ROMULOR STOOD. It was slow at first, jerky, but the shock rooted me to the spot.

He set the little chest aside, and from the side of his throne the towering ghoul-king hauled a sword up into the air that was at least as long as my own.

“What worm comes crawling before me, drawing me from slumber?” boomed the Ghoul-King. “A Cinderborn and his dog?” He cackled, taking a step forward. “I thirst. Bare your throat, little worm!”

He moved faster than I expected. The long black sword flashed up and over in an arc that nearly took my head off. I ducked and felt it split the air just above the nape of my neck.

“Swift, for a corpse,” snarled the king. “Good! I can smell your blood, sangkva. My sons have starved me, but from you I will drink strength.”

“I don’t think so,” I said, throwing myself clear of the return strike.. The king took a long stride forward. I struck as he brought the sword back around. He cried out as the greatsword bit into his side, just above the hip.

“Knave!” he roared. Bloodfang dove at him then, lunging up at his legs. Romulor hammered at the wolf’s head with his huge fist, but Bloodfang did not release his shredding grip. I took advantage of the distraction to strike again, this time driving my sword into his belly. He turned his sagging, ugly face to me with a hateful growl, and brought his own sword down. Unable to pull my sword free of his belly in time, I was unable to defend myself.

The edge bit deep into my neck. I felt it part the flesh with a pain far beyond words. I fell backwards, and saw my own blood staining his black blade. He cackled as I hit the floor, and I realized what a fool I’d been.

Bloodfang slammed into the ghoul from behind, trying to drive him off his feet, but it didn’t work. I saw that black sword flash up as the wolf ripped and tore at the king’s legs. If Romulor felt it, he didn’t complain. The sword came down in a killer’s arc. Bloodfang yelped, and the strange power that bound it to me was severed. It faded to ash.

Romulor turned to face me. “A trick!” he cried. I heard it only dimly. My vision was a pool of black spots, and somewhere beyond them, Romulor was coming toward me. He raied a foot and brought it down on my leg. I heard it break, but it sounded like someone else’s bone shattering. Not mine. Someone screamed, but not me.

I tried to pull myself away, but could not. He reached down and hauled me into the air.

Something cold slid into my belly, and a voice like the grave’s said, “I told you I would feast of your blood, Cinderborn. Your foolish courage will fire my bones. And the Lord of the Harvest will rise again.”

He jerked the blade free and threw me aside like a ragdoll. I saw the floor rising to meet me, but I never felt it.

I crashed through a blistering emptiness, and felt Death’s cold embrace envelop me—but it fell short. In the vast darkness, I saw a light, a beacon of denial to the dark current that threatened to pull me under once again.

The light was radiant, blazing with the strength of ancient oaths as it swept toward me. A pale arm extended, and from the heart of that light I saw a slender, wounded face: Anaeel, silver tears streaming backward as she plummeted after me into the abyss.

“Take my hand!” she cried, a whisper against the raging surf of oblivion. “Cinderborn! Reach for me!”

It took all I had to obey. Death weighed on me like the mass of a mountain, crushing away even the memory of a will to live. But her face, her fear, and her courage: it called to a part of me that had not given up yet. I reached, striving with formless fingers for her hand—

And snapped awake in the bone-channel chamber. Anaeel knelt over me, her hands cradling my neck. I could feel the sour memory of the Ghoul-King’s sword there, where it had nearly severed my head.

“How did you do that?” I asked, looking around. Nothing had changed.

“I am a Velkyrim. It is my charge to ferry souls.”

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I blinked and sat up of my own accord, rubbing my face. “Before..when I died… I awakened at an altar. A white stone.”

“And you would have,” she said. “I only regret it took so long. Without my wings…”

“No,” I said, standing. “You saved me. I would have been cast back to the Stone of the Vigilant.” I shuddered, thinking about it. The light of my Cindermark was weak. The arrow wound, puckered and ugly, held scarcely enough light to outshine a candle. Death had brought me close to the brink once again. I needed radiance.

Bloodfang lay inert on the ground beside me. I picked the greatsword up, groaning with the sudden, acute weakness.

“You cannot face him as you are,” Anaeel said, looking up at me with worry.

“I don’t have a choice.”

“Each time you sacrifice more strength to him.”

I looked at the dark doors at the end of the chamber. “Then I’ll have to take it back.”

The golden bowl of blood sat on the lashed wooden platform. I stepped over to it, and even before I put my hand to the bowl, I could feel the power in it. The gathered power of many sacrifices, never fully expunged. There was something else, too. Something darker.

“That blood is not yours,” she said. “It was not won by might. Not freely given. It won’t burn as brightly.”

I sighed, sensing the truth of her words. “It’s something,” I said, and let the power flow up inot me. The Cindermark began to glow, but I felt a resistance there. I pulled until I felt I might vomit, for the radiance came with a tainted, oily sensation that seemed to slick my belly and throat. I swallowed against the taste of bile and curled my hand into a fist, shutting off the flow of power.

It wasn’t warm. The radiance usually kindled warmth in my bones, but this pilfered power conferred no succor. Only strength. It would have to be enough.

“Can you do that again?” I asked without looking at Anaeel. I had a sense that she had expended a great deal of strength rescuing my soul. I did not want to see the truth of it written in her delicate features.

“Once, perhaps,” she said. “But soon I will revert to stone. If that happens…”

“I understand.” I shouldered Bloodfang and returned to the Ghoul-King’s pit. I did not have time to think of the rest. This task, terrible as it was, needed doing.

The sound of my boots on the stone was like a headsman’s drum. I pushed down the fear and doubt, and the greater fear—the memory of my own flesh being butchered and the darkness that followed—and descended.

“Cinderborn,” Romulor rumbled as I alighted on the last step. “You did not flee.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

The towering ghoul held a spear now, one taken from the far wall. “Certainly not! You come eagerly to offer me more blood! A loyal sangkva you are, my dear little worm. Perhaps I will make you into one of my ghouls.” A sickening, murderous grin split his face. “Would you like that? You’ll never have to know death again, if you kneel.”

“I would die a thousand times more,” I said.

The depraved glee on Romulor’s hideous face curdled. “So be it,” he said.

The Ghoul-King flew at me with uncanny speed. This time, I knew how quick he was. I dove to the side and came up in a roll. The spear was the unknown, and he proved expert with it. The thick pole slashed across at me. I ducked, but only just, and a moment later it was stabbing at me with all the single-minded hatred of a scorpion’s barb.

One, two, three, I kept moving, just out of place, ignoring Romulor’s cackle. The fourth one caught me on the ribs, but it was a glancing blow. I grit my teeth against the white pain, anchoring my consciousness grimly. My hand seized the spear shaft, and I let the stolen radiance burn, enough to ensure he could not tear the spear free.

With the other hand, I brought Bloodfang around in an arc that nearly disemboweled the Ghoul-King. He shrieked as I split the flesh of his belly, and I cursed when I saw how close it had come. Radiance flowed freely down his abdomen, and in his rage, he managed to jerk the spear-shaft free.

I retreated, sealing my own wound. I could feel the confidence as if it were radiance—he was strong, but slow. Like the Baron. I could get close to him, if I were patient enough. And my bones, they rememebered fighting men larger than myself. A Ghoul-King Romulor may be… but he was not so high above me.

“You dare!” he snarled, clamping a white hand over it. I could see him burning radiance, and saw the flash in his eyes. “You dare to scar the king!”

“That’s just the beginning,” I said.

This time I led the dance, striking swiftly from high, forcing him back. His own retreat had brought him close to the wall, and forced him to fight with the spear cross-wise. He swung with it like a club, striking me across the mouth. Radiance seeped from my torn lip and down my chin, but I did not let it stun me. I dodged beneath the next blow, letting the shaft hiss over me, and slashed at his arm. The spear clattered to the ground as he reeled back.

“I am the Mouth of Giddon!” he screamed. “I know the Eight Secrets of the Dark Below! Who are you to stand before me!”

“I am Cinderborn,” I said. “And it is my duty to burn away the rot.”