Without Tsamen and her scouts Kolek and Bren had been forced to become the eyes and ears of their army. They were far less effective than Tsamen. Every time Bren left his Maharal for more than an hour, some of them would desert, and follow the kineser back home. Kolek couldn’t stay out any longer, for they had both agreed it was far too dangerous to scout alone.

Still, Bren tried to look at the positives. Only one obey rune had slipped them by, and although they’d lost the golem it had been subdued before any others were harmed. No more spears rained from the sky, and no more infernal blockades barred their path. Rebeka had finally run out of tricks.

He damned himself for the thought as he and Kolek came around the bend. Hundreds of corpses lay across the road.

Bren began to examine the bodies. Kolek did the same. Neither spoke. It felt as if their silence was respectful, or that sound would defile the place. Flies buzzed maddeningly. The bodies were in such an advanced state of decay Bren wouldn’t have recognized anyone even if he knew them. However, he was fairly certain by their proportions and dress, that the corpses were from these lands and not his own. Bren had seen enough. He went back down the road, away from the bodies and the flies. Kolek followed.

“What do you make of it?” Bren asked, swatting at a cloud of flies which had followed him.

“They were put here. If they had rotted in place they would have sunken into the ground. Some of the highwaymen we killed are among them. Rebeka did this.”

“What has she done?” Bren asked.

“This has been a war against our minds from the beginning. Perhaps she hopes we will flee rather than disturb the sanctity of the dead.”

Bren felt sick. Did Rebeka hold anything sacred? His eyes burned, whether from the smell or from sorrow he could not say, “We already lose a handful of soldiers every day. This will destroy the morale of those who remain. Let us run back and call for a break. We’ll send your golems ahead to clear the path. There is no need to subjugate our people to this horror.”

Soon a lamentation of golems were at work clearing the road. Bren noted one golem, Dull, struggled with a larger body.

“Did you forget the runes of strength on Dull?” he asked.

“No. Dull was made the same as all the others. Look, it has no troubles lifting the body. It just can’t find the center of balance. Perhaps when it fought with Rage one of its speed runes was damaged.”

Realization rose with the bile at the back of Bren’s throat, “Dull isn’t clumsy, the body is moving.”

As though Bren’s understanding was a signal, all the bodies lying on the road rose as one. The bodies in the golems’ arms struck out at their bearers, destroying half a dozen before they could react. More bodies poured in from the woods at the edge of the road and sprinted toward the two men.

“Ready your weapon Kolek!”

Kolek leveled his spear as Bren pulled his sword from its sheath about his skirt. Bren saw Kolek take a deep breath, as though he was about to start carving. He took another. And then another. Kolek was trembling. Eight half-rotten corpses charged towards him. His spear wavered.

“Hold!” Bren ordered, “Obey your chieftain. You can feel fear later. Fight!”

Corpses were fast approaching Bren as well. He could no longer pay attention to Kolek. The first strike of Bren’s blade was echoed by a score of clashes in the distance. Cries could be heard. Hundreds of voices were shouting in pain and fear. The Maharal were under attack.

“My people!” Bren shouted. He broke free from the nearest corpse and leapt over their heads to land at Kolek’s side. Bren swung about in a fury, driving back the surrounding corpses.

“Go!” Bren shouted, “Save them!”

Bren wanted to go with him, but if the golems fell here his people would be fighting on two fronts. Kolek would have to be enough.

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“Run!”

Kolek could not resist looking back as he ran. Dull was torn to pieces by the corpse it had carried. Bren let out a bellow before disappearing behind a vast mass of bodies. His cry cut off abruptly. The battle was now fought in silence, unbreathing corpses against mouthless golems. Kolek forced himself to turn away. His people needed him.

He ran faster than he had ever before, faster than the fastest deer would ever run, faster than the fastest bird would ever fly. He leapt twenty paces in a stride, unable to see where he would land. If he stumbled he would die, but he didn’t have time.

He arrived upon a scene equally as chaotic as the one he had left, but this one was rife with sound. Soldiers bearing the banner of Ganter surrounded his people on all sides. His friends, the warriors and volunteers of his village, screamed as they died. The Maharal closed ranks time and time again, pulling their wounded away as they fell, but the wounded fell faster than they could be brought back to safety. Kolek had never seen the likes of the force which streamed from the forest. Each soldier bore a sword and an iron-bound shield. Kolek had never seen so much metal in his life. Next to the full plate each soldier wore, however, it was nothing. A single suit could have bought every house in his village. The spears were worthless against them. They bounced, slid, and shrieked against the metal, but could find no purchase.

Fleysh had made Kolek’s spear, it would not be turned aside. He leapt into the center of the soldiers. Three times he pierced their armour and three times he killed them before they could react. Two more went down as they turned to face him. A hole opened around Kolek and he began to deal death on all sides.

Then a young man with light blond hair flowing in a wild mane was in front of Kolek. He wore a pin depicting Ganter at his breast, but was unarmoured. In his hands were two daggers. The daggers disappeared, reappearing in the throats of two Maharal who had fought their way to Kolek’s side. They stumbled back, dead. Even as Kolek was taking this all in, the man tore Kolek’s spear from his grasp and snapped it in half with appalling ease. Kolek grabbed one of his fallen comrade’s spears and leapt at the man.

As Kolek flew through the air he whispered two words, hardly daring to believe they left his lips.

“Ice. Kill.”

Even Rebeka couldn’t have planned for Ice. Even Rebeka couldn’t have stopped it.

Behind the blond haired man the road lifted. Soldiers collapsed towards each other in all directions, landing in a heap which broke bones and crushed skulls. The edges of the road wrapped around the pile of dead and wounded and crushed them. No sound was produced during the entire spectacle, the soldiers in front of the horrifying scene did not react in the slightest. The colossal golem released its victims and crashed down, crushing dozens more.

Meanwhile, the pale haired youth had avoided Kolek’s leap, drawn the sword from his belt and attacked Kolek. Even if Kolek could match his speed he wouldn’t be able to guide his limbs into the right place at the right time. The youth scratched his temple. Kolek hastily avoided another strike, leaving himself open to a cut across his leg. Blood began to run into his eyes.

The soldiers behind the blond haired demon had begun to scream. They’d finally seen the golem massacring their comrades. Ice flowed like a wave over the soldiers’ heads, crushing them where they stood, robbing them of their voices. The golem was antithetical to sound itself.

The youth turned, distracted by the screams. Kolek stabbed at his back, putting all his strength behind the thrust.

Faster than a greased arrow, the man dropped his sword, twisted deftly to one side and tore the spear from Kolek’s grip. Kolek could crush a rock to powder with his bare hands, yet he’d had his weapon stolen twice at a whim. The man turned, spear lashing. The butt connected with the side of Kolek’s head and he knew no more.

Be ready. Rebeka’s words came back to Glove as he shouted for his soldiers to retreat. His soldiers. Glove was a lord now, but the title felt wrong on him. He suspected it always would. All he’d done since he got it, all he’d ever done, was follow orders.

His soldiers began to pull back, but they were too slow. The golem rolled across their heads, crushing them like blueberries. Their panic emboldened the Maharal, who leapt on them from behind, claiming even more lives.

The golem needed to be stopped. But… Even if Glove could kill it, and he doubted that, would that be the end of it? If he died in the attempt who would stop the second one they built, or the third? There might already be more of these golems hidden along the road. When he’d asked Rebeka to build her metal golems he hadn’t stopped at one invincible monstrosity, he’d asked her to build ten. An idea was blooming inside him. An idea which, for the first time in his life, was entirely his own.

The last of the Ganter survivors made it into the forest. The massive sheet of earth surged towards the trees then flowed back, unable to fit between the dense trunks. Glove was alone. The spear he had stolen from the rune enhanced warrior tumbled from his fingers. He followed it to the ground a moment later.

One of the Maharal, a warrior named Merea, approached the fallen demon. He lay there, panting, but otherwise making no movement.

“Kill me then,” said the demon in Merea’s own language, “I’m too tired to keep fighting. There’s no point in killing those who have already won. I surrender to your judgement.”

The warrior, Merea, looked to his companions. They stared back. He swallowed.

“Right. The vows have been broken. I don’t know who you are or why you fight, but our quarrel is with Rebeka and none other. On behalf of the Maharal, we accept your surrender.”