Free The Sorcerer's Bane by B. V. Larson Page B

flesh into heaps on the cobbled streets. There, they poured lamp oil upon the mass and set it alight. More scraps were brought in and added to the looming fire. A choking black smoke filled their eyes with tears and burnt their raw throats. Men coughed and spat, but continued the grim work.
    A messenger came running from the palace, and Gruum grabbed his tunic. “What is it, man?”
    “The palace has fallen,” the man panted. His face and body were black with soot. His shirt had been burnt away. Only the white circles of his eyes could be seen in the night. “The dead have overrun us.”
    Gruum looked to the palace. Flames licked within the closed windows. He released the messenger and moved toward the central stair.
    Therian stood there, having driven back the marching dead to the threshold. As each came up, he gutted it and tossed it back down from whence it had come. Each enemy he cast down tumbled into more of the throng that struggled upward. They snapped their bones and dented their skulls, but still heaved themselves back up.
    “Milord!” Gruum shouted.
    Therian flicked his eyes to him, then back to the throng of wild dead.
    “The palace, milord!” Gruum shouted. “It is burning!”
    Therian craned his neck. “We must seal this entrance then,” he said. The King called for help, in a voice that was too loud to come from any human throat. His words were instantly obeyed. Huge barrels of oil were rolled forward and down the central stair into the very faces of the marching dead. Torches were cast down after the barrels, which split open as they bounced and fell into the dark. Light and heat flared soon after, brighter than the Sun in the black night.
    Everyone shuffled back as the heat grew intense. Gruum threw up his arms to shield his face. “Will it stop them, milord?”
    “The stair is supported by thick timbers,” the King replied. “When they burn through and buckle, the stair will fall.”
    “Will the town center not burn as well?”
    Therian nodded. “Quite possibly, but it is more important that we save the palace. Come with me, Gruum.”
    Gruum followed the King at a run toward the palace. He could see flames in seven windows now. Curtains and tapestries curled at its touch. Ancient stained glass windows cracked and let in fresh air, causing the flames to surge out through the newly opened aperture. Tongues of flickering orange licked the sides of two of the towers hungrily.
    “What can we save?” Gruum asked, panting as he ran to keep up. “The gallery? The treasury?”
    “Art comes in an infinite supply. Melted gold can be reminted. But the library—there are texts there that are irreplaceable.”
    With a full company of troops behind them, many dressed in ancient battle armor, Therian and Gruum burst through the lower entrance. They made their way to the back of the palace where the library sat. The long marble corridors rang with pounding boots. Smoke filled the halls with a gray haze that choked everyone except the King. He seemed to breathe rolling palls of smoke as if it were nothing more than morning mist.
    There, amongst the shelves crowded with scrolls and spidery texts, they met a familiar figure. She stood atop a table full of wax-splattered diagrams. Gruum recognized the designs—it hurt his mind to look at them. They were Therian’s latest works. Nadja stood among these parchments, her feet buried in paper. In her hand she held a lamp that guttered, so full was the vessel with oil.
    “There you are, father!” Nadja said. “I had thought you would never come to save your beloved books.”
    Therian slowed to a walk. He approached her cautiously. As he did, she carefully poured the oil over the papers at her feet. Gruum stared at the girl, who was fully grown now into a young woman. She was shapely, with high cheekbones, long black hair and a nose that turned up slightly at the tip. Had she been a tavern wench, Gruum knew he would have tried to bed her. The thought made him