible and mischievous than the last.

“You are the one who made the fire,” she said, pressing a foot against Fionn’s chest. “You’re strong, but weak as a puppy without your rings.”

Fionn stretched his arm to the side, hoping to grab another weapon, but his fingers only found dirt.

“There is power in your soul,” rasped Morrígan, leaning in. She inhaled deeply, as if sniffing the air. “More power than most. There is something special about you. Something that sets you aside from the others.”