THE DEADWALK.

By Stephanie Bedwell-Grime.

CHAPTER ONE

The battle axe split the ground inches from his head.

Too close. Much too close. Bevan scrambled to his feet. It swung again, this time striking the stone wall behind him, showering him with gravel.

He caught a glimpse of a slack-jawed face, one glazed and clouded eye. The other eye...

Bevan didn't want to think about that, but he couldn't help it. The sight of the mutilated eye, a stake of amber protruding from the empty socket was forever engraved in his mind. Whatever happened, he couldn't let them catch him.

He ducked under the arm. A flap of foul-smelling cloth brushed across his face. He choked. Fighting nausea, he bolted back down the alleyway and into the open square.

The sight nearly stopped him cold. Blood carpeted the marble steps to the throne palace. A trail of bloody footprints led to the bonfire in the main square where all of value that couldn't be carried off was heaped and set aflame. Acrid smoke drifted in ghostly columns. Burning air caught in his throat. Having no other choice, he sucked it into his lungs anyway and forced his feet to keep moving.

Dying cries rose in an unearthly chorus. Pleas for mercy, abruptly silenced. The roar of flames consumed all. Bevan cast a furtive glance behind him. Clutching hands emerged from the fog. His assailant lurched mindlessly toward him. A low moan issued from its flaccid lips as flattened lungs labored to make a sound.

Bevan skirted the fountain, rushing past rows of thatched huts that now burned like flaming torches. His only hope of salvation lay in making it through the city gates. But he could barely make out the line of the circular wall through the drifting smog. And in his mad dash he'd lost all awareness of direction.

He darted down a narrow street, praying to every god in the pantheon of The Seven Heavens, that it led in the right direction.

Looking back over his shoulder, he watched his assailant turn down the street after him, as if it knew before he'd decided which way he was heading.

The street spilled him back into the square. Bevan uttered a raw cry of defeat.

Blocking his passage was a virtual army of the things! He sagged against the wall. Behind him, his assailant lumbered mindlessly after him.

Bevan uttered a fervent prayer. To anyone's gods. It had ceased to matter whom he prayed to. As if catching his scent on the smoke-laden air, the horde turned toward him.

Ivory ribs striped the remaining threads of their clothing. Dried blood encrusted gaping wounds made by swords and maces. Jaws worked awkwardly. A flat cry rose from their ranks. Dead staring eyes leered at him from soot-covered faces. Gleaming monacle-like from each right eye was a flash of amber.

The clatter of hooves drew Bevan's gaze past them. A troop of plumed and armored riders emerged from the smoke. The black and red standard of Hael furled past them.

At the center was a rider more decorated than the rest. His helmet boasted the thickest plume. The hilt of his sword was set with jewels. Blue eyes bored out from under his visor, calmly surveying the carnage.

Prince Doan-Rau. Bevan's hope evaporated. A cold stab of utter terror shot through him. Dead or alive, they wouldn't catch him, he vowed. He wouldn't let them do what they'd done to Zolan.

The Prince barked an order. On that signal, the ghouls surged forward.

Bevan looked up. Several feet above him, a clay drainpipe slopped its contents into the steaming gutter.

He leapt for the drainpipe. His fingers closed on thin air. With a jarring thud, he landed back in the alleyway. Robbed of the luxury of time to catch his breath he jumped again. Hot terracotta seared his hands.

He shrieked in pain, but forced his blistered hands to grasp the pipe anyway. The roof offered the only venue of escape. If he failed, if he fell, they'd make him one of those things. He swung a leg. Abused stomach muscles protested, throwing off his aim by several inches. He made another try for the rooftop. His boot grazed the edge.

Something seized his other ankle, hauling him downward.

He wrenched his leg from its grasp. His boot dropped to the cobblestone with a dull thud. Tightening his grip on the burning pipe, he summoned his strength for a last desperate lunge at the roof.

A loud crack broke through the muttering of the horde below. With a final swipe, his hand clutched the edge of the roof. But his fingers found no purchase in the smooth tile. In horrified fascination, he watched the tracks of his nails inch closer to the edge.

Screaming, he plummeted into a sea of smothering, clawing hands.

The first blow knocked the world askew. Blood, hot and sticky gushed down the side of his face, soaking his tunic and his breeches. He hadn't known there could be so much.He couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Voices, those horrible dull moans echoed through his mind. Cold raced inward toward his heart, bringing with it a thick blanket of darkness. Beyond pain, he felt only the expanding pressure of the thin stake of amber being hammered through his right eye.

While his brain lay slowly dying, Bevan felt his body coming back to life.

CHAPTER TWO

"Damn!"

Riordan impaled a tuft of grass with her broadsword. "I almost had him." She plunged it deeper into the soft earth. "How could I let him get past my guard?"

With a groan of defeat, she thrust Nhaille's sword into the grass beside her own and glared at it in disgust. The chore of cleaning weapons fell to the loser.

"But I wasn't supposed to lose!"

She cast a quick backward glance at the source of her irritation, finding him in the jumble of bricks they laughingly called the bath house. Freezing water cascaded over his bare chest. Muscles clenched against the cold. At another time she would have been interested in this blatant display of maleness. Kayr-Alden-Nhaille was a handsome man, even at twice her age. During her exile she'd had few opportunities to observe men up close. Lately, she'd found her attention wandering to thoughts of romance. But on this evening, thoughts of revenge and victory crowded out primal urges.

Furiously, she replayed the match in her mind. Her footwork was beyond reproach, strategy her best ever. The match should have been hers. Would have been, but for that last overly-confident move. Nhaille had seen quickly through the false bravado and promptly dispatched her.

Her hand strayed to the ragged tear in her padded leather practice vest. It hurt surely enough, but not as much as her pride. The dire purpose behind the match had ceased to matter and become instead a matter of her own dignity. She lusted after that sweet rush of triumph. More than ever she wanted to beat him at his own craft.

"I just want to see the look on his face!" Riordan smiled with great relish. "I'll make him polish my sword until it gleams."

But the King's Captain was not about to lose for her encouragement. The fate of a nation was at stake, as he was so fond of reminding her. An age-old prophecy named her its savior. On that flimsy possibility, her youth vanished into an endless chain of summers spent training for its inevitability.

"Prophecy be damned!"

Riordan yanked off her helm and ran a hand across her face. The May evening was unseasonably warm. Casting a furtive glance to ensure she wasn't observed, she undid the cloth that covered her hair. Silver-blonde tumbled over her shoulders. She unbuckled her vest and tossed the leather down on the pile of gear. Flopping down beside it, she rested her arms on her knees and stared west over the countryside toward Kanarek.

Tall spires taunted her from the distance with the promise of urban delight. Her only knowledge of her birthplace came from one faded map. She memorized the maze of streets, clinging persistently to dreams of home.

Dusk cooled the evening breeze, drying the sweat that soaked the front of her shirt. Riordan sighed. She'd best apply herself to the task at hand before the light vanished altogether.

Black clouds drifted lazily across the swollen sun hanging precariously on the horizon. The sight brought her back to the present with a jolt. Squinting into the sunset, she made out the foggy edge of a bank of billowing smoke. Riordan traced the dark cloud back along its path to...

Kanarek!

Riordan snatched up her abandoned gear. Ignoring the painful protest of tired muscles, she raced down the hill.

"Nhaille!" The hills threw her voice back at her mockingly.

He emerged suddenly from the bath house, hauling on the shirt that bunched stubbornly against his wet body. Momentum pitched her forward, nearly running him down.

"By the Gods, Riordan! What is it?" With a fencer's grace, he sidestepped the near collision and bit back an oath. Balling his fists against his hips, he regarded his charge with supreme displeasure. "Must you announce your presence to the entire countryside?"

Riordan skidded to a halt. "Smoke," she got out between panting breaths. "On the horizon. Kanarek's on fire!"

"Impossible," Nhaille snapped. His eyes flickered angrily from her face to the two swords that had obviously not yet seen any attention and the practice vest that dangled from one hand.

Riordan dragged in another breath. "I saw smoke. Huge clouds of it. Really, Nhaille."

Nhaille sniffed the air. As though he could see through the hulk of the house before him, he looked toward the horizon. Perhaps he sensed something in the air, or maybe her horror-stricken expression got through to him because he paled visibly. With long strides, he gained the summit in seconds, Riordan close behind him.

"There," she said indignantly, pointing out the billowing cloud that was taking up more of the horizon with every passing second.

He sighted down the line of her arm. Clouds, dyed crimson by the sunset, bled into the smoke like a festering sore. For several moments neither of them spoke. With a sinking heart Riordan watched his mouth harden into a grim line.

"What is it?" she asked, knowing it was nothing good if it made Nhaille look like that. "You don't think..." She couldn't say it, couldn't bring herself to ask if, after all those years of doubt, the prophecy had suddenly fallen upon her.

The dying sun tinged his face scarlet as he turned to her. "I don't know." Nhaille reached for the sword she still held forgotten in her hands. Buckling it low on his hips, he started back down the hill. "But I intend to find out."

Like a shadow, she fled after him.

"Saddle the horses," he ordered, suddenly taking notice of her. "Just in case," he added more gently. He gripped her by the shoulders. "Wait for me here." The look on his face invited no protest. "Do not show yourself no matter who comes to the gates."

Swallowing hard past the rising lump of dread in her throat, she nodded. Nhaille strode away from her, disappearing silently into the darkness. For several seconds she stared in the direction he'd taken, while that feeling of cold horror spread slowly down her spine."Do it now, Riordan," came his stern reminder.

She came to her senses, realizing she was standing still as if her feet had taken root. Without a backward glance, she bolted in the direction of the stables.

Smoke darkened the sky prematurely. Wind rose up, scattering it in their direction. Strayhorn caught the scent and whinnied nervously as she bolted through the stable doors.

"Easy." She patted his ebony flank and wished wholeheartedly there was someone to reassure her. But he sensed her fear and tossed his head restlessly. Stormback paced in the narrow confines of his stall, clearly wondering what lunacy had their mistress contemplating a ride after dark.

"Please don't let it be true." Her hands shook, she fumbled with the leather straps of the saddle. "Please let it be a cooking fire that got out of hand. Anything but the fall of Kanarek."

Strayhorn stamped angrily, baffled at being saddled and stuck in his stall.

"Great," Riordan muttered under her breath. "Now I've spooked the horses." She forced the tremors from her hands and petted his muzzle. "It's probably just a mistake," she told them in soothing tones, as much to console herself. "So you two just be patient.

I'll be back in a few moments."

Strayhorn regarded her with one skeptical eye. Riordan raced back toward the house for supplies.

"Blankets, canteen, rations. Gods what do you pack to answer a prophecy?" She grabbed the saddle bags Nhaille kept by the back door in case of emergency. "How can we possibly fight an army that can draft the dead into its service?"

Her hand closed on the hilt of her sword. The cold metal seemed woefully inadequate against the dire forces legend foretold.

The Sword of Zal-Azaar is our only hope, she heard Nhaille say as clearly as if he'd been standing next to her.

"Come back soon, Nhaille," she prayed to Nuurah, Goddess of Mercy. "Tell me there's nothing to worry about."

"Gods, what if he doesn't come back?" The thought lingered in her mind. "Why didn't I listen to him?"

Stubborn, he called her. Just like your father. It had the undeniable ring of truth. She'd scoffed at his warnings and daydreamed through his lectures. She'd laughed in the face of prophecy, steadfastly refusing to believe something she could neither prove nor deny.

"Forgive me, Nhaille. I promise I'll never daydream again."

Now the prophecy might actually have found its way to her door, her mind was a whirlwind of disconnected thoughts. Panic clamored for her attention. She couldn't give in to it.

"Kanarek is depending upon me."

A deep shudder worked its way from head to toe and she thought of the gory paintings in the scripture Nhaille kept buried in the root cellar. Drawn in thick strokes of red, black and gold it showed an army of slack jawed corpses led by a tall Haelian rider. On the opposite page a silver-haired Kanarekii warrior thundered down the hillside toward them bearing the legendary Sword of Zal- Azaar.

A supreme accident of birth named her that warrior.

The trouble with prophecy, Riordan decided, was that no one asked you if you wanted to be one."I can't do this!" she protested to Nuurah, who had long ceased listening, and ran to fill the canteens.

Boots, armor, a second shirt, an extra knife all went into the pile in the hall and still there was no sign of Nhaille. That more than anything else made her nervous. Nhaille was exact to a fault. If he said he wouldn't be long, he would return without delay.

Something was horribly wrong. The air vibrated with impending disaster.

Giving up on absent gods, she cursed the ancestors who'd damned her to this fate by every demon in Al-Gomar, The Seven Hells.

Shraal. The pale willowy beings of temple paintings. Shraal who had ruled the world with their terrible weapons. The soul-stealing Sword of Zal-Azaar was countered only by the Amber Orb, slivers of which could reanimate the dead. Shraal fought with Shraal.

Shraal destroyed all they built. Tall cities lay in ruin, the scorched earth barren and wasted. Shraal descendants crawled into the forest, intermarried until their proud achievements became no more than dim memory and legend. The Sword and the Amber they hid among the impenetrable magenta mountains, having lost the knowledge to destroy them.

In a time of great need, so the prophecy said, a princess, thirteenth in line to the throne of Kanarek would awake the Sword and rescue them.

"Moraah!" Riordan groaned, calling on the Goddess of Courage. "How did I come to be born under such an unlucky star?"

She'd known the moment she saw those black clouds that the prophecy she'd so fervently denied had fallen upon her at last.

And destiny, as Nhaille was fond of telling her, was not to be tampered with.