She saw him standing there, absolutely motionless, his eyes closed, not a single weapon in his hand. And then there was no time to do anything else but defend herself and him, as four corpses advanced toward them down the path, and six others came out of the gaming house behind them. The one she had kicked into the pool stood up, dripping and still headless, and began to splash its way toward her. Tigra roared and leaped onto the one in the pool, but the others kept coming. There were far too many of them, thought Ryana, holding her sword in one hand and Sorak’s in the other. She could not fight and use her psionic powers at the same time. It was hopeless.
“Coming here was not a smart idea,” she muttered to herself, and slashed out with Sorak’s sword at the nearest corpse. The zombie’s flesh emitted smoke as the blade passed through it effortlessly and cut the torso completely in half. The dead thing fell and walked no more. Ryana whistled to herself softly. “Nice sword,” she said.
The zombies were coming closer. She backed away, looking for some room to fight in, and then she saw them turn and head for Sorak, disregarding her completely.
He simply stood there, unarmed, doing nothing. “No,” she whispered.
They closed in around him, obscuring him from view.
“No!” she screamed.
She was about to launch herself at them when she saw something that froze her to the spot. The corpses simply fell apart. What little flesh remained on their bones disintegrated, and then the bones themselves clattered to the ground like a rain of dry twigs. In the wink of an eye, they turned to ash and blew away on the breeze.
Sorak simply stood there, where once a throng of undead clustered. His arms hung loosely at his sides, and an expression of utter calm and serenity was on his face.
Ryana realized suddenly that it wasn’t Sorak, at all. It was one of the others, but not the Guardian or the
Ranger, not Screech or Lyric... She had never seen this one before.
The entity in Sorak’s form walked slowly out onto the path. The zombies kept coming toward him, ignoring Ryana now that she was not between them and their quarry. And as they came up to him and reached out to seize him, they all collapsed and fell apart, drying up and blowing away just like the others. They kept pouring through the gate, shambling in from the street, grim and terrifying in their decay and lifelessness, and Sorak—or whoever it was—simply allowed them to come to him. As each and every one touched him, the same thing happened.
Ryana stood there, watching it all with a sense of awe and wonder. What sort of power was this? What entity possessed him now?
There were still dozens of the zombies shambling and dragging themselves down the street, heading toward the gate. Sorak moved out to meet them. But as he reached the gate, the street outside was abruptly illuminated by brilliant blue light. Small globes of azure fire came hurtling out from several alleys at once, striking the zombies and wreathing them in glowing, incandescent auras. One after the other, the corpses were consumed, and the hail of energy continued for several minutes, until the street was once again completely clear.
Ryana came running up to stand beside Sorak at the gate. As she looked at him, she could see that it was, in fact, Sorak once again. His face looked somehow different, transfigured, but it was the same face she remembered, that same, stoic, neutral expression of a male determined to keep everything inside. “It is done,” he said. “What happened?” she asked. “Reinforcements,” he said. “Look.” A dozen or more figures stepped out of the shadows into the street. They all wore long, white, hooded robes and veils across the lower part of their faces. The sky was beginning to get lighter. It was almost dawn.
“The Veiled Alliance,” Sorak said. “Your sword,” said Ryana, handing it back to him. “Quite a weapon. Know where I can get one like it?”
“It worked for you?”
“Like no other blade I’ve ever held,” she said, watching as the hooded figures approached them.
“Then your spirit is strong and your faith is true,” said Sorak, with a smile. “Either that, or you’re king of all the elves.”
“What?”
“Never mind. I will explain later.” The robed and hooded figures came up to them and Sorak nodded to them. “Thank you,” he said.
One of the men stepped forward. “We would have come sooner if we could have,” he said, “but we did not receive the summons until the attack was already in progress.”
“Summons?” said Ryana. “They have had me watched,” said Sorak, “to see if
I would prove myself to them.”
“And so you have,” the speaker for the others said. He reached into his robe and pulled out a slim scroll, bound up in a ribbon. “This is the information that you seek from us,” he said, handing the scroll to Sorak. “It will not, regrettably, give you the answer that you wish, but it is all we know, and perhaps it will help set your feet upon the path. Burn the scroll once you have read it, and scatter the ashes.”
“What is he talking about?” Ryana asked.
“Later,” Sorak said.
“Yes, later he can explain. Right now, it would be best for you to leave the city. You have become a marked man, Sorak. What happened here tonight was merely the beginning. Wherever you go, look to the Alliance for your allies. You will find them nowhere else, I fear. We think we know who unleashed the undead plague on you, and if our suspicions are correct, then—”
Something whizzed past the mage, coming at a sharp, downward angle, and Sorak felt the breeze as the crossbow bolt flew by him, missing him by scant inches. There was a yelp behind him, and Sorak turned to see Tigra topple over onto the ground.
“Tigra!”
The Alliance members turned, looking to see where the attack had come from, but Sorak, heedless of his own safety, rushed to the tigone’s side and knelt beside the beast.
“There! On the roof!” one of the wizards cried, pointing to a building across the street.
Rokan had already fitted another bolt to his crossbow. As he pulled back on the bow, Ryana drew and threw her dagger in one swift motion, guiding it psionically to its target. The dagger struck him in the chest, and he fell from the roof to the street below.
“Well done,” said the Veiled Alliance leader, with an approving nod. They moved toward the body.
Rokan was still alive, but only barely. “Damn shoulder,” he muttered, through clenched teeth.
“Made me miss...”
“Who sent you?” asked the Alliance leader, bending over him. “Was it the templar? Was it Timor?”
“Timor...” Rokan’s voice was little more than a croak. “Lousy sorcerer... Ruined me... Ruined everything... Kill the bastard...” His last words escaped in a long, rattling exhalation, and he died. “Who is Timor?” asked Ryana. “Leave him to us,” the Alliance leader said. “He is our problem. We will solve it. See to it that Sorak leaves the city safely. And the quicker, the better.” He reached up to clasp her shoulder. “It was an honor, priestess. Guard him well.”
They split up and scattered quickly into the early morning shadows. Ryana hurried back to Sorak, who was crouched over the wounded animal. “Sorak...” The tigone’s thoughts were weak. “It will be all right, friend,” Sorak replied, stroking the huge beast’s flank. “The wound is not a fatal one.”
“Cannot move... Tigra hurt... Great pain...”
Sorak felt the beast’s body stiffening beneath his touch. His gaze shot down toward the arrow. There was something smeared upon the shaft. He took hold of it and pulled it out, careful not to touch the part of the shaft that was smeared. He sniffed it. Poison. Spider venom. It paralyzed first, and then a painful death swiftly followed. “Nooo!” he moaned. “Sorak... Sorak...” He could feel the tigone’s agony. As its mind touched his, he shared the searing pain, and it washed over him like fire.