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Out of the corner of his eye, Dom saw Andry still on horseback, following Sigil as she circled. Other horsemen joined them, forming another cavalry charge to hurtle through the dwindling number of Ashlanders. Dom felt his breath catch in his throat, hope rising in him, even as his sword danced back and forth, his boots crushing skulls underfoot.

They are losing,he thought, eyeing the battlefield with a harried glance. He could see more of the ground than he could before, albeit covered in broken bodies. Bones piled everywhere, the mud turning red. But his eyes did not lie. The corpses lurched in fewer numbers, with the living army bearing down.

We could win.

For the Companions fallen. For Cortael, somewhere beneath his feet, lost to the mud like so many broken bones. Unbridled joy leapt up in Domacridhan like a flame.

Then he heard the worst sound in all the world. No, not heard—felt.

High in the temple tower, the bell tolled.

Its hollow song dragged him back through time, and Domacridhan of Iona fell to his knees, his sword to the ground. Sorasa’sshadow wheeled over him, never breaking rhythm. He heard her voice calling to him, but the words were inscrutable, fading even as she yelled.

Then Sorasa was no more. The Amhara disappeared.

It was Cortael he saw, standing over him with his stern face, the Spindleblade in one hand. The jewels gleamed with unholy light, off-kilter, flashing like red and purple flame. He raised the blade and Dom drew back, fearing the steel edge. But his old friend did not move. He remained frozen, exposed to all the horrors of the world.

The Ashlanders boiled around him and Dom wanted to scream. But he was rooted to the spot, chained to the mud. Doomed to watch it happen all over again.

In a blink, Taristan was there, a vision Dom could not chase away. His blade moved with precision, stabbing through Cortael’s heart. The son of Old Cor fell slowly, as if through water, his fingers reaching with nothing to grasp.

Dom’s throat ripped raw, though he could not remember screaming.

The bell tolled again and Dom flinched, cowering. The vision of Taristan swung again, raising his sword to strike. Dom could almost feel the steel and wondered what body part he would lose first.

The ash wind blew from the temple doors, and shadows moved within.

There was nothing Dom could do but close his eyes.

25

A Shadow Without a Man to Cast It

Corayne

Corayne still tasted rosemary and lavender on her lips, even as the smell of the corpse army fell over the forested hills. She clung to the memory of Andry’s tea, wishing for another cup, wishing for the campfire and the long night of refused sleep. Instead she bent forward over her horse’s neck, urging it onward with the rest.

Until someone grabbed her reins and pulled her aside, out of the column and into the trees. The others thundered on and up, the first of Oscovko’s band howling like the wolves of their flag. Dom was with them, his golden hair a beacon as it caught the sunlight. Sorasa and Sigil followed, the first with her bow raised, the other her ax circling overhead. Andry went with them, and Corayne felt the first of many tears spring to her eyes.

The hand on her reins kept pulling, maneuvering both her horse and his own away from the charge, to circle around to a thicker part of the trees, where they could wait and hide.

“Charlie,” Corayne forced out through gasping breaths. Screams rose from the other side of the hill, a bloodcurdling sound from both man and monster. “Charlie, we can’t leave them.”

The fugitive priest refused to look at her, stone-faced. It was the most serious she had ever seen him, his brow and lips tightened to thin lines.

“You’re no use dead, and I’m no use in a fight,” he said, urging on the horses. “We’re more a danger to them down there. Let them focus on saving their own skins.”

Corayne could barely nod, choking back a cry of frustration. She swiped at her face with one hand, brushing away the wet tears on her cheek. It was no use. They kept coming, silent and unstoppable, trailing down her face until she tasted salt in the rotted air.

They remained astride their horses and halted at the edge of the hill, the tree branches gnarled around them like a wall of splinters and thorns. Beneath, the skeleton army filled the clearing, circled around the temple in a wall of their own. Charlie kissed both hands and touched his eyes, mouthing a silent prayer before dipping his head. His lips moved endlessly, speaking to every god in the Ward’s pantheon.

At first, Corayne didn’t want to look and squeezed her eyes shut. The sounds were just as terrible. The Treckish howls. The rattling screams of corpse monsters. Dying horses. Sigil’s battle cry. A deep voice calling in a language Corayne couldn’t understand but knew anyway. She opened her eyes to find Domacridhan of Iona cutting a bloody path through the Ashlanders, his horse charging over bones as he swung his mighty sword through tattered flesh and broken armor. The churned earth before thetemple turned to mud, coating all of them in streaks of brown and red. With a shudder, Corayne realized all the blood was their own. The Ashlanders did not bleed. Their hearts did not beat.

Her heart leapt into her throat as her stomach plummeted to her toes. She almost forgot to breathe, her knuckles white on her reins, gripping so tightly her own nails drew blood. She didn’t notice any of it. The scene before them was too terrible, eclipsing everything else in the world.

The battle swung back and forth like a pendulum, advantage tipping from one side to the other. Corayne couldn’t bear to follow it, so she watched her Companions instead, seeking them out in the roiling chaos.

The temple loomed over everything, the white bell tower like a sentinel. Corayne hated it. Only a little ash drifted over the steps, blown by the winds of another realm. She tried not to see within, to the barest glimpse of golden light. But the Spindle buzzed on her exposed skin, like lightning in the air. And something hissed beneath, different from the Spindle at the oasis. It played along her fingers and face, as if tracing her features, memorizing her flesh. Corayne wanted to slap it away, but there was nothing to push off, only open air.