Galaeron cried out and sprang back, landing on his seat when his feet slipped out from beneath him. The current immediately threatened to sweep him into the riffle on the other side of the mossy bridge. He rolled to his stomach and flung his arms out, catching hold of the bridge on the upstream side. The current whirled him around, spinning him so that his feet hung over the downstream edge. The river poured over his head and down his throat, chilling him to the bone and threatening to fill his lungs. He clamped his jaw shut and felt the water bubbling into his nose, a mad, animate killer determined to have his life. Already his body was growing weary and stiff, the life draining out of him everywhere the river touched. He blew the air from his lungs, forcing the water out through his mouth and nose, then drew a stiff leg up so he could stand-and felt the dead man's hand clamp his wrist.
Screaming, Galaeron shook the water from his head and found himself staring into the man's undead eyes. The fellow's lips drew back in a gruesome grin, displaying a mouthful of broken fangs and a black wagging tongue. A dozen spells leaped at once to Galaeron's mind. As a tomb guard recruit, he had been well-drilled in the weaknesses of the undead-almost as well-drilled as he had been in horrors awaiting those who fell to them. He thrust a hand into the creature's face and opened himself to the Weave-then felt the icy ache of shadow magic rushing into him instead. Galaeron let the spell drop, and holding onto the bridge only with his free hand, rolled his wrist around against the creature's thumb.
A living man would have released Galaeron's arm and pulled his hand away in pain. The ghoul continued to hold, trying to use strength against leverage. So weak was Galaeron that the tactic nearly succeeded. The first time he tried, the strength simply left his arm, and his hand stopped halfway through the motion, hanging palm up between him and his blue-faced attacker.
Galaeron shoved the arm forward, jabbing a fingertip into the creature's eye. Even a dead man had to flinch, and Galaeron finished his motion, bringing his hand over and down behind the ghoul's. The thing's thumb snapped with a sharp crack, folding over backward to expose a jagged spear of coal black bone.
Galaeron shot his hand up behind its neck and caught it by the back of the skull. He slammed its head into the side of the bridge, at the same time pulling himself back onto the walkway and swinging his feet up beneath him.
The ghoul lashed out madly with both arms, catching Galaeron behind the ankles and trying to sweep his feet from under him. The elf drew his knees straight up, and reaching across his body for his sword, came down kicking. One heel caught the ghoul in the back of the head. The other landed on the mossy bridge and slipped free, dropping Galaeron to a knee directly in front of the beast. His sword cleared his scabbard and struck the ghoul's face in the same motion, its gleaming elven steel slicing through the head just above the jawline.
Galaeron followed through gracefully, his head turning to follow the sweep of his blade tip, and saw a second creature springing out of the water in front of him. This one was smaller than the first, with a female's rounder curves, long black claws, and the yellow eyes of a wight. She was also much faster, stomping Galaeron's sword arm down on the bridge and pinning it there as she snapped her other foot around in a vicious kick.
Thinking to trap her foot with a hook block, Galaeron caught the blow on his forearm-but he was simply too tired and weak. The impact knocked him to his back, then the current spun his feet downstream again, leaving him affixed to the bridge only by his pinned sword arm.
The wight crouched down above his head and grabbed his throat, her icy claws piercing his flesh in so many places he was surprised not to see warm blood spurting up before his eyes. She bared two long rows of sharp teeth and pulled him toward her, twisting her head around to bite.
Galaeron tried to break free and roll away. He was too weak even to push his free hand into the crook of the wight's arm. He tried to kick his feet up to wrap her head in a leg-lock, but his legs felt as numb and heavy as gold. His life was seeping out by the second, being sucked out by the spirit-stealing touch of the undead, being robbed from him by the vigor-draining waters of the shadowed river.
The wight pressed her teeth to Galaeron's throat. He spun toward her with the little strength remaining to him, thrusting his free hand into her face and summoning the incantation to a spell of light. A surge of icy power flooded Galaeron's body as it filled with coldmagic, but he had more pressing worries than his shadow at the moment. He called out the mystic syllable, and a brilliant beam of silver light shot from his palm.
The wight screeched madly and spun away, leaving Galaeron to float across the bridge. He rolled after the wight, digging the numb fingers of his free hand into the cold moss and whipping his sword across the back of the creature's feet with the other. The thing stumbled two steps forward before crashing into the water with a pair of severed heels. Galaeron pulled himself to his knees and brought his sword down across the wight's back. The blow was clean and, had there been any strength to it, he would have cleaved the thing in half. As it was, his elven steel bit deep enough to maim even a beast of the undead.
The wight stiffened and tried to roll toward her foe, but succeeded only in twisting her torso open along the wound. As she looked down in bewilderment, Galaeron raised a hand and spoke a single mystic syllable. This time, he barely noticed as the coldmagic flooded his body, nor did he care that the bolts shooting from his hand were as black and frigid as shadow. It only mattered to him that the undead thing before him had finally gone limp and lost her hold on the bridge, and that the murky current was at last carrying her away over the riffle.
The gate tower stood only a dozen paces away, the dry ground beyond its shadowed archway offering warmth and refuge, or at least an escape from the cold battle on the bridge. Galaeron staggered to his feet and discovered he did not feel nearly as weak as he had several minutes before. To the contrary, while he felt tired and cold, his strength seemed to be returning. There was a peculiar ardor burning inside him, not so much anger as resolve, not so much brutality as ruthlessness.
When no more undead appeared to attack him, he started toward the gate tower, no longer concerned about the slick moss underfoot, thinking only of the battles to come and the magic he would find in Karse-then he recalled Melegaunt following behind, and the others he was traveling with, all following in his footsteps, all trying to cross the dark bridge behind him.
Galaeron spun on his heel and saw Takari slipping and sliding toward him, pushing her sword into its scabbard. Twenty paces behind her, Vala was spinning and whirling across the bridge, her black blade weaving a dark mesh around her and Melegaunt as she slashed at the translucent figures of two withered, shrewish-looking ghosts trying to dart past her flashing defenses. Beyond them, a pair of inky silhouettes were flitting around Aris's steam-shrouded head, darting in to slash at his eyes and ears with black talons. Malik and his horse were nowhere to be seen, of course, but Jhingleshod was not far behind the others, a hazy glimmer of orange that appeared briefly every time the stone giant took a step.
Galaeron pointed his sword over Takari's shoulder. The others!" He staggered a few steps back across the bridge, his numb legs and weary body stirring themselves for another fight. "They need help!"
"Are you mad?" Takari intercepted him and pressed her hand to where the wight had clasped his throat. Her palm was as hot as fire against his skin. "The humans can take care of themselves. We need to get you to shore."
"Shore? What do you take me for?" Galaeron jerked her hand down. "A coward?"
Takari's eyes flashed. "Only a fool." She thrust her palm into his face, displaying a coating of blood so dark it was almost black. "Half your throat is ripped away, your face is as pale as glass, and all you can think about is a human minx with wild eyes and milkbags the size of a thkaerth's!"