William King - The Queen's assassin

“Asea is up in the graveyard. She was seen going there with a group of soldiers. By morning a plague of zombies will emerge from the place and descend upon the cities. The Light alone knows what prodigies of wicked necromancy she has been up to.”

“You planned that?”

“It’s nice to see you appreciate my cleverness. A few clues here, some documents there. I knew Asea would work out what was going on and rush to interrupt that idiot Jaderac’s ritual.”

“You planted those clues in the lab.”

“Indeed I did. With a little help from my doting daughter. All I really wanted was to get Asea out of the way while I went ahead with my business. With any luck she’ll kill that dolt Jaderac or he will kill her. Jaderac will either complete his ritual, or I will later on the ground he has prepared. In any case, Asea will be blamed, and your presence here is simply icing on a very rich cake.”

The sentry came puffing and wheezing through the door. There was another blur and Malkior was beside him. He broke the guard’s neck with one blow. Rik sprang for him, but a sledgehammer fist caught him in the side and sent him spinning to lie sprawling on the bed beside Kathea’s corpse. Her dead gaze was locked at the ceiling. Stars danced before Rik’s eyes. He pulled himself painfully upright. Agony surged through his side, ripping through the anaesthetic spells. Broken ribs, he thought, wondering if they had punctured a lung. If that was the case, he was a dead man. He almost laughed; it looked like he was a dead man anyway. Malkior moved closer.

“In what way?” Rik asked. His voice sounded faint even to his own ears. Everything went black for a moment.

“Try and think for yourself, boy. You’ve already proven you have a brain.”

Rik groaned.

“Very well, I shall explain it to. You are Asea’s lover. Here you are in the bedchambers of the dead Queen. With a little stage management on my part, some rearranging of corpses, very soon it shall look as if you were interrupted in your nefarious act by some brave guards. There was a brutal struggle that unfortunately ended in them being killed even as they killed you.”

“Nobody will believe that.”

“People believe what they want to believe, and the story will suit enough of the Kharadrean nobility for it to become history. Take my word for it. I have seen all this before, when the unfortunate Queen Amarielle was assassinated.”

Rik tried to sit up right, to look death in the face as it came for him. The gibbering of the voices reached a crescendo. We are going to die, they screamed. We are going to die.

“Time to end this,” said Malkior.

Weasel pulled the trigger. Smoke erupted from the muzzle of the rifle. There were sparks and eddy currents as the truesilver bullet crashed through the mystical circle, breaking it. A look of surprise passed across Jaderac’s face as the shot smashed into his body. It took him in the shoulder. Sardec supposed that the energy of the circle must have deflected it somewhat, spoiling Weasel’s aim.

Asea raised her lightning wand. The Foragers aimed their rifles. The undead began to move.

Jaderac cursed. A truesilver bullet. Such a simple thing, and he had left it out of his calculations. Who would have expected ordinary soldiers to use them? Now the thing was lodged in his shoulder, interfering with his concentration. As he tried top focus the energy of the spell, the eddies from its presence in his body caused the bullet to heat agonisingly. Its mere presence disrupted his healing spells. His army started to slip out of his control.

Worse than that, the circle was broken. The hungry corpses surged over its edge. The dead sought warm flesh and blood. The cultists panicked as the ravenous monsters tore at them. Jaderac could see Asea and her followers smash their way through the walking dead towards him. With a supreme effort, he drew his blade. All around him was chaos. He staggered towards Asea determined to make the kill.

More shots rang out. He heard screams and shouts as battle was joined between the soldiers of the Queen and his army of the dead.

Malkior touched Rik’s face with one cold hand. “It’s a pity I don’t have my equipment,” he said. “This would be so much more nourishing. Still, beggars can’t be choosers.”

Chill, cold as the grave, spread from his touch. Malkior smiled. “Interesting,” he said. “You absorbed the Quan and its memories. I wish I had more time to savour this.”

Rik felt the same draining sensation he had felt from the Quan, but this time the will behind it was much stronger, and he knew he had no chance of resisting it. Instead he let the pistol drop into his hand, pressed it against Malkior’s gut and pulled the trigger.

The Sardean reeled backwards, breaking the contact. Blood pumped from his wound. “You tried that before,” he said. “It didn’t help you then. It won’t help you now.”

With a supreme effort of will, Rik forced himself upright. Malkior grinned at him. The shadows gathered around him. His eyes glowed green. His powerful healing spell started to close the wound, and then Malkior screamed.

A red glow appeared in his belly, and other parts of abdomen. “What have you done? It burns.” he gasped. Rik lurched over and picked up his other pistol.

“Truesilver bullet,” he muttered. “I filed it so that it would break up on impact. Bits of it are all through your stomach. Healing magic will just heat it.”

Malkior had not heard him. In pain and panic he was making a fatal mistake. Rik sensed him pouring more and more energy into his spells, heating the truesilver more. A little liquid metal bubbled from his wound. The smell of scorched flesh filled the air. Darkness slashed across Rik’s vision. He forced himself to stagger forward. He was not going to black out now. He placed his pistol against Malkior’s temple and with the last of his failing strength pulled the trigger.

There was a loud bang, and the acrid smell of gunpowder filled his nostrils.

Sardec ordered the Foragers to stand firm. There were too many of the walking dead, and the fight was too close. Asea’s lightning lash licked out. Brightness blazed across his field of vision, illuminating a scene from some demented vision of hell.

The walking dead swarmed everywhere. Some squatted over the bodies of the newly dead, ripping at their entrails, cramming them into their mouths. Others fought hand to hand with bayonet-armed soldiers. Weasel smashed one with the butt of his rifle, splintering its skull. The Barbarian dodged and weaved among the tombstones, slashing with both his fighting knives, lopping off limbs, and hacking great cuts out of the side of any foe that came close. It did not help. The loss of limbs did not slow his enemies down. They kept coming. You could not kill that which was already dead.

Even as he watched, Jaderac emerged from the melee and aimed a blow at Asea. The sorceress parried it, and struck back with her own blade. Karim danced around her, trying to keep the animated dead at bay and get between his mistress and the enraged magician. Asea and Jaderac traded more blows. She was faster and seemed stronger. Her armour rippled with a life of its own, augmenting her strength and speed. Before Karim could get into position, she had severed Jaderac’s head. As the necromancer fell, his horde let out a strange wordless scream. Some stumbled and fell, some began to attack anything within reach including their fellow creatures. Without a guiding will, they seemed near mindless, consumed with an insane aggression.

Sardec fought his way over to Asea’s side. Karim almost struck him before he realised who it was. The Southerner’s blade stopped a finger’s breadth from Sardec’s throat.

“Can’t you do something about this?” he asked the sorceress.