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As the axe came whistling down, Kevin threw himself to one side, slashing out sideways with his sword. He missed the knee joint, the blade clanging harmlessly off bone. But at least the impact staggered the skeleton slightly; it might be an undead thing, but it was still subject to the force of gravity! Kevin swung again, hoping to knock it over completely, but to his horror, a skeletal hand shot out and closed on the blade.

Of course, of course, he—it—doesn’t have any fingers to get cut!

The thing was far, far stronger than anything mortal. Kevin struggled helplessly with it, clutching the sword hilt with both hands—only to have the skeleton, still grinning its inane grin, begin reeling him in, bony hand over hand up the blade. If he kept holding onto the hilt, Kevin realized, he was going to be dragged into the skeleton’s reach.

So he suddenly let go. To his relief, the skeleton, which had been braced against his weight, went right over backwards. Kevin kicked it as hard as he could, and heard ribs crack, but the thing was already climbing back to its feet, apparently unhurt.

And it’s still got my sword and its axe!

Now, what?

The bardling backed away, looking about for a branch, a rock, anything he could use as a weapon. He found a rock, all right: he stepped on it, and the treacherous thing turned under his foot, sending him sprawling.

As the skeleton lunged down at him, Kevin did the only thing he could think of: he caught the bony arms, and kicked his legs up with all his force, just as he had with the swordsman back in Westerin. To his amazed wonder, he sent the skeleton sailing neatly over his head, to land with a satisfying crash. It lost his sword in the fall, and the bardling snatched up the weapon, hacking and hacking at the undead thing before it could rise till he’d cut right through its skeletal neck. The skeleton collapsed in a bony heap.

I —laid it! I won!

Fierce with triumph, the bardling looked about to see how everyone else was faring. Lydia and Eliathanis were surrounded, fighting back to back, skeletal hands snatching at them from all sides, while Tich’ki, swearing savagely, tried in vain to ward off the undead with her spear.

I’ve got to help them before—

A bony hand closed with painful force about his ankle. Headless or not, the skeleton was still very much animated.

“No! Curse you, no’ No!” Nearly sobbing with panicky strain, Kevin hacked and hacked and hacked at the hand till it shattered, releasing him. But the headless horror was getting to its feet once more.

This is impossible! The thing is never going to give up!

No, it wouldn’t, the bardling realized. None of the undead would. Not while the human necromancer’s spell bound them.

Panting, Kevin glanced to where the Dark Elf stood. Naitachal was still battling his foe as fiercely as ever, eyes blazing with will. But to the bardling’s alarm, signs of strain showed all too clearly on the elegant face. Of course! Determined though he was, strong magician though he was, the Dark Elf had no sorcerous staff to feed him extra Power, nothing but the strength within his own slim body.

He c-can’t hold out much longer, Kevin realized, not without help! But I don’t know any spell-songs to help him!

Wait a minute ... Maybe he didn’t know any useful Bardic Magic—but maybe he wouldn’t need it! Didn’t all the old ballads claim when magic failed, plain common sense would save the day? There was one very practical thing he could do.

Before the headless monstrosity could grab him again, Kevin snatched up the rock that had tripped him, hefting its weight experimentally in his hand as he ran, racing past the battle of undead against undead till nothing stood between him and the enemy sorcerer.

If he sees me now, I’m dead.

But the necromancer, absorbed in his magical trance, showed not the slightest sign he knew the bardling was there.

Please, oh please, let this work ....

Kevin threw the rock with all his strength—Ha, yes! It hit the necromancer smartly on the side of the head! The man staggered helplessly back, trance shattered, and from the other side of the field, Naitachal gave a hoarse cry of triumph as his magic blazed free. A blue-white bolt of magic slashed through the air, engulfing his human foe in flame. Frozen with shock, Kevin heard the necromancer give one wild scream of pain and terror. Then that sorcerous flame flared up so fiercely the bardling flung his arms protectively up over his eyes.

It took no more than a few heartbeats’ rime. The fire vanished as swiftly as it had begun. Kevin warily lowered his arms, fearful of what he might see. But there was nothing, not man, not cloak, not staff, nothing but a small swirling of ash—

The necromancer’s death shattered the binding spell. As simply as puppets with cut strings, the undead fell where they’d stood, the jumble of their bones melting quietly back into the earth. In only a few moments, the meadow had returned to grassy serenity, and nothing at all remained of the horror that had just been. I don’t believe ... I couldn’t have seen ...

Kevin hurried back to Eliathanis, Lydia, and Tich’ki, suddenly wanting nothing so much as to be near other warm, living, mortal beings. Ah, he was glad to clasp their hands, glad to let Lydia hug him and to hug her back, glad even to feel Tich’ki tousle his hair with rough affection. All three started at the same time:

“Are you hurt? I’m—”

“I’m not, not—”

“—really. Just bruised and—”

“—tired and—”

They broke off at the same time, too, then burst into laughter.

“Hey, Naitachal!” Lydia called. “Don’t you, Naitachal?”

A rigid figure swathed in his somber cloak, the Dark Elf never moved from where he stood.

“Naitachal?” Eliathanis echoed hesitantly. “Are you ... ?”

Without a sound, the Dark Elf crumpled to the ground and lay still.

Interlude The Fourth

“My lord. My Lord Count.”

Volmar, hurrying down the corridors of his castle, grit his teeth, trying to ignore that dry, precise voice, but it. continued relentlessly:

“Count Volmar. Please stop for a moment.”

The count sighed silently. When D’Krikas got an idea in its insectoid head, nothing would do but to hear the Arachnia out. Reluctantly, he turned to ask, “Yes, What is it?”

“You told me yesterday that you would read and sign these scrolls today.”

Curse it! An Arachnia never forgot anything^.

I don’t have time for this nonsense now!

Carlotta was hidden in the count’s solar, studying her scrying mirror, and if he wasn’t there when she learned whatever she learned—He didn’t dare let the sorceress gain any advantages over him.

“These are nothing,” Volmar said, glancing at the scrolls. “Small matters. Sign them yourself.”

D’Krikas1 silence held a world of disapproval.

“All right, all right!” The count held up a helpless hand. “I’ll sign them later. I don’t have time now.”

“No. I can see that.”

Something in the dry voice made Volmar stare up at the Arachnia. And all at once, the count felt the smallest prickle of unease run through him. Usually he managed to ignore the fact that his seneschal wasn’t human; D’Krikas kept pretty much to itself, after all, so quietly efficient Volmar could almost forget the being was there. Efficient, yes, meticulously so. The castle was never going to be short so much as a single copper coin or a loaf of bread as long as the Arachnia was in charge.