Free Cobweb Empire by Vera Nazarian Page B

dressed in poor
motley rags and wearing no noticeable military colors, sought to
overpower, but the Chidair soldiers struck back fiercely. And, in
moments, enemy limbs were hacked off by the better-trained Chidair,
while the strangers wallowed on the ground.
    The first of the three knights, disguised by
a dull battered helm and lowered visor, brandishing a heavy flanged
mace, made directly for Lord Beltain Chidair, recognizing him as
the leader—but it was a grave mistake.
    Beltain leapt forward, despite his imperfect
physical condition. And before the attacking knight could bring
down his mace, he found himself pulled out of his saddle and onto
the ground, grappled down by the black knight, while his mount ran
wild. The two of them rolled, then Beltain was up first, and
pounded at him from above with his gauntled fist and the flat of
his great sword, then the pommel, in a thunder stroke—Percy noted
in those wild instants of hyperawareness—as though even in this
instance he wanted to grant a modicum of mercy.
    “Surrender, or lose your limbs!” Beltain
cried hoarsely.
    But the knight underneath him made no
answer.
    And soon it became obvious something else
was not quite right.
    For one thing, there was no
blood. . . . By this time in such a skirmish, the
snow would have been painted bright red. Instead, there was
nothing.
    Indeed, as the Chidair men defended
themselves, their enemy did not bleed, and instead, they themselves
soon received gashes and cuts that discolored the snow.
    The other two knights, seeing how easily
their comrade was felled, suddenly turned around, and retreated,
their horses laboriously riding up the same hillock they had
descended moments ago—all in silence.
    The foot soldiers however were not so easily
driven off.
    The girls were screaming. Marie cowered near
the cart while Niosta and Lizabette dove directly underneath it.
The Chidair soldiers offered them some protection and stood their
ground, defending the general area of the campsite and their own
horses.
    “A sword! Someone, give me a sword, now! ” Vlau Fiomarre exclaimed a few feet away, as abruptly
from behind the hedge another three drably clad attackers surfaced
and made directly for the Infanta and Percy.
    Percy whirled around, and blinked, seeing
double again, just as she had minutes ago. Because instead of three
man-shapes, she saw six .
    Three men and, flanking them, their three
death-shadows.
    And then, as Percy glanced around the entire
clearing, she realized that not a single one of their attackers was
one of the living.
    They were all undead .
    “Beware! They are not alive, My Lord! Dead! They are all dead, all of them!” she cried in the
direction of the black knight, and he paused for an instant in his
struggle and glanced at her.
    But Percy had turned away already, facing
the grisly carved-up face of a mortally wounded dead man inches
away, as he came for her with a long ugly hunting knife. Up-close,
the side of his skull was split open and old clotted blood had
dried like rust over his matted straw-hair. His eyes were glazed,
fixed in their frozen sockets, no longer quite human.
    Before Vlau Fiomarre had an instant to
react, tearing off a large branch for the closest weapon at hand
and running toward them, the dead man reached for
her. . . .
    Percy put her hand up in an involuntary
defensive gesture. But the moment her fingertips felt the pressure
of the dead man’s chest, the roiling darkness in her mind was back,
with a snap—a churning winter storm. Without pausing to think, she
reached for the shadow at his side, feeling its billowing ghostly
shape attaining tangible resilience . . . and she pulled with her mind, fiercely, in pure furious
instinct.
    The shadow of death collapsed into a vapor
funnel, and was sucked into the dead man’s flesh.
    He fell instantly, fingers losing the grip
on the knife. His body was an empty shell before it hit the
ground.
    Percy stood above him, breathing deeply, her
head