In the end Anton alone stood upon the rampart to call on Tyr's power. It was a measure of his willpower that a dozen more zombies exploded into yellow splinters.
Anton felt his knees give way. He slumped to the battlement, gasping for breath. He and his comrades had destroyed fully ten score zombies. But more had appeared to take their places, and the horde stretched through the city's streets as far as the eye could see, out the Death Gates and to the distant horizon, a great, writhing, fearsome stain upon the land.
"Strengthen the gates!" he shouted down hoarsely.
Tarl was ready. "Tyr, grant us the power of your protection!" the white-haired cleric called out in a ringing voice.
A dozen clerics chanted fervent prayers. Suddenly, massive columns of jagged stone began to push up out of the ground before the gates, growing like gigantic trees. In moments, a dozen columns towered in front of the gates, bolstering the portals. As the first zombies approached, spikes shot out of the columns like huge, stony thorns, impaling the undead creatures. The zombies writhed on the spikes, shredding their own rotting flesh with their struggles. Blue lightning crackled around their bodies, burning them to cinders.
More zombies lurched mindlessly toward the gates. They, too, were impaled by the huge stone thorns and consumed by holy fire. Still more followed suit.
The clerics chanted on. As one tired, slumping to his knees, another stepped forward to take his or her place. Through it all, Tarl's voice never faltered.
The zombies continued their mindless advance, letting out inhuman screams as the spikes rent their undead flesh and lightning coursed through their bodies, streaming out of their wounds and blankly staring eyes.
The clerics chanted on, their voices growing ragged.
Suddenly the mass of zombies parted before the gate. A huge fire giant strode through their ranks. His undead body was whole, but instead of eyes, in each socket was lodged the head of a dwarf. Screaming orders, the dual dwarf heads directed the lumbering body of the giant. The towering giant gripped two of the columns in its enormous hands.
A dozen spikes shot out, piercing the giant's hands. Holy magic crackled along the length of the monster's arms. Flesh sizzled and bubbled, filling the air with its stench. But the magic was not enough. The giant's arms tensed. The two columns shattered in a spray of stone, clearing a space before the gate. The giant reached out, gripping the top of the iron portal.
Tarl, hearing the collapse, cried, "Louder, clerics of Tyr!" but this time their chants were to no avail.
The fire giant grunted; the dual dwarf heads shrieked orders. The monster's muscles bulged until they seemed ready to burst. Suddenly the sound of rending metal shattered the air. Shards of iron flew in all directions. The gates were sundered.
The clerics of Tyr stared in horror as the fire giant stepped through, the dwarf heads in its eye sockets laughing evilly.
Even then, Tarl Desanea stood strong.
He could see the magically animated zombie clearly. In one swift move, he hurled his warhammer. It spun through the air and struck the giant directly between its hideous dwarf-eyes. The fire giant's head exploded in a spray of rotting meat. It tottered and fell backward, crushing dozens of zombies to pulp beneath its bulk.
"Retreat to the temple!" Tarl shouted.
Hastily the clerics retreated, hauling Anton and the others who had collapsed back with them.
"What of you, Brother Tarl?" Sister Sendara called out when it became clear that Tarl did not intend to budge from the twisted wreckage of the gates.
"My place is here," the white-haired cleric said fiercely.
The old priestess only nodded, understanding in her dark eyes. She dashed into the temple with the others.
"Hurry, Kern," Tarl whispered softly, hoping somehow, somewhere, his son could hear him. "Wherever you are, you must hurry."
As the zombies rushed forward, jabbering with wicked glee, Tarl held up a single hand.
"By Tyr, none shall pass!"
Suddenly a shining wall of transparent blue fire appeared, sealing the gaping breach in the temple's wall. The zombies recoiled from it. They could not pass through the holy light. Tarl clenched his jaw, concentrating. Despite the cold, sweat beaded on his furrowed brow, rolling in rivulets down his face. He could feel Tyr's strength flowing through him like liquid fire. A strange elation began to fill him; a fierce grin spread across his face. His days of self-pity and mourning were gone. All that mattered was his belief in Tyr and in justice.
By all the gods of light, Shal, Tarl shouted inwardly, I will not give up! Somehow, I will hold on!
Zombies shrieked in rage as by the dozens they tried to pass through the gates and perished. The magical barrier did not waver. Tarl's faith sustained him against their onslaught But gradually, the fire in his blood burned hotter and hotter.
Inside the temple's portico, Anton staggered weakly to his feet. He gazed between the marble columns. Awe filled him at what he saw.
"How long… how long do you think he can hold the wall?" he asked in hoarse amazement.
"Until the magic consumes him," Sister Sendara answered sharply, "and he dies."
Kern and his companions were up with the cold gray dawn.
Daile drew her previously miniaturized mount from a pocket and set it on the ground. Miltiades' white stallion breathed on the figurine, and instantly Daile's roan mare was snorting and pawing at the ground. Unfortunately, Evaine and Gamaliel were without mounts.
"I can run as swiftly as any horse," Gamaliel said with a laugh. Shimmering, his body remolded itself into his feline form. It was Listle who came up with a solution for Evaine. The elf gave her horse to the sorceress while she herself rode behind Trooper on Lancer's broad back. This was much to the elder paladin's chagrin, however, for it was clear after the first mile that Listle was a definite saddle hog.
"All your squirming is going to make me sick," he growled to the elven illusionist. "Can't you sit still?"
"No," she replied sweetly.
The old paladin grunted in exasperation. Listle gave a smug smile and wriggled another inch forward on the saddle, claiming still more territory for herself.
Trooper bent down and pretended to scratch his mount's ears. "All right, Lancer," he whispered surreptitiously to the big stallion. "I'll hold onto the saddle horn while you start kicking…"
"Elves have very good ears, Trooper," Listle warned.
The paladin hurriedly sat up straight, a guilty look on his face.
Kern shook his head as he watched this exchange. He could almost believe that this was the old Listle he saw, unpredictable and light-hearted, smiling and joking as if she had never spoken of Sifahir's tower or of what had happened to her there. Almost. Except that every once in a while, when she must have thought he wasn't looking, she would glance fleetingly in Kern's direction, sadness in her silvery eyes.
"You can't love an illusion," he muttered softly to himself. "Gods, you can't even get a grip on one!"
He shook his head, trying to clear it. He couldn't think about Listle. Not now. He had to be ready to face Sirana at the pool.
All morning they made slow progress, ascending a narrow pass between knife-edged peaks, breaking trail through deep drifts of soft, powdery snow. The wind at the summit whipped at them cruelly, and they quickly descended the other side of the pass, riding into a deep valley.
"Are we nearing the pinnacle of stone, Evaine?" Miltiades asked as the sun began its westward trek. The paladin rode close to the sorceress.