The terror possessing me froze my ability to run. Aghast—the thought of me sleeping, while out the window tossed and turned this afflicted carcass. He—it—felt pain, or at least perceivably so from the noises he made. Rinlot, or whatever he was now, was unable to emerge from a confinement that even I was able to pry. Pity blocked my throat when I contemplated if an intelligence, some residue from his time among the living, lingered, him knowing full well what treachery put him there. Whatever emotion I may have felt next was destroyed as lightning struck the bailey.

—

When I awoke, the world swayed and pulsated as I found myself getting back on my feet. A pat-down gave me reason to believe the lightning hadn’t struck me. With a wobble, I regained my senses.

I couldn’t have been out long. The wagon was tearing out of the bailey, heading for wherever a pair of scared mules would decide.

That hideous hand had once more emerged from the open space, this time grabbing at thin air. My run for the wagon only sent me back to the ground. Rolling from my stomach and clutching my shin, I turned to see that the crate Werlyle dropped had bested me. Rain peppered my face as I stood once more.

My eyes then held the greatest of their disbeliefs.

Werlyle was on his knees, clutching his throat with both hands. His vocal tubing gave a rubbery squeak as the thin blade of a rapier returned to its scabbard. As Werlyle hit the ground, the boy stood over him.

In the open door, atop the small flight of its steps, stood Morlia and someone else. This second person, a man, I could have sworn I had known.

Maybe it was the moonlight, the lightning strike, or my blood rushing away from me, but her face, as the boy’s, was not the same. Some form of unlife had replaced them, and its new demeanor I dared not guess. Their features were somehow more canine, their eyes beady.

Standing like figures claiming the summit of a nightmare wedding cake, I then knew with absolute certainty who the other person was.

“Morden,” spoke the Ordrid. The boy ascended the stairs, coming to his father’s side. Morden turned toward the graves. A pang of sheer terror erupted once more when they cast their eyes on me.

You’d think I would have run, but I didn’t—couldn’t. I stood as lifeless as a statue in that long-gone mule cart.

—

The necromancer’s disappearance from the dungeon surprised no one. Those with a penchant for gambling placed bets on the manner in which he would bust loose, while those prone to superstition debated what manner of ghost or beast would be summoned to assist in his freeing. All were wrong, and it was the nonchalant reaction of Warden Rogaire that now made sense.