The Sentinel Mage

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE





THEY COVERED MORE than ten leagues, pushing the horses to their limits, before stopping for the day. Tomas chose a defensive position: a low, rocky mound beneath an overhang of sandstone. Nothing could surprise them from behind.

Petrus changed places with Innis and ate his dinner alongside the princes, Justen’s amulet warm and smooth against his breastbone.

It was a tense, silent meal. Petrus didn’t lay aside his weapons to eat. The baldric was tight across his chest, the sword a comforting weight against his back.

Gerit circled down as daylight faded from the sky. Wind gusted fitfully, producing deep moaning notes, and above them, one shriek.

“Anything?” Tomas asked, once Gerit had shifted into human form.

Gerit shook his head. “No one and nothing. We’re alone.” Cora handed him his clothes. He pulled them on.

Prince Tomas nodded. He stood and raised his voice: “Tonight we’ll have double sentries. If we’re attacked, don’t panic. We have advantages Captain Ditmer didn’t have.” Tomas looked around the circle of soldiers, meeting each man’s eyes. “There are more of us. We’re prepared. And we have the witches to fight with us.”

Petrus glanced at Innis. She was watching Prince Tomas, her face grave.

“Remember: nothing is more important than Harkeld’s life. He must survive. Lundegaard dies if he dies.”

Petrus glanced at Prince Harkeld. The prince was staring at the ground. His mouth was tight.

He found himself unexpectedly sorry for the man. Poor sod.

Tomas turned to Prince Harkeld. “If we’re attacked, I want you back there.” He pointed at the overhang of rock.

The prince looked up. His mouth tightened still further, but he nodded.

Tomas turned back to his soldiers. “You heard what Gerit said. There’s nothing out there. The only thing disturbing your sleep will be the man next to you farting.” The joke garnered a burst of loud, nervous laughter. “First sentries on duty now.” Tomas nodded at his sergeant. “Be extra vigilant.” The directive was unnecessary. Memory of what they’d seen must be as vivid for the soldiers as it was for him. Petrus could still see it if he closed his eyes.

Prince Tomas sat. His sergeant began to give orders, directing the sentries to their posts.

“Justen.”

Petrus looked across at Tomas. “Yes, sire?”

“If we’re attacked, stay back with Harkeld.”

Petrus nodded, relieved by the order. If whatever had attacked Ditmer attacked them, he didn’t want Innis anywhere near the fighting.

“You’re the last barrier between him and whatever is out there.”

Petrus nodded again.

“What about you?” Prince Harkeld asked. His tone was sour. “Where will you be? At the back, too?”

Tomas grinned. “Is that self-pity I hear?”

Prince Harkeld grunted.

The color drained from the sandstone cliffs as darkness gathered in the canyon. The wind fell and the wailing died away to a faint moan.

Petrus yawned, and listened idly to the princes talk. He glanced around, noting the sentries. Six men, facing out into the canyon.

He frowned. The curse shadows had darkened with the setting of the sun.

Something moved near his foot. He caught a glimpse of a small shape scuttling on the sand and jerked his boot aside.

“Scorpion.” Tomas shied a stone at the creature. “Time to put out the fire.” He stood and kicked sand into the fire pit, smothering the flames.

Petrus stood. “Won’t be a minute,” he said to Prince Harkeld.

He made his way away from the smoking fire pit. It was fully dark now. As he passed the mages, he nodded to Innis. Time to swap.

In the deep shadow of the overhang Petrus removed the baldric. He felt naked without it, vulnerable. He shivered, and shrugged off Justen’s woolen cloak.

“You must be tired,” Innis said, kicking off her boots. “You’ve been shifted much of the day.”

He was, but he wasn’t going to admit it to her. He ignored the comment. “Tomas said that if we’re attacked, Justen is to stay with the prince.”

Innis stilled. He dimly saw her face, a pale blur in the darkness. “Do you think—”

“We’ll be fine,” Petrus said confidently. But privately, he wasn’t so sure. The heaviness of the curse shadows made him uneasy.

Across the canyon, the silence of night was broken by the clatter of falling stones. Petrus froze, listening. The sound was loud. It echoed for a long time, bouncing off the sandstone walls.

“Sentry,” he said, not believing it.

“That came from the other side of the river,” Innis said.

“Rockfall, then.” Another clattering cascade of sound swallowed his words. This time it was closer to them, on this side of the river. Petrus turned his head, trying to pinpoint the source.

Around the smothered fire came a stir of voices, of alarm.

Someone ran towards them with sharp, gritty footfalls. “Innis!” It was Dareus. “There’s something out there. See what it is. Owl.”

She obeyed instantly. Petrus heard the whisper of her clothes falling to the ground as she shifted, felt the rush of air as she took off.

“I’ll go too—”

“No.” Dareus’s fingers closed around his wrist, hard. “Be Justen. Stay with the prince.”





INNIS FLEW SWIFTLY. The clatter of falling rock was loud. She swooped low, heading for the nearest source. Her owl’s eyes saw clearly: it was one of the tombs. The stone and mortar buckled, as if something inside tried to batter its way out. Rock showered down, bouncing and skittering across the canyon floor.

A cadaverous body hauled itself out of the tomb.

Innis shied in the air. Her eyes refused to believe what she saw.

The thing stood, lurching. It wasn’t a skeleton; the bones were clothed in leathery skin, the domed skull surmounted by a thatch of withered hair. It was cloaked in curse shadows, so darkly shrouded that she could scarcely make out the empty eye sockets. The blind head turned as if seeking something.

Shouts rose behind her. Innis wheeled and headed back to the campsite, flying as fast as she could. The canyon was alive with movement. Stones sprayed down as more tombs burst open, as dark figures stumbled free of their resting places.

A shrill neigh of panic captured her attention. She saw the horses rearing, kicking, tearing loose from their tethers. The thunder of their hooves echoed deafeningly as they galloped down the canyon, trampling everything in their path.

Fire flared in the firepit. She saw the soldiers in a ring facing outward, their bared swords glinting, saw Prince Harkeld and Justen behind them, swords raised, saw Ebril and Gerit pacing in front, snarling lions. Advancing on them were scores of warriors. They had arms and legs, heads, but those dark, lurching shapes had been dead for more than a thousand years.

Dareus cast a fire ball. Two of the corpses flared alight, but there was no faltering in the shuffling advance. They have no fear.

She arrowed downward, changing to a lioness as her feet touched the ground. Smells invaded her nose: the scent of ancient decay, the sharp odor of fear coming from the soldiers behind her.

Gerit opened his mouth in a roar. He charged at the advancing figures, scattering them, bowling them over.

Innis echoed the roar. She launched herself at the nearest warrior. It collapsed beneath her weight. She swiped with a sharp-clawed paw, snapping its neck, fastened her gaze upon the next corpse and leapt at it, snarling. Bones broke beneath her weight as the corpse tumbled to the ground. The skull separated from the neck and rolled, bouncing, beneath the feet of its comrades.

Innis leapt at the next corpse, knocking it down. She sank her teeth into its neck and ripped the head off. Bone and leathery skin disintegrated in her mouth. She spat, gagging, and looked for her next prey, launching herself forward.

A corpse blazed alight to her right, burning like a torch.

Innis glanced back. The corpses she’d beheaded were on their feet, shuffling towards the fire.

More gouts of flame erupted; more ancient warriors flared alight. They burned silently, their mouths open in soundless screams, crackling fiercely as fire consumed them.

A lion roared. Ebril. She couldn’t see him. A jostling wall of corpses surrounded her.

Innis leapt at the nearest one, knocking it down. Dry, sinewy arms reached for her. Dozens of hands clawed at her. She roared and bit, struggling. The arms tightened around her neck, surprisingly strong, as if Ivek’s curse had regenerated ancient tendons and muscles. Panic surged inside her. She shifted—a mouse, tiny, running between bony feet, then an owl, flapping swiftly up into the sky.

The canyon floor seethed with movement. Hundreds of corpses were converging on the campsite. Those behind marched relentlessly over the bodies of the fallen. Armless, they came. Headless, they came. Those who’d lost their legs dragged themselves with their hands.

Panic swelled inside her. Nothing will stop them.

The soldiers fought fiercely, swinging their blades, severing arms and legs, heads—but the creatures didn’t falter in their advance. As Innis watched, one soldier disappeared beneath a swarming tangle of corpses. His scream rose in the air.

Innis dove and launched herself into the battle again. A lion was no good. She needed to be big.