A pride of simarka crossed the rubble and tensed for the pounce. Metal clanged on metal as they struck shields, bowling Immortals away down the slope. Others darted into the newly opened gaps, raking with tooth and claw.

The Hadari formation shuddered, faltered. Cheers broke out along the walls. Fists punched the air in savage glee.

“Too soon,” Hedragg muttered. “Should’ve held them for the charge.”

Gellern had panicked, but who could blame him for that?

Horns blared. Drums boomed. The Immortals bellowed defiance and came on with quickened pace and new determination. Hammer cracked against bronze. Golden light flared. Simarka fell silent as the light left them, reverting to husks of mangled alloy. The kraikon’s knee shattered, and the giant fell beneath a swarm of golden scales.

Hedragg tried to estimate the shadowthorn dead. At least a hundred, and as many more wounded.

Nowhere near enough.

The first Immortals’ shields crested the ravaged east wall. Hedragg drew closer to his captain. “There’s still time.”

“No.” For once, Karmonov’s tone was bereft of anger. “It’s too late. We’ll feel their spears in our backs long before we reach safety. But you go. Ride to Governor Yanda. Tell her that Voldmarr Watch holds, but that it will not hold long.”

And just like that, Hedragg was free of the slaughter. Free of Karmonov’s hollow glory. But now the opportunity had arrived, he found he’d no stomach for it. His place was alongside his comrades – in life or death.

He took a deep breath and turned to the herald. “You heard the captain’s words?”

The girl’s gaze flickered from Hedragg to Karmonov and back again. “I did, sir.”

“Then take my steed and see that they’re delivered.” Hedragg turned to Karmonov. “With your permission, I’ll join the 2nd in the breach. One of us should be there.”

“Granted. Death and honour, lieutenant.”

He hesitated, but in the end what else was there? “Death and honour.”

Seventeen

Seventeen

The oppressive catacomb air closed about Malachi like a fist. The serpents of sweet incense curling from the braziers lent shortness to every breath, and a rasp to every word. An interment tradition – an imitation of the mists of Otherworld. And like most traditions, Malachi could have managed quite handily without it.

“And so, we commit Kasamor Kiradin to silence, in preparation for Third Dawn, and when Lumestra leads us all once more into the light.”

The priest’s booming sincerity filled every crack and cranny. Confident, consoling.

“Lumestra wake us from darkness,” Malachi joined the congregation in the chant. “And lead us into the light.”

Organ music bloomed from pipes hidden by the outsize statues. They numbered hundreds, lining the aisles, silent guardians atop entombed flesh. And this was but the Kiradin reach of the catacomb. One vault among dozens.