The [Knights] put up their blades and fought. Seraphel scrambled for the moving coach as the

[Necromancers] redoubled their assault. She felt something claw at her, breaking past her circlet’s defensive enchantment. It drew blood and she cried out.

This was how she died. Seraphel du Marquin hadn’t expected this. Something with flaming eyes tore at her as she tried to climb inside. Mariel reached for her, but Seraphel felt the Ghoul dragging her back.

She gripped the edge of the doorway—

And fell. Seraphel landed on the dirt. The Thronebearers were locked in combat as spells fell upon them.

A huge, rotten face bit at her, teeth snapping. The Ghoul recoiled as her circlet emitted one last, desperate flash of light. It went flying, its skin smoking. It did not rise.

But the others were there. As the carriage rolled away, Seraphel slowly rose. She looked at the undead, shambling towards her. The undead formed a wall between her and anyone else.

“Your Highness!”

Ser Dalimont was fighting towards her. A [Deathbolt] hit him in the back and he fell, disappearing behind the bodies. Seraphel looked around. But no one was there.

She blinked and sighed. Slowly, the [Princess] reached up and straightened her tiara. She stood there, in dignity, patting down her besmirched dress as the undead closed in. A [Princess] died a [Princess].

“At least it’s over with.”

She tried to smile. The [Princess] waited, wanting to close her eyes and too afraid to do so. She had always thought—

Seraphel heard a shattering horn-blast ring through the air. She turned—and saw two dozen [Riders]

racing down the road. The [Necromancers] turned. Warriors armed with light spears, led by a man in light armor, marked by a golden stalk of wheat, charged the undead from the side.

“Afiele! Follow Lord Lantal!”

A voice bellowed. Seraphel saw the real escort following Afiele’s sovereign [Lord] rush down the road, weapons drawn. The man in front, the [Lord] himself, had a fencer’s sword drawn. His armor was seemingly plain leather, cheap but effective.

He wore no obvious artifacts she could clearly see. But he plunged into the mass of undead as if he wore a suit of invincible metal, laying about him like his blade was some heirloom of old, heedless of the numbers.

The [Necromancers] cried out, in disarray. But their leader pointed his staff.

“It’s them! Kill the [Lord] and his family!”

He shot a third [Deathbolt] at the [Lord]. Seraphel saw the [Lord] track the glowing bolt of magic, and slide sideways. For a heart pounding second he hung sideways alongside his horse as the deathly spell passed through the place where his chest had been. Then he yanked himself upright.

“Archers, loose!”

Lord Lantal shouted. Four of the horse-riders put arrows to their bows. They loosed—not at the undead, but at the [Necromancers].