Viktor hefted his sword and ran headlong for the throne.

A thrall veered into his path. Viktor sprang aside. Two more bore down, others rushing close behind. Viktor angled towards the leftmost. The first cut knocked the man’s sword aside. The second opened his arm to the bone.

The crowd convulsed. A babble of pained voices split the cold air. Just as they had earlier that day. What one felt, all felt – if all were not already one.

Good. He could use that.

Viktor forged on through the crowd, sword lashing out not to kill, but to grant pain. A slice at a farmer’s belly setting the mass of thralls shuddering. A lunge at a proctor’s leg loosed a ripple of movement as others stumbled in unwilling sympathy.

Hands grasped and tugged. A yank of Viktor’s surcoat dragged him back, then ceased as his sword bit into flesh. Cloth tore. Filthy nails scratched at his skin. But no sword came for his throat, no dagger stabbed at his spine.

He tore free, bellowing as the action left a hank of hair tight in a thrall’s grasp. A lowered shoulder barged another aside. A bunched fist felled a third. Then he was at the base of the charnel throne, scrambling for the summit.

Elda rose from her chair, the motion as regal as ailing bones allowed. “I’m starting to wonder if you’re worth the trouble.”

Fingers locked about Viktor’s ankle. He twisted about, expecting to see that a thrall had followed him onto the slope. None had. Men, women and children waited at the foot, beyond wooden spars and the fountain perimeter.

The pale, waxy hand belonged to the dead.

A second burst from the corpse-pile, pulling on the cloth at Viktor’s thigh. Fighting for balance, he backswung his sword, severing fingers and splitting bone. His leg came free, but more hands burst from the mass of dead, pinning his legs anew. Others closed about his arms, holding him fast. Fingers dug into his wrists and twisted the sword from his hand.

“It’s done, Viktor. Let it go.”

So she did know his name. “I will not yield!”

For every hand he tore free, another took its place. The ground beneath his feet shifted, his boots sinking as if into a mire. Viktor glanced down. The carpet of corpses peeled apart like wriggling petals. His lungs filled with a rancid copper-stink. Slack faces and pallid eyes stared up to meet his.

His boots sunk beneath the surface, then his knees.

“Hush.” Elda tapped her stick against the foot of the throne. “We’ll talk when you’re less excitable.”

Viktor’s shoulders slid beneath the surface. With a last surge of effort, he tore his right arm free and clawed at the pit’s edge. The last thing he saw was Calenne atop the bridge, lantern held high above her head as thralls closed in about her.