It was not his fault. He had lit no torch. Feren shook his head.

“If we meet again, we will avenge her. Some day, if we both live. But in another land. At another time.

Do not come to Terandria. For…”

He raised his arm and began the ritual. The dead marched against the living, just as they had done once before. For vengeance and hatred.

Don’t come back to Terandria. For there will be nothing left when I am done. Feren smiled as he laid down the last thing he called his humanity. A dead man with no heart. The undead made for fitting company.

1.13 P

The dead smelled of foul rot and plague. On the third day—that was what drove Cara to madness. The smell.

She stood on the hill of Afiele’s keep, just past the open double doors. They were reinforced to withstand an attack and could be closed—but there was no need for that yet. The undead surrounding the town had yet to claim the walls.

But they would. Just looking down, Cara could see it. Every section of wall was filled with Humans. Men and women, armed and forcing back the undead mob trying to climb on top of each other to gain a foothold.

It was absurdly easy to deal with most of them. Few of the skeletons or zombies were armed; skeletons could use bows or other weapons, but they hadn’t been equipped with them. And from a height you could spear a zombie and knock it down.

But ten zombies, all climbing at the same time? A hundred?

Thousands? It wasn’t the difficulty of repelling so many undead for a single battle. The town literally had people to spare in manning the walls. Wounded were instantly moved back and treated with magical healing potions which could cure anything up to a broken bone. Torn flesh, a gaping stomach cut?

Healed in a moment.

Yet the dead never stopped. If you killed a hundred, there were a hundred more waiting to climb up.

They never stopped coming. Day and night—three days had worn the stamina of everyone down.

Afiele’s people were brave and courageous. Cara had seen people—Idelt, armed with his hammer and a small shield, Rethis, the [Hunter], even Violetta—take their turns on the walls. They had fought nonstop for ten hours, knocking the undead down. But they could not do it forever.

The dead could. That was the point. And with each living soul that fell—another undead rose. Cara stared down at the milling bodies by the gates. Draug smashed at the reinforced gates that had been blockaded from the inside. They retreated as the defenders shot arrows at them, dropped rocks onto their heads. They’d be back later.