in moments.”
He was right, but not entirely.
I ended up on my feet again as a skeletal hand, shreds of ancient tendons hanging from it like Spanish moss, burst through the rock only feet away from where I was sitting.
I let out a shriek like an elephant spotting a zombie mouse and found a fresh burst of energy that launched me back onto my feet, and several yards away before I could even completely register what had just happened.
The hand reached out and grasped at the rock around it, pulling as more arm appeared, and then a mangled elbow.
“Um, Goldie,” Donovan said uneasily. “What should we do?”
“I told you there would be trouble,” I reminded him. “We just have to wait for the right moment—I don’t have any Magic to spare right now.”
Another arm burst through the stone at our feet, blindly grasping for us. This time it was Donovan who let out a wordless cry as we darted out of reach.
“These are shades?” He asked, his eyes focused on the forest of bones springing up around us like evil crocuses. “Shouldn’t they… I don’t know, be more like shade?”
“Sorry,” I muttered between my teeth, wishing that I had my sword, even though I knew metal would be no use against creatures like this—not unless I wanted to destroy my new blade. “I wasn’t responsible for naming them.”
“Shades,” Donovan muttered in disgust, reaching for a gun that wasn’t there. He glanced behind us—we were edging awfully close to the far rim of the plateau. Soon there wouldn’t be room enough for shades and the two of us to all fit.
Of course, I had my preference as to who should survive.
Around us, from every direction, the gruesome shades approached, some still dragging stones from their rocky graves—all damaged from their time underground—and their time alive, as well. These men and women had been sacrifices, murdered on this ground and bound to protect the sacred blade.
Then, I saw her—the Guardian—the one who we sought. Unlike the other shades, she had been buried with ceremony—though, she, too, showed the scars of her murder—the gaping grin of her open throat to the missing chunk of her skull, briefly snapping into view underneath her long, luxurious mane of white hair.
Despite the color of her hair, this had been a young woman—young and particularly tall for her time. She was dressed as a warrior, wearing skins and jewelry—cuffs of carefully wrought metal, a pouch of deerskin hanging around her neck—perhaps carrying some form of talisman.
Or the knife we sought.
Though the Guardian’s face and skin were tanned and weathered with age, we could make out the pattern of elaborate tattoos—covering one whole side of her face, both wrists, and the backs of both hands.
When she held up her hands toward us, I could see that the palms of her hands, also, were tattooed.
She stared at the two of us, though the slack of her brittle eyelids told me that her eyes had been removed—possibly as part of her burial process? She did not seem to miss them at all, as her head was turned unerringly toward us.
A prickly feeling gathered at the base of my skull.
“Duck!” I shouted, knocking Donovan to one side as a blast of light burst from the woman’s hands, directed at us.
Thanks to my senses, the main force of the blast missed us, but we weren’t able to fully evade the edges.
It was cold—as frigid as a Mongolian Midnight.
What was this woman? Or, rather—what had she been when she was alive?
Some kind of ice goddess?
Her fair hair whipped around her skeletal face as she twisted her hands, calling on the wind to obey her. It whistled around us angrily, tugging at our clothes, shredding the skin off of the shades that had us cornered.
“If you are going to do something,” Donovan shouted—his voice barely audible in the roar of the gathering storm, “It better be soon!”
Even as the words left his mouth, snow began to fall—not light, fluffy flakes floating down
He was right, but not entirely.
I ended up on my feet again as a skeletal hand, shreds of ancient tendons hanging from it like Spanish moss, burst through the rock only feet away from where I was sitting.
I let out a shriek like an elephant spotting a zombie mouse and found a fresh burst of energy that launched me back onto my feet, and several yards away before I could even completely register what had just happened.
The hand reached out and grasped at the rock around it, pulling as more arm appeared, and then a mangled elbow.
“Um, Goldie,” Donovan said uneasily. “What should we do?”
“I told you there would be trouble,” I reminded him. “We just have to wait for the right moment—I don’t have any Magic to spare right now.”
Another arm burst through the stone at our feet, blindly grasping for us. This time it was Donovan who let out a wordless cry as we darted out of reach.
“These are shades?” He asked, his eyes focused on the forest of bones springing up around us like evil crocuses. “Shouldn’t they… I don’t know, be more like shade?”
“Sorry,” I muttered between my teeth, wishing that I had my sword, even though I knew metal would be no use against creatures like this—not unless I wanted to destroy my new blade. “I wasn’t responsible for naming them.”
“Shades,” Donovan muttered in disgust, reaching for a gun that wasn’t there. He glanced behind us—we were edging awfully close to the far rim of the plateau. Soon there wouldn’t be room enough for shades and the two of us to all fit.
Of course, I had my preference as to who should survive.
Around us, from every direction, the gruesome shades approached, some still dragging stones from their rocky graves—all damaged from their time underground—and their time alive, as well. These men and women had been sacrifices, murdered on this ground and bound to protect the sacred blade.
Then, I saw her—the Guardian—the one who we sought. Unlike the other shades, she had been buried with ceremony—though, she, too, showed the scars of her murder—the gaping grin of her open throat to the missing chunk of her skull, briefly snapping into view underneath her long, luxurious mane of white hair.
Despite the color of her hair, this had been a young woman—young and particularly tall for her time. She was dressed as a warrior, wearing skins and jewelry—cuffs of carefully wrought metal, a pouch of deerskin hanging around her neck—perhaps carrying some form of talisman.
Or the knife we sought.
Though the Guardian’s face and skin were tanned and weathered with age, we could make out the pattern of elaborate tattoos—covering one whole side of her face, both wrists, and the backs of both hands.
When she held up her hands toward us, I could see that the palms of her hands, also, were tattooed.
She stared at the two of us, though the slack of her brittle eyelids told me that her eyes had been removed—possibly as part of her burial process? She did not seem to miss them at all, as her head was turned unerringly toward us.
A prickly feeling gathered at the base of my skull.
“Duck!” I shouted, knocking Donovan to one side as a blast of light burst from the woman’s hands, directed at us.
Thanks to my senses, the main force of the blast missed us, but we weren’t able to fully evade the edges.
It was cold—as frigid as a Mongolian Midnight.
What was this woman? Or, rather—what had she been when she was alive?
Some kind of ice goddess?
Her fair hair whipped around her skeletal face as she twisted her hands, calling on the wind to obey her. It whistled around us angrily, tugging at our clothes, shredding the skin off of the shades that had us cornered.
“If you are going to do something,” Donovan shouted—his voice barely audible in the roar of the gathering storm, “It better be soon!”
Even as the words left his mouth, snow began to fall—not light, fluffy flakes floating down
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