“Who, no. Where: nearby. But I’ve shattered his scrying tool.”
“That’s not going to be the end of it.”
“I doubt it.” Naitachal glanced sharply about, a predator hunting elusive prey. “The sooner we are dear of this battle-field-that-was, the bettor.”
And then the earth shook. Kevin’s mule screamed in terror, rearing up so violently the bardling went flying. He twisted frantically in mid-air, landing with a jolt on his feet, lute smacking him in the side, noting out of the corner of his eye that only Naitachal had managed to keep his seat and staring as the meadow writhed, tearing itself apart. Out of the shattered earth rose:
No. That’s not possible, his mind insisted, over and over.
Climbing up into the land of the living were the long-dead, the skeletons of humans and Others, the fallen victims of that now-forgotten battle returned, fleshless skulls grinning, fleshless hands gripping swords and axes. Sightless sockets stared blankly at the horrified living.
Behind them, wrapped in a cloak as black as that worn by Naitachal stood a figure who could only be the necromancer who’d dragged them forth. All Kevin could see of the face under the dark hood were a gray beard— proof the man at least was human—and fierce, pitiless gray eyes: sorcerous eyes. In the man’s hand a wooden staff topped with a serpentine carving crackled with blue-white force.
To his right, the bardling heard Naitachal let out his breath in a long hiss. “So ...” the Dark Elf said softly. “I thought as much.”
He flung himself from his frantic mule, slapping it out of the way of his magic. “Get out of here, all of you.”
Eliathanis’ sword glinted in his hand. “Are you mad? We can’t leave you here alone!”
“You can’t fight what isn’t alive! Get out of here!”
But it was already too late. The other sorcerer thrust out his staff, and the undead army charged.
“You shall no;!” With that, Naitachal shouted out fierce, ugly, commanding Words in the harsh language of sorcery, hurling his arms up in denial. The skeletal enemy stumbled back from the force of his will—but behind them, the human necromancer cast up his own arms, staff raised, shouting out his own dark spell. Kevin, near-Bard that he was, saw the psychic flames of sorcery that blazed out from both foes, crashing together in a shower of blinding, blue-white sparks. He heard Naitachal gasp at the impact, but the Dark Elf’s will held firm.
So, unfortunately, did that of the human foe.
But as the sorcerers stood locked in their savage, silent battle, both lost their hold on the skeletal warriors. They, empty things that they were, followed the only command they had received, and resumed their interrupted charge.
“Look out!” Lydia cried. “Here they come!”
Kevin gripped his sword as tightly as he could, trying not to let it shake in his hand. Powers, Powers, how do you hurt a skeleton?
All at once, the arch of sorcery vanished with a roar of whirling air. Naitachal shouted out new Words of command, the sound alien, hating, the essence of Dark Elf necromancy. The Words enfolding the undead bending them to his will. For a moment the deadly things hesitated, caught, quivering with the strain.
Then, slowly, they turned to threaten the human necromancer instead. His eyes widened in shock, and for a moment Kevin thought the man was going to break from sheer surprise. But after that startled moment, the gray eyes blazed up in renewed fury. The necromancer thrust out his staff with such force the undead reeled and fell back—only to be caught anew in the net of Naitachal’s Power.
“Th-they’re fighting each other!” the bardling gasped. “They’re fighting their own battle all over again!”
Well and good, but not all the skeletal army had found foes. Some of them came spilling up towards the living. Lydia loosed an arrow—but it passed harmlessly through a fleshless rib cage.
“Damn!”
“Try for their joints,” Eliathanis said grimly. “Cut those apart, and the creatures cannot move.”
Kevin didn’t have time to worry about it. He just barely had a chance to put his lute aside before a skeleton headed right towards him, axe raised. The bardling could have sworn that fleshless grin had sentient malice behind it—
