With a snarl, he raised both hands to his helmet and ripped it away, revealing his face.

Andry let out a gasp, mouth ajar.

The two brothers stared, mirror images of each other.

Twins.

Though Taristan was ragged where Cortael was regal, Andry could barely tell them apart. They had the same fine face, piercing eyes, stern jaw, thin lips, high brow, and strange, distant way of all those of Spindleblood. Separate from the other mortals, alike only to each other.

Cortael recoiled, stricken. “Taristan,” he said, his voice nearly swallowed by the rain.

The sword stealer drew his own Spindleblade, unsheathing it in a long, slow motion. It sang in harmony with the bell, a high breath to a deep bellow.

“Every dream you ever had was given. Every path you ever walked already decided,” Taristan said. Rain lashed the blade. “Your fate was chosen the day we were born, Cortael. Not mine.”

“So what do you choose now, Brother?”

Taristan raised his chin. “I choose the life I should have lived.”

The infernal bell tolled again, deeper this time.

“You gave me the chance to surrender.” Taristan’s lip curled. “I’m afraid I can’t do the same. Ronin?”

The wizard raised his hands, white as snow, palms outstretched.

The Sirandels moved faster than Andry thought possible, three arrows leaping from the string. They aimed true, for the heart, the throat, the eye. But inches from Ronin’s face, the arrows burned away. More arrows flew, faster than Andry thought possible. Again the arrows flamed beneath the red glare, little more than smoke in the rain.

Cortael raised his sword high, meaning to cut Ronin in half.

Taristan was quicker, parrying the blow with the clang of steel on steel. “What you learned in a palace,” he hissed, their identical faces close, “I learned better in the mud.”

The wizard’s palms came together, and there was the grate of stone, another curl of thunder, and the hiss of liquid on something hot, like oil sizzling in a pan. Terror bled through Andry as he looked to the temple, once empty, but no longer. The doors swung outward, pushed by a dozen white hands streaked in ash and soot. Their skin split and cracked, showing bone beneath, or oozing red wounds. Andry could not see their faces, and for that he was grateful. He could scarcely imagine the horror of them. A hot light pulsed from within the temple, so bright as to be blinding, as the shadows spilled from the doorway and raced across the clearing.

The Companions turned toward the commotion, faces dropping in shock.

“The Ashlands,” Rowanna of Sirandel gasped. Her golden eyes widened with the same fear Andry felt in himself, though he had no idea what she meant. For a moment her focus shifted from the temple to the horses up the hill. It was not difficult to guess her mind.

She wanted to run.

Below, Cortael growled in Taristan’s face, their blades locked together. “The Spindle?”

The other twin leered. “Already torn, the crossing already made.” He moved in a flash of speed, bringing his elbow across Cortael’s face with a crack. The great lord spun, falling, his broken nose gushing a torrent of scarlet blood. “What sort of idiot do you think I am?”

Dom leapt, roaring an Elder battle cry. He moved in a graceful arc, until the wizard raised a hand and brushed him aside with barely a touch, tossing him into the mud some yards away.

The foul, living corpses of the Spindle forced their way from the temple in the dozens, tumbling over each other. Some were already broken, crawling on shattered limbs rattling in greasy black armor. They were like mortal men but not, twisted from the inside out. Most clutched battle-worn weapons: rusted iron swords and notched axes, cracked daggers, splintered spears. Broken but still sharp, still lethal. Arrows peppered the horde, the Sirandels felling the first wave like wheat before the scythe. They could be killed, but their numbers only grew. They carried an unmistakable odor of smoke and burned flesh, and a hot wind blew from inside the temple, from the Spindle, bringing with it clouds of ash.

Andry could not move, could not breathe. He could only stare as the corpses fell upon the Companions, a scarred and bloody army of a lost realm. Were they living? Were they dead? Andry could not say. But they kept an odd circle around Taristan and Cortael. As if commanded to let the brothers fight.

Okran’s spear danced, skewering throats as he moved in agile arcs. The Gallish knights formed a well-practiced triangle, fighting hard, their swords stained in black and red. Surim and Nour were but blurs through the fray, shortsword and daggers dancing. They left destruction in their wake, cutting a path through the bodies as they surged. The creatures screamed and fought, their voices inhuman, screeching and frayed, their vocal cords shredded. Andry could hardly distinguish faces—they were bleached beyond recognition, scalps bare and skin the color of bone, scarred red or painted in dripping oil. Flaking with ash, they looked like wood burned white, scorched from the inside out.

The plan was two against twelve, Andry thought, petrified. But no, it’s twelve against dozens. Hundreds.

The horses snorted and tugged at their ropes. They smelled the danger, the blood, and most of all the Spindle hissing within the temple. It filled their bones with lightning terror.

Taristan and Cortael circled each other, Cortael’s armor half painted in mud. Blood ran down his chin and over his antlered breastplate. Their blades came together, striking true. Cortael was skill and force, where Taristan was an alley cat, always moving, shifting on his toes, sword in one hand, dagger in the other, using both in equal measure. He smashed; he dodged; he used the mud and the rain to his advantage. He grinned and sneered, spitting blood in his brother’s face. He slammed his blade down on his brother’s shoulder, his light plate and ring mail. Cortael grimaced in pain but seized his brother around the middle. The twins toppled together, rolling through the muck.

Andry watched without blinking, frozen to the spot. What can I do? What can I do? His hands shook; his body trembled. Draw a sword, damn you. Fight. It’s your duty. You want to be a knight, and knights are not afraid. A knight would not stand and watch. A knight would charge down this hill and into the chaos, shield and sword ready.

Below the hill, the mud turned red.

And a knight would die doing it.

Arberin screamed first.

A corpse grabbed his red braid, climbing on his back. Another followed. And another, and another, until the sheer weight of bodies brought the Elder to the ground. Their blades were many. White steel, black iron, pitted and old. But sharp enough.

His flesh gave easily.

Rowanna and Marigon fought their way to their kin. They reached a body still bleeding, his immortal life ended.

Sir Grandel and the Norths were losing ground, their triangle tightening with each passing second. Swords danced; shields bashed; gauntlets cracked on flesh. Bodies piled around them, white limbs and decapitated heads. Edgar tripped first, falling as if through water, slowly, the end already realized. Until Sir Grandel seized him by the cloak, pulling him back upright.

“With me!” he shouted over the din. In the training yards of the palace, it meant keep up, be strong, push harder. Today it simply meant stay alive.

The Bull Rider roared, his ax wheeling, cutting throats with every pass. Red and black streaked his armor, blood and oil. But the mercenary could not keep up his pace. Andry wanted to scream when the horned helm of Bress the Bull Rider disappeared beneath the corpse tide.