“Hunter, my sword. Take my sword!” Stellan had felt his lips move, but had he spoken loudly enough? Something was wrong with his hearing. He spoke again. Damn it! Were the words even leaving his mouth?
The butterfly glowed ever brighter as it absorbed his life force. Stellan could barely keep his eyes open.
Hunter threw down his useless sword and snatched Stellan’s blade from his hand. The blade vibrated with power as Hunter hacked away.
The weapon easily sliced through the creature’s body and wings. Rent beyond repair, its shredded pieces blew away into the wind. Bloody and decimated, Stellan crumpled to the ground.
As he fell, Sada held a hand to her head. Did he dare hope she had exhausted her powers? But no–she was already glowering in his direction. He didn’t have much time.
Hunter stood over him, his brow wrinkled with concern. Stellan looked up at him, unable to move. The odds were terrible and both men knew it. Sada possessed more power than he’d thought possible. His own skills lay rusty in their crypt–years of inaction and lack of knowledge were the cause. Now he would pay dearly for his oversight, and his friends would pay right along with him.
He needed an army, but he had none–save for a loyal bunch of misfit paupers. Aldebaran’s soldiers had acted valiantly, but they were poorly matched against the sheer number and power of Pestilence. Reinforcements at this point were unlikely. No, it was up to him and him alone–and he had failed.
Outmatched.
Outclassed.
Near death.
Hunter’s lips moved but he couldn’t hear what the man was saying. The butterfly’s scream had knocked out his hearing. Was this condition temporary or permanent? It was impossible to say. An icy sensation crept into his bones. Darkness licked at the edges of his vision.
Stand up! Instead of his limbs cooperating, his life appeared before him in brief, melancholic flashes. He had wasted years retreating from the world; he understood that now. The safety of his isolated kingdom wasn’t real. He had tried to convince himself that he didn’t care or need anyone else, when in fact the opposite was true. Clarysa had shown him another path, where emotional risk taking would be rewarded, and in plenty. To retreat into death now would only be a sign he didn’t trust her, didn’t need her.
But he did. He loved her. He would move kingdoms for her. And there could be no safe place for her in the entire Five Lands if his father’s mad scheme succeeded. Stellan could not–would not–die today.
Again the determined thought came–this ends now.
He clawed his way back from oblivion. The darkness receded. His clouded mind began to clear. Stellan rolled to his side, then maneuvered himself onto his knees. With a final heave, he rose to his full height.
One singular idea drove him. There was a final manifestation he could attempt. Though extremely dangerous, he had no other choice.
The Gift.
The gift bestowed upon him so long ago by the cowled man in the depths of Dungeon Forest. The gift that had almost destroyed his mind. But even if it succeeded this time, at least he could take Sada with him to a place of dark destruction where neither could escape.
The choice was made.
The winds whipped the snow into a frenzy about him. Stellan the Dark Prince of Vandeborg was now Stellan the Death-Bringer, defying even the gods’ mighty will.
He reached into his sack and withdrew the large jar that had sat hidden in his workroom for so many years, a jar he’d never thought he would dare to open again. The outer surface pulsed, hinting at the terrible power it contained. With a deep breath, he threw the jar high into the air. The shimmering contents began to rain down about him. The power filled Stellan to the point of bursting. Sound surged back into his ears. Blood pounded in his veins.
The sky darkened. A swirling maelstrom of eldritch power shot forth and engulfed him, taking the form of brilliant shards of light. Stellan concentrated on a single vision: eradication of Pestilence.
Magickal energy waves radiated outward from him. They passed through everything and everyone on the battlefield–including Sada–but nothing happened.
Stellan clenched his fists. Nothing had come of the spectacular display. Nothing!
Sada smiled at him coldly from across the battlefield. Perplexed, Stellan remained frozen in his position, particles of light still swirling about him. Had the jar’s contents been meant for a single use? If so, the stakes had now reached unfathomable proportions.
The remaining Pestilence army renewed its attack. Indecision tore at him. Should he engage Sada in physical combat or join the fight against Pestilence?
He was about to opt for the latter when the first cracks appeared in the earth. Small ones initially, but they lengthened quickly. Stellan cast a furious look at his sister. What terrible magick was she wreaking now? He had run out of options, short of strangling her.
But Sada’s gaze was rooted to a crack on the field between them. There, a skeletal hand pushed its way up through the broken soil and grasped the leg of an advancing Pestilence-infected.
Similar developments began to happen everywhere. All across the battlefield, pockets of snow collapsed in on themselves as long-buried corpses scraped their way to the surface. They surged onto the battlefield like waves upon an ocean shore. From the skeletons of royalty to peasants to mummified soldiers, bodies in various stages of decomposition arose from the depths of the earth.
The dead walked.
Once free of the confining ground, the corpses advanced. With methodical vengeance, they ripped limb from limb. They targeted both the slaves of Pestilence as well as Sada’s soldiers. The army of the dead was unstoppable. The fortunes of battle had turned against his twin, but at what terrible cost?
He had called upon their power once before. As an exiled youth driven by anger and grief, he’d used this magick to call forth the undead. He’d fancied creating a castle full of servants. He’d treated them like
