on the fight, pouring his energy into each stroke and thrust, each parry, but still noticed the cold wind rise within the chamber, prickling his arms with goose flesh and standing the hairs on the back of his neck on end. The flat of Ghaul’s sword struck Khirro’s shoulder and the soldier laughed, toying with him. The stark realization he was no match for Ghaul bore into Khirro’s gut and he struggled to fight back the panic rising in his throat. He dodged another blow, steel caressing his sleeve. The cool breeze gusted again.
Then Ghaul disappeared. Everything disappeared.
Thick mist filled the chamber as completely as if it had always been there. A sword slashed the fog, missing him by inches. He jumped away and his back pressed against the chamber wall.
Khirro’s eyes flickered, searching for his foe, for Elyea or Athryn, but he saw nothing but the wall of mist. The temperature dropped rapidly; a rime of frost appeared on his gauntlets. No sound. He called out, but his voice died at his lips, smothered by the fog. He held the Mourning Sword in front of him defensively, waiting to be attacked.
The mist swirled as though stirred by some unseen hand, then pulled itself into one twisting pillar centered over the marble seat and formed the shape of a man whose head brushed the ceiling fifteen feet above. A long, misty beard and thick white arms became distinct, a hazy sword hung at his side. A face twisted into being with angry, swirling eyes.
“Who dares disturb me?” The voice boomed across the chamber, amplified by the smooth walls. Khirro stared, forgetting the fight. “Who dares disturb Darestat?”
“I come to resurrect a king.”
Khirro looked at Ghaul, surprised to have heard the soldier respond. He breathed in a short, sharp breath at what he saw. In the confusion and the cover of the mist, Ghaul had grabbed Elyea.
She struggled against the arm about her waist and the sharp edge at her throat, showing no fear, only determination. Khirro touched his chest unconsciously and felt the hard shape of the vial through his tunic.
Shyn’s dead. Maes is dead. Is this worth her life, too?
“Give me the vial, Khirro.”
He pulled it out and rolled it back and forth on his flat palm. Its deep red glow lit his glove, attracting the mist-man’s attention.
“What is this?” His voice was a low rumble, though his words were as clear as the peal of a bell on a summer eve.
“The blood of the king, Braymon of Erechania, slain in battle by the walking dead of Kanos.” Khirro managed to keep the quiver in his knees from shaking his voice.
He took a step toward Ghaul, hand tight on the hilt of his sword. Elyea shook her head and a drop of blood rolled down her smooth throat where Ghaul’s blade pressed against her skin.
“Why do you bring this blood to me? I care not for the doings of mortals.”
“The Shaman, Bale, enchanted me to bring the vial here and see the king restored.”
The swirling mist halted, falling away to leave a bent old man standing where the giant had been. His scraggly white hair fell past his shoulders framing a face wizened by more years than Khirro could comprehend. Despite his age, his eyes shone with vigor and knowledge.
“Bale?” The old man’s voice was quieter but still unshaken and sure. “Bale sent you?”
“Yes.” Khirro looked from Darestat to Ghaul. He didn’t think he’d hurt Elyea, not until he got what he wanted. “He enchanted me to bear the vial to you.”
The Necromancer made a clicking sound with his tongue.
“He did not enchant you, Khirro. No man can be made to do that which they would not do themselves, not even by magic. If such was possible, magicians would rule the world, not kings.”
Khirro stared at the old man, his jaw hanging open.
Not enchanted? How is that possible?
He opened his mouth to ask so many questions—what about the feeling in his chest? Why did he feel the compulsion to complete the journey?—but the Necromancer spoke again, cutting off his thoughts.
“Why did Bale not bring it himself?”
“He’s dead.”
The old man’s face sagged, sadness dimming the blaze of his eyes. “That is too bad. He was a good student, and a fine son.”
“Son?” Athryn said, his voice a whisper. Khirro had forgotten Athryn was there.
“Enough sentiment,” Ghaul said firmly. “Give me the vial or the whore dies. Braymon will lead the dead army of Kanos.”
Khirro tensed but the Necromancer continued as