Royster and Taru turned and headed back up the steps. Tris set his torch in an empty sconce. Putting both his back and his magic into the effort, he inched the heavy door aside and called handfire, leaving the torch to light his way back. Royster's rope lay slack at the bottom of the steps. The crypt smelled of decay. Tris could barely make out two torch sconces on the wall just inside the door, and ahead, something massive and dark.
"Fire," Tris murmured, willing the torches to light. He stood in the tomb of a warrior king. To the right, finely wrought armor awaited its owner for eternity. To the left, a beautifully worked saddle sat astride a life-sized wooden horse. In the center of the room lay a catafalque with the likeness of Argus in eternal repose. Tris's heart thudded as he took a step toward the resting-place of the king.
A noise from behind him and a stirring of his magesense was his only warning. Tris wheeled, sword raised, as a warrior of sinew and bone lurched toward him from the darkness, its sword menacing. The undead warrior swung so hard, its blow nearly tore Tris's sword from his grip. Fighting back his own horror, Tris parried, even as he saw a second skeletal warrior rise from a heap of moldering cloth near the wall.
What gray magic is this? Tris wondered, parrying the shattering blows. It was clear that Argus played by no rules but his own. One thing was painfully clear, he thought as the third warrior struggled toward them. His mortal strength would fail long before the implacable warriors gave up their fight. Tris cut down through the first of the bony soldiers, only to see the bones rattle toward each other on the stone floor and sinew magically pull them into place.
A fourth and a fifth skeleton were starting from against the far wall. At this rate, Tris thought, breathing hard, the fight would be over before it began. Sweat poured down his back in the freezing chamber. One of the warriors slipped inside his guard and scored a painful gash. Then, as Tris made another stroke connect, splitting the skeleton from collar to hip, Tarn's words sounded in his mind.
None has been a Summoner.
"Halt!" Tris cried out, even as one of the sword blows struck his blade so hard that it felt as if it might break his arm. "Fall back." As he spoke, he called forth his power, so that he saw the warriors in his magesight on the plains of spirit, where they stood with the appearance of living men, mortally wounded.
"By the power of the Lady, fall back," he willed, and the skeletal warriors lowered their swords and began to step away. Silently, the undead soldiers took up sentry positions against the walls, their swords lowered. But permeating the crypt, Tris could feel another magic, another presence, waiting to spring. Just then, the torches winked out, leaving him in total darkness. The crypt door behind him slammed shut, although it had taken his full strength to push it open. A keening wail began, rising until it echoed in the stone chamber, as the temperature dropped until Tris was sure his breath fogged.
He called fire to the torches, but just as quickly, another power snuffed them out. Tris closed his eyes, relying on magesight, as he felt a presence, strong and dangerous, slip against him. His heart thudded, as the revenant turned on him, and in his magesight, he saw a hideous mouth lined with teeth, like the magicked beasts.
It lunged at him, and he felt its cold essence slide past him and through him as the wailing grew ear-shatteringly loud. Teeth snapped next to his neck, and he could hear the scratch of talons on the stone. Though his heart was pounding and every instinct told him to flee or fight, Tris struggled to find his center.
Protect! he willed, and his wardings rose, casting a pale blue light within the inky crypt and driving back the ghostly beast. It paced outside the shielding, more hideous in the faint light than the thought of it had been in the darkness. Depart! You have no power here. By the Lady, be gone!
The beast made one final lunge against Tris's wardings, flinging itself against the shields, which surged blue. Its teeth were only a breath away from him, its talons clawed vainly at the warding, and its keen shrieked until Tris thought it might split his eardrums. And then, the wraith vanished. Sweating hard, his heart in his throat, Tris fought to catch his breath as he warily lowered his shielding and willed the torches to light. "None of your tricks, brother." Tris wheeled at the voice, and felt his mouth go dry as a familiar figure stepped from the shadows. Jared stood just paces away, his sword in one hand, his left hand behind his back.
"You can't be here," Tris breathed, raising his sword.
Jared laughed coldly. "But I am. I've come to finish what I started—what I should have ended a long time ago." He advanced slowly. "And I'm going to enjoy it." He leered. "I could always whip your ass," he said, taking another step forward. "But I'm going to make sure that you've got plenty of time to think about how stupid it was to defy me," Jared grated. "Plenty of time while you're dying. You thought you could take my crown, my kingdom... and my bride. But I'll keep what's mine. You might be lord of the dead, but I am death itself," rasped Jared, as he withdrew his left hand from behind his back. Kiara's severed head hung by its hair, her expression frozen in pain and terror.
Every fiber of Tris's body and heart wanted to lunge for Jared, even as a cry tore from his throat. Jared chuckled. "I am as real as your nightmares, brother," he said, letting the head swing. As real as my nightmares. Which aren't real at all.
"Dispel!" Tris screamed, hearing his own voice pinched with terror, as he held on to the center of his power. "You... are... not... real. Be gone!" And quick as thought, Jared's image winked out. Without warning, unseen hands shoved Tris back so hard that he staggered. A mist coalesced above the catafalque until a stout, sturdy man stood at the foot of the tomb. "Why have you come?" the specter boomed. Tris bowed in respect. "I am Martris Drayke, son of Bricen of Margolan, grandson of the sorceress, Bava K'aa."
"Step closer," the ghost of Argus said. "Yes," he murmured after studying Tris for a moment, "I see your father in you. Why have you disturbed my rest?"
"By your leave, sire," Tris replied, "I have come for Mageslayer."
"Mageslayer may not be given," the ghost roared. "It may only be won in combat." At that, the force of the ghost's offensive drove Tris to his knees. Strong arms like iron bands encircled his chest, making him heave for breath. Tris thrashed, trying to break free, as the ghost chuckled and the grip tightened. "Too easy," he heard the ghost say behind his ear as the pressure increased. "Surely you are not the grandson of Bava K'aa."
Gasping for air, Tris struggled to ignore the ghost's taunts. He let his body go slack as he summoned his powers, then lashed back with all his might at the revenant now clear in his magic-enhanced vision.
"Well now, that's more like it," the ghost chuckled, coming at him again. Argus's spirit was as solid and real to Tris as any mortal opponent. Tris circled the catafalque warily.
Argus launched himself over the tomb in a leap impossible for a living fighter, driving Tris to the floor and knocking the wind out of him. "You've got to do better than this, lad," Argus said. Setting his jaw, Tris slammed forward with his magic and sent the ghost reeling.
They sparred for what seemed like eternity. Tris knew that Argus possessed one thing he did not—an immortal's tireless strength. Tris dodged and feinted, willing himself to ignore the pounding reaction headache and the crushing weariness that made every move ache.
When Argus leaped on him and sent them both to the ground, Tris could do no more than brace himself against the ghost, refusing Argus the upper hand although Tris lacked the strength to break free.
"Admit it, lad. You're beaten," Argus taunted, jerking his hold to make it hurt.
"I won't leave without Mageslayer," Tris grated between bloodied lips.