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I glare at Kinnivar’s broad back, despising him. Why betray Corvan like that? After the steadfast loyalty shown by Kaithar and the other men, it’s the last thing I’d expected.
Quietly, I seethe. And I fiercely wish the mysterious powers the Khaturians spoke of were mine to wield. I wish I was strong right now, but I’m not.
I’m powerless once again.
If only I knew how to break the seal.
But for that, I’d need Corvan’s blood.
All I can do for now is follow, and hope that Corvan comes for me before something terrible happens.
41
CORVAN
Tired, my throat burning with thirst, my nostrils filled with the stench of corruption and decay, I make my way through the castle gates, my footsteps heavy on the cold stone.
I’m filthy.
My clothing is stained with debris from undead bodies. Gunk. Serum. Whatever this foul shit is. They don’t bleed, their bodies just turn to mush when you sever their limbs and heads.
I don’t know how many I’ve felled; hundreds, thousands, even.
That’s how many dead men came down from the mountains. After a while, I started to recognize them. The features. The uniforms. My very own insignia.
My very own dead.
They’re the men that were killed in the Northern War. Over the past few years, we tried to retrieve as many of the bodies as we could, but there were those that lay hidden in the snowdrifts, or high up on the mountains.
I refused to send my men to areas that are too treacherous—where the risk of death is higher than the chance of retrieving the bodies.
Now, someone’s animated them.
I’ve read about this. The darkest of all the occult magics.
Necromancy.
Which idiot has dared to animate these bodies and use them against me? Who would be so contemptible as to disrespect these corpses; to use them as puppets against me?
What makes it so much worse is that some of the dead are just killed.Mymen. Found in the snow outside the castle walls. The first time, they were killed by the undead. The animated dead resort to crude methods. Biting. Impaling. Tearing off limbs and gouging out eyeballs. They’re monstrously strong.
Some of my men were killed.
Not once, but twice.
The second time, they were felled by me. I couldn’t let myself show even the slightest hesitation or shred of misplaced sympathy.
Their bodies were still warm, but their eyes were soulless and unblinking.
I’ve discovered that’s one way to tell the dead from the living. Those whose bodies are still warm and fresh—from afar, it’s so hard to tell the difference.
But the undead don’t blink.
For the first time in a long time, my footsteps feel heavy. My limbs are drained of strength.
I’m weary.
The thirst is growing stronger and stronger, to the point where my vision is starting to blur, and a red haze descends across my sight, and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that the only thing that can satisfy me right now isher.
