feel the same. It feels a thousand times worse, and it makes a wet, cracking sound even as his jaw moves in a weird direction and blood flies and teeth spray and I can’t stop gasping as he stares at me, then staggers. He’s not going down, so I hit him again.
And again.
When he crumples to the ground on the third hit, I suck in a deep breath—fuck, there’s not enough air in the world right now—and try to focus. I just killed a man.
Later, Faith. Worry about that later.
Kerren struggles against two guards, parrying their blows as they push him back against a large stone grave-marker. I rush forward and swing for the closest guard’s head, but I only hit him a glancing blow from behind.
He immediately pivots and his sword slices out at me, too fast for me to avoid.
CLANG.
It feels like a truck hits my stomach, and I fall backwards as if kicked. I gag on the sensation of vomit creeping up my throat. I smack my staff against the back of his knee and he goes down like a rock even as I crawl onto hands and knees. While he staggers, I slam my staff against the side of his head, crushing his ear and knocking him over. A second swing makes him go still, and then Kerren shoves his knife in the man’s throat.
Markos and Solat jog up to us. One whistles, staring at the guards I mashed. “Damn, woman.”
I tremble, squeezing my eyes shut. It’s either that or vomit. I remind myself that it was them or me. Them or me. If they knew I was Aron’s anchor, they would have killed me just to get to him.
I still bend over and puke on some poor person’s headstone.
Markos gives my back a pat. “Hurry it along, Faith. More will be coming.”
Right. Right. Never mind that I just murdered two soldiers that were doing their jobs. This is war. I chant that to myself as Solat takes my arm and the men half guide, half drag me along with them, heading for the crypts.
Once we’re in the cemetery, I realize we never asked what the crypt itself looks like, but it soon becomes really obvious that we don’t have to. There’s one building in the midst of this place, with a statue of the god of the dead in front of it, skulls at his feet. Behind him rises a square building with columns, and absurdly, I think it looks a bit like a bank. It’s got double doors and columns and…well, bank. A hysterical laugh bubbles out of me.
“Get inside,” Solat hisses. “Hurry.”
The double doors are chained and locked with a delicate padlock that looks extremely expensive, and that Markos breaks with two swings of his sword. Then, the doors swing open and we step inside…and down.
Stairs descend, and it’s pitch black inside. The moment the doors close behind us, we’re in utter darkness.
“Um…?” I say aloud. “Did we think to bring a light?”
“I’ll get the sparker out,” Kerren says, and then there’s a rustling noise as he digs through his pack.
“Hurry. Hurry.” Solat’s voice is the essence of impatience. “The moment they find out we’re in here, we’re trapped like rats.”
“Let’s not mention rats,” I whisper.
Something taps. A skittering, scratchy sort of noise. It’s a noise I’ve heard before.
Ah, damn.
“What was that?” Markos asks.
“The dead. Can we hurry things along?” I ask. “Kerren? Please?”
The striker flares, and then Kerren lights a fat, ugly tallow candle shoved into a cup. He holds it up, and then hands it to me. “So we can keep our hands free,” he says.
Good call. I want them to be doing the fighting, not me.
The scratching noise starts again.
“Did you say that was…the dead?” Markos asks, confused.
“They’re coming back,” I say, stepping forward in a far braver fashion than I feel. “The god of the dead isn’t home to receive them any longer so they don’t have anywhere to go.” I shield the candle with my hand as I move forward.
Kerren mutters a prayer under his breath.
The crypt itself is long and cold and dusty. As I step down the stairs, I see niches carved into the walls, and each niche has a heavy coffin already in it. Cobwebs hang over everything, and as we pass by the first coffin, I notice there’s a heavy rock atop the lid. It’s not something that fell there by surprise—it’s easily the size of a shield, and not just the one tucked