This time, she did not scold him for the apology. Instead her face turned hard, and her eyes were shuttered windows. Whatever she looked for, she could not find.

“And what of my father, raised by immortals, who could not even fathom what it is to live in mortal flesh?” she said. “If you pity me, you must pity him too.”

The sting burrowed deep, a needle of white-hot pain. Dom flinched and looked away. He heard Corayne stand, her feet rustling the grass like a rough wind.

“Elders don’t sleep, don’t eat, don’t age,” she bit out, standing. “But you bleed. Can you love? Did you teach my father to? Because he did not love me.”

“There is not a creature in any realm who cannot love,” Dom answered hotly. His ancient temper flared and guttered. It filled him; it hollowed him out. Anger was still foreign and corrosive in his body. Without knowing it, he crossed the grassy hill, until he stood over Corayne, tall as a mountain.

She held her ground.

“And I certainly loved your father,” he said. “Like a brother, like a son. I was there for his first steps, his first tooth, his first words, screaming as they were. The first drop of blood to fall.” Inside he roared, seeing it all over again. “And the last.”

Corayne’s mouth pressed to nothing; her questions finally failed her. Over her shoulder, Sarn’s open eyes were two burning candles.

“Go back to sleep, my lady,” he whispered, turning his broad back on Corayne.

She was happy to oblige, settling down with a very mortal huff. She stilled quickly, eyes firmly shut, but Dom could hear her heart beating rapidly, her breath uneven. Across the clearing, Sarn’s heart thumped a steady, slow beat. Her eyes did not close.

He was tempted to sneer at her, but an odd smell stopped him cold.

Smoke.

He stilled, head raised to the air. There was smoke, somewhere close, its scent curling around him in a phantom wind. He could not see it, but he could smell and taste the acrid burn. It was not woodsmoke, nor a brush fire. Nothing common.

But it was not unfamiliar.

This was the charring of flesh, hands cracked to bone, skin flaking to ash.

Terror lashed down his spine.

Sarn was already on her feet, her hood torn away, her body coiling with tension. She glared at him, reading the fear as it crossed his face.

“Corayne, get up. Sarn, the horses,” he barked, already at Corayne’s side. He took her by the shoulders, pulling her upright before she could open her eyes.

The Amhara made for the animals without argument, but froze at the tree line. The sword at her side sang free of its sheath. Her grip adjusted and she raised the blade high overhead, the steel like a bird of prey poised to strike from the sky.

Dom could hear the horses, undisturbed in their sleep, as if nothing were amiss. The smell of burned flesh only deepened, until Corayne clapped a hand over her nose, her eyes watering.

“What is it?” she said, her voice shaking. Dom did not answer, but moved in front of her, one hand still on her arm.

Sarn took measured steps backward, careful to keep her footing with her sword still raised. Her focus locked ahead, on the shadows wavering beneath knotted cypress. Dom did not need to stand in her place to know what she saw.

It was only a question of how many.

Corayne bit back a gasp of fear as he pulled his own sword free, its keen edges cutting the air. He wished for armor, but leather would have to do, for as long as it could.

How did he find us? How could he know? Dom cursed, searching the trees for the scarlet-robed wizard and Taristan himself. In Dom’s mind, he was still painted in Cortael’s blood, laughing as it bubbled over his lips, with the Spindleblade in hand, more taunting than any smile.

The corpses, the corrupted creatures of the Ashlands and Asunder, wove up the hill in their lumbering steps. White faces leached of color, burned to the bone, their lips torn and cracking, their armor black and greasy with oil, like chicken fresh from the skillet. At the sight of their weapons—rusty knives and broken swords, notched axes and splintered shields—Dom nearly fell to his knees. By the grace of Baleir alone did he remain standing, though every piece of him wished to crumble. Corayne’s arm felt cold in his hand. They could run, but without the horses they might be driven into an ambush at the foot of the hill.

The first came through the trees with a lipless smile, leering at Sarn and her sword. It plodded on twisted limbs, undeterred in its path. The Amhara moved in time, keeping her distance as she retreated across the clearing, her eyes wide and unblinking. Twin spots of color rose in her cheeks, the only evidence of her own fear. Still her heart beat slowly, as if she were only sleeping.

Six more followed, with other shapes wavering through the trees. They smelled like a pile of burned bodies, like a rotten inferno.

“Elder,” she hissed through gritted teeth. “Can they be killed?”

Despite all, Dom felt the tug of a grim smile.

“Yes, they can.”

Sarn stopped moving, her feet set.

“Good.”

All lethal grace, she moved in a killing arc, her sword cutting the air in two as she drew a slanting path.

Dom narrowed his focus to the corpses and Corayne, keeping both at the edge of his perception. With the girl behind him and the creatures ahead, he took lunging steps, his sword twisted in both hands, flashing with the weight of starlight. He drove through the first creature, hefting his blade like a woodsman’s ax. It cut the corpse in half, severing the body at the waist with the ease of steel through water.

Were they always so frail? he thought, turning on his heel to chop down another.

Despite her training as an assassin, Sarn stumbled next to him, nearly losing her balance as her sword passed through an Ashlander. She bit out a cry of bewilderment, stopping to watch the corpse soldier.

Dom did the same, and hardly believed his eyes.

Instead of cutting the Ashlander from shoulder to hip, cleaving through flesh, her sword moved as if through mist. The edges of the creature curled from the blade in wisps of white, black, and a shock of ghostly blue. The rest faded like the smoke of a snuffed candle, trailing into nothing.

Sarn did not react, her focus snapping to the next Ashlander, and the next, still coming through the trees. They were faster now, lunging, spurred to action by her strike. She never lost her balance again.

Dom balked, looking back at the two he had already dispatched. But instead of bodies, there was only smoke curling on the ground, disappearing into the grass.

Corayne gaped, slack-jawed, at the sight.

One roared a tortured scream, the voice inhuman, and Dom reacted with blurring speed, raising his sword to parry a cursed blow. Instead his blade passed through the ruined iron of corpse armor, and another Ashlander gave over to nothing.

The others did the same, fleeing before every strike. Their own weapons turned to dust against steel, until there was nothing in the clearing but the trio and the drifting smell of flame.

In the trees, the horses continued to doze.

Dom spun in a circle, searching for more. Searching for the trick. He expected Taristan to fall on them, expected the wizard to rain lightning. He thought he heard the bell again, tolling for the temple and the fallen. But there was nothing but the breeze in the cypress. His breath came hard and heavy, not from exertion, but from pure bewilderment.

Corayne fell bodily to the ground, her face bone white.