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“Not a chance,” Sorasa growled, dragging Sigil to her feet, with Dom on her opposite side.

The three whirled to face the statues hurtling down among the graves, their jaws slack and eyes rolling. Sorasa blinked at them, her mind slow as she tried to comprehend the sight in front of her. Her knees buckled and she nearly crumpled under Sigil’s weight.

Beneath the soot and debris, the lumbering figures wore normal clothing. Cloaks and skirts, tunics, boots. Some armor. The usual trappings of merchants and shopkeepers, farmers, watchmen and guards. They lunged with halted steps. Most sported burns of some kind or clutched at wounds.Fatal wounds,Sorasa realized, watching as a woman tripped over her own entrails.

These were the bodies, the people of Gidastern.

“Dead,” she heard Corayne whisper somewhere, still astride her horse. “But—”

Dozens more burst from the keep, spitting and snapping their teeth, more animal than human. They slammed against the fence around the churchyard, reaching with curled fingers. Some began to climb while the rest lunged for the open archway. Sick realization crept through Sorasa. They moved like the corpse army, without thought, their souls gone but their bodies remaining.

“Keep going,” Sorasa snarled, forcing Sigil to walk. “Find the Spindle.”

After a single trembling step, Dom slung the Temur woman over his shoulder. He looked like a mountain carrying another mountain.

They ran together as Corayne and Andry slid to the ground, leaping from horseback. Their horses tossed in fear, galloping off into the burning city.

Andry drew his sword and cast his cloak aside, revealing his blue-starred tunic and mail. He looked like a knight, while Corayne steeled herself, facing down the undead horde. She kept the Spindleblade sheathed on her back and drew her long knife, the tiny spikes on her vambraces springing out. The realm’s hope knew how to defend herself now. If nothing else, Sorasa Sarn had accomplished that.

The assassin moved backward, her sword drawn to fend off the first of the undead. They fell just as easily as the corpse army. She cut apart man, woman, and child, severing limbs with abandon. It felt like butchery, and even the assassin’s stomach churned.They’re already dead,she told herself. But their numbers only grew, as if summoned to the churchyard. Dozens more undead bodies shambled down the many streets of Gidastern or lurched out of doorways, some of them still on fire. They broke against the iron fence around the yard, but the barrier only bought a little time, forcing them to bottleneck through the arches. The assassin didn’t bother counting, focusing only on the closest person. The next opponent.

“Follow the Spindle, Corayne,” Andry called out, putting the others to his back. He dueled well, holding off a stumbling line of undead. Snow and smoke swirled around him.

Sorasa bit her own tongue.Run!she wanted to scream at him. Dread rose up inside her, too much to shove away. She felt like a pot on the fire, boiling over and set aflame. But she let her muscles move without her mind. They knew how to hold a sword, how to strike with a dagger or snap a whip. She danced between all three, her Amhara teachings keeping her and the others alive. But her chest tightened, her lungs straining to breathe in the smoke. Water ran from her irritated eyes and sweat slicked her palms, loosening her grip. Little by little, she slowed.

But the others are coming,Sorasa told herself.The raiders, the Elders. Oscovko and his men.The city echoed with the sounds of battle, steel and shrieking hounds. The roaring fires, the shattering of wood and stone. Sorasa only hoped the army lasted long enough to find them.

Sigil tried to keep her weight off her wounded leg and fight at the same time, leaning hard with her ax in one hand. Dom braced her under one arm and fought with the other, his greatsword cutting through the undead as easily as the hounds. Andry now wore a look of sorrow, his frown deepening with every body falling dead beneath his blade.

And Valtik was gone again, of course, asalways.

Behind them all, Corayne circled, searching the graveyard and the church.

“I can feel it,” she said again, her voice rasping with smoke. “This way!”

She took off and Sorasa swore, ducking under an undead guard’s sword so she could follow her. The others did the same, turning tail from the oncoming horde. Corayne sprinted throughthe graves, leaping over tombstones, her braid trailing out behind her. She wavered back and forth, desperate in her search. The realm depended on it.

The destroyed church loomed, with more undead still crawling out of the ruins. They were slower, far more injured, moving on broken limbs or clutching lolling heads. At the sight of Corayne, they moaned as one and changed direction, aiming for her.

“All these people, they’re after Corayne,” Sorasa hissed, hoping Dom would hear her. Hoping he would understand what it meant.

The Elder made a strangled sound, a strange noise between a grunt and a shout.

Ahead of them, Corayne rounded the corner of the church, into a garden. She skidded to a halt, almost falling to her knees. The blood drained from her face and she puffed out a gasp of surprise.

Sorasa slid after her, agile and quick, never losing her balance. Until she looked up, and her heart quailed.

An old, giant rosebush grew over the garden like a canopy, its thorny branches twisted and gnarled. Despite the winter and the falling snow, it stood in full bloom, garishly bright against the smoke. Old limbs splintered and fell apart as the vines curled onto themselves, shedding dead limbs as they spread. The green leaves and fat, bloodred roses seemed to grow before Sorasa’s own eyes, flourishing in the destruction. Thorns glinted like daggers among the vines.

And something gold glimmered in the trunk, filtering between the flowers with impossible light.

The Spindle.

But Corayne did not step forward or draw her Spindleblade. Someone guarded the way.

We knew he would be waiting,Sorasa told herself, but it didn’t make him any easier to see.

Taristan of Old Cor sat beneath the roses, perched on a stone bench with his Spindleblade across his knees. He looked worse than he had in the palace, having traded his velvets for old leather and a worn cloak. His dark red hair fell about his shoulders, matching the odd sheen in his black eyes. The scarlet-robed wizard, Ronin, loomed at his side, his bone-white fingers like claws. As he twisted one hand, the undead horde sounded out a bloodcurdling scream.