Something moving, out in the dark.
Again.
“There. And there,” Slag said. The dwarf pointed outward, into the darkness. He turned about on one heel and pointed in another direction. “And over there. More of them.”
Croy froze in place and tried not to breathe. He listened, hard. In a moment there was no denying it. More revenants were approaching.
A vast horde of them.
Croy could hear their clumsy feet slapping against the cobblestones, their weapons dragging behind them. The occasional scream of a tortured soul split the dark. Long before he could see them, he could hear them.
And then the first of them came into the light. Some were mutilated beyond recognition, with limbs hanging by shreds of muscle, or missing entire body parts. Some wore armor that had already been hacked to bits centuries ago. Others wore no armor at all, but only robes and cloaks and tunics that had rotted away to bare threads.
Their faces were twisted, grotesque, withered to parody. A clot of greasy hair spilled down over an empty eye socket. A pointed ear gnawed on by rats stuck up from an otherwise bare skull. Noses were missing or had decayed to pustulant blobs of flesh. Teeth stuck out of battered jaws in random directions. Time and death had not been kind to the army that now approached.
That army did not care about its appearance. Croy felt like he knew their inner thoughts: they had only one goal, one desire, which was long-frustrated revenge. Their ancient enemy, the humans (and one hated dwarf, betrayer of their people) had come into their resting place and disturbed the silence. The intruders must be destroyed.
How long had they been down here, lying motionless on the cold cobbles, waiting for the chance to enact their terrible rage? How many years had passed since they died here-abandoned, starving, with no light even to show them each other’s faces?
The dark air around Croy seemed to pulsate with their hatred. As if it were a demon itself, ready to swallow them all as soon as their light flickered out. Of course, the revenants would get them first.
There were hundreds of revenants. Perhaps thousands. In the dim light there was no way to count them all.
And no chance, whatsoever, of standing against them.
Croy looked down at Ghostcutter in his hand. It was a good weapon, and had served him well more times than he could count. Yet he knew it was no match for an undead army.
“We need to get out of here,” Malden said. The thief held Acidtongue like a talisman, like it would protect him somehow. It dripped its caustic bounty to fall, hissing and useless, on the cobbles.
Morget studied the serried ranks before them, then turned to face Cythera. “You,” he said. “Witch! Do something.”
She shook her head. “I’m no witch. I’m just a witch’s daughter. I know a few simple tricks, but-”
“Then try them now!” Morget commanded.
Cythera scowled at him. Then she vanished into thin air.
“Ah,” the barbarian said. “Not what I had in mind.”
Croy sighed. They had come so far. There was no denying they were outmatched now, though.
“Morget,” he said, “I think it’s time to retreat.”
“There’s no such word in my language,” the barbarian told him. Then he shrugged. “Luckily we are speaking yours. But where shall we go?”
“We’ll hack a path through them, get back to the barricade room. Find any way we can to slow them down, then leave. Reseal the Vincularium. Find some other way to slay your demon, at some later date.”
“A meritorious plan. I see no error in it, save one.”
Croy frowned. “You don’t think we can carve our way through them?”
“Not all of them.”
Croy nodded. He’d thought of that himself. But he could hardly surrender. The revenants would not take them prisoner. They would offer no quarter, no matter how hard the fight went for them. They would slay him and his companions without remorse and then return to their graves and sleep a righteous sleep. “We have to at least try. Better to die trying to save one’s life than lay down weapons and commit suicide.”
“Oh, I heartily agree,” Morget said. He dropped his axe to clatter on the floor. Croy stared at the weapon, then back at the barbarian. “Fear not, little knight. I’m merely freeing up my hands.” He drew Dawnbringer then, the length of iron singing as it pulled free of its scabbard. “I need my best tool for this task.”
Chapter Thirty-seven
In the darkness, the revenants began to scream for blood. Croy could see more of them-a vast throng now, swarming around them, converging on their presence. Outside a narrow circle of light, they were everywhere. He could just glimpse them moving, stirring restlessly. They made him think of ants toiling ceaselessly in their warrens, climbing all over each other, heedless of jostling their neighbors. Never pausing, never resting.
Utterly silent.
He brought Ghostcutter up into a guard position. A position from which he could attack or defend instantly. Thus when something appeared just to his left, he very nearly slashed out at it, just by instinct.
Croy managed to stay his hand just in time. Cythera reappeared as mysteriously as she had vanished.
She grabbed his arm. “This is your plan? To go down fighting?”
“I don’t see any option,” he said. “I’m sorry, Cythera. I failed you. When I first agreed to let you come along, I failed-”
“Oh, be quiet!” she said. “There’s still one way out.”
“Point to it,” Croy begged. “They come from every direction-”
“Of course! Every direction save down,” Malden said. He sheathed Acidtongue, pulled off his knapsack and searched inside until he found a coil of rope. “There’s a gallery about three levels below us in the shaft. If we climb down there, perhaps they won’t follow.”
Croy shook his head. The revenants were getting very close. “But our exit will be completely cut off-the revenants may not follow, but they’ll remain here, waiting for us to return. If we go down there we’ll be trapped.”
“Better trapped than fucking dead,” Slag pointed out. With Malden, he threw a rope over the massive chain that stretched away over the mouth of the pit. “Let me show you a proper knot, lad,” he said as Malden kicked one end of the rope over the edge.
The closest of the revenants began to charge. Croy rushed forward to meet them, to slow their advance as best he could. It was too late-there was no way they could all get down the rope before the dead elves overwhelmed them. Croy hacked all around him with Ghostcutter, dodging blows. A bronze mace took him in the thigh and he nearly went down. A sword came at his face and he felt hot blood slick down his cheek.
Morget waded into the melee, kicking randomly at the attackers, and sliced through a pair of skeletal hands reaching for Croy’s throat. When Dawnbringer touched the undead flesh it burst with light, nearly blinding Croy.
The effect on the revenants was far more dramatic. They howled, not with rage this time but with pure mindless pain. They had no eyes, but that light, the light so similar to that of the pure sun of the upper world, seared their flesh wherever it touched them.
For the barest of moments the charge was broken and the revenants stopped attacking. They drew back, knocking down those behind them, as if a great wind had driven them there. Morget boomed with laughter as he brandished the glowing blade high over his head. The revenants writhed and clutched at each other in terrible fear. One by one, though, they began to rally.
“The light!” Croy shouted. “It hurts them, somehow. They are creatures of darkness… perhaps, Malden… Get everyone down that rope. I’ll hold them off as long as I can. If I don’t make it, get Cythera out of here. At any price, keep her safe!”
“That goes for the fucking dwarf, too,” Slag insisted. Then he grabbed hold of the rope and jumped over the
