“Noooo!” it said. “Noo! I am powerful! I am indestructible! I am immortal!”

Despite the burning of his skin, and despite a mote of pity in his heart, Gavin stepped in close and swung the sword right to left, a simple, snapping blow.

Its head fell clear of its body.

Ash felt the death like a blow. He already felt giddy; his memory was being attacked by a wave of unaccustomed memories and doubts, and yet a sort of bubble of success was rising in his dark heart as his slaves rolled forward in the last light, sweeping all before them.

And then . . .

One of his creations was injured. It should not have been possible; it represented a flaw in his foresight, as he realized that he’d left undone things that he ought to have done, which was of a piece with all the revelations in his innermost mind; why was he suddenly recalling a terrible betrayal an aeon old?

His creature died at the hands of a mere man.

The humiliation was immense. He felt revealed as a failure; he felt . . .

He paused, and wondered if he was being attacked by the will.

He could find no trace of such an attack, but the fire of self-doubt was burning strong, and he had to wonder . . .

And something was happening at the gate.

It occurred to Ash, too slowly, that he was being played. That the will had used him to distract the men from the main effort. That his own captain, Orley, was directly serving the will.

Ash paused in indecision, looking down over his victory. He could sense Tamsin, over on the ridge, trying to keep him off by misdirection; the seductive witch was next. And he could feel something else, beyond the ridge; something strange and powerful. And again, where his creature had just been cut down, there was another he couldn’t identify. Very powerful. Burning like a fire.

In that moment, he identified her, and he screamed with rage and frustration.

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen

Orcsbane had his orders, and he did not hesitate, despite the trenches filled with enemies and the way the enemy lines crawled with monsters.

He led forty knights and a dozen surviving squires across the trench lines, half of them empty, and cut through the fringe of bogglins that formed at the edge of the second rampart. They appeared and vanished under the hooves of his destrier and they were through, galloping over the shovel-smoothed ground.

A gout of fire blew over them, but their shared shield held.

There was another, and then three forked snakes of purple lightning that scored their hermetical shield and killed a warhorse, leaving the knight to fight, die, and be eaten alone in the falling darkness, because Ser Ricar had his orders and he was not going to fail.