grunts
ran to stand lookout at each end of the halted convoy. The rest made for the carriages.
An arrow shot out of the open window of the second coach. It was aimed at Coilla, and came near to claiming her. She dropped
and hugged the ground. Stryke and Haskeer did the same. Coilla got off an arrow of her own. It smacked into the carriage door.
Whoever was inside returned fire, but the bolt flew over their heads. Haskeer unleashed an arrow, sending it through the window.
Somebody in the dark interior shrieked.
The sound of battering came from the far side of the carriage. Dallog’s crew were laying siege to it. Stryke, Coilla and Haskeer
got up and raced for their goal. As they approached, the door of the second carriage burst open and four troopers spilled
out.
“You go ahead!” Coilla shouted to Stryke.
He sprinted off.
Swords drawn, the troops came at Haskeer and Coilla, who rushed forward to meet them. The chime of steel on steel echoed through
the twilight. Almost immediately, Dallog and the others poured around the carriages and joined in. Jennesta’s guards fought
with spirit, but had no hope of not being overwhelmed.
Stryke reached the first coach. He hesitated for a fraction of a second at its door, then wrenched it open.
A bulky, shadow-swathed figure filled the doorway. It half fell, half leapt on Stryke, pinning him to the ground and knocking
the wind out of him. His sword was dashed from his hand.
Stryke immediately knew his foe as one of Jennesta’s zombie bodyguards, if only from the foul odour it gave off. Struggling
under the creature’s oppressive weight, he was aware of its skin, dried out and wrinkled like ancient parchment. He saw the
black chasm of its dead eyes.
The zombie encircled him with its fetid arms. Fists balled, Stryke pummelled the once-human, landing hefty blows to its head.
But he couldn’t break its iron grip. The zombie’s abnormal strength began to crush the life out of him. Stryke writhed and
kicked, but the bear hug held.
Then his flailing hand touched metal and he grasped the hilt of his dropped sword. He brought it up and round in an arc, striking
the zombie’s side. The blade cut deep, but brought only a puff of grey dust from what should have been a wound. It hardly
troubled the zombie. Gasping for breath now, Stryke tried another tack. He hacked frenziedly at the creature’s arm. After
three blows it severed, exuding more rank dust. The arm fell away. Half free, Stryke exerted pressure and rolled the thrashing
zombie far enough away for him to scramble clear. Quickly he found his feet.
The creature rose too. It looked about itself, lifeless eyes unblinking, and saw its amputated arm. Reaching down, it grabbed
the arm, hefted it as though it were a club, and lumbered in Stryke’s direction. Stryke charged and plunged his blade into
the thing’s chest. It met little obstruction. Its tip exploded from the zombie’s back, liberating yet more dust. Stryke yanked
the sword out and withdrew a couple of paces. The zombie kept coming, apparently unharmed. Stryke made to attack again.
Haskeer appeared and darted between them. “It’s mine,” he growled, facing the creature. “You
go
!” Ducking to avoid its fleshy club, he commenced chopping and slashing at the zombie.
Stryke ran for the open carriage door, leapt up and jumped in.
Jennesta sat alone. She wore an expression that could have been called serene.
He seized his chance and thrust his sword at her heart.
It felt as if the blade had struck an anvil. The impact sent a shock wave up his arm that instantly suffused his entire body.
It was a pain unlike any he had ever known. He imagined that being stung by a dozen venomous serpents would be like this.
An energy ran through him, a malevolent force, bringing agony to every fibre.
He was flung backwards, landing on the floor, his back to the opposite seat. The pain immediately began to fade.
Jennesta was swathed
ran to stand lookout at each end of the halted convoy. The rest made for the carriages.
An arrow shot out of the open window of the second coach. It was aimed at Coilla, and came near to claiming her. She dropped
and hugged the ground. Stryke and Haskeer did the same. Coilla got off an arrow of her own. It smacked into the carriage door.
Whoever was inside returned fire, but the bolt flew over their heads. Haskeer unleashed an arrow, sending it through the window.
Somebody in the dark interior shrieked.
The sound of battering came from the far side of the carriage. Dallog’s crew were laying siege to it. Stryke, Coilla and Haskeer
got up and raced for their goal. As they approached, the door of the second carriage burst open and four troopers spilled
out.
“You go ahead!” Coilla shouted to Stryke.
He sprinted off.
Swords drawn, the troops came at Haskeer and Coilla, who rushed forward to meet them. The chime of steel on steel echoed through
the twilight. Almost immediately, Dallog and the others poured around the carriages and joined in. Jennesta’s guards fought
with spirit, but had no hope of not being overwhelmed.
Stryke reached the first coach. He hesitated for a fraction of a second at its door, then wrenched it open.
A bulky, shadow-swathed figure filled the doorway. It half fell, half leapt on Stryke, pinning him to the ground and knocking
the wind out of him. His sword was dashed from his hand.
Stryke immediately knew his foe as one of Jennesta’s zombie bodyguards, if only from the foul odour it gave off. Struggling
under the creature’s oppressive weight, he was aware of its skin, dried out and wrinkled like ancient parchment. He saw the
black chasm of its dead eyes.
The zombie encircled him with its fetid arms. Fists balled, Stryke pummelled the once-human, landing hefty blows to its head.
But he couldn’t break its iron grip. The zombie’s abnormal strength began to crush the life out of him. Stryke writhed and
kicked, but the bear hug held.
Then his flailing hand touched metal and he grasped the hilt of his dropped sword. He brought it up and round in an arc, striking
the zombie’s side. The blade cut deep, but brought only a puff of grey dust from what should have been a wound. It hardly
troubled the zombie. Gasping for breath now, Stryke tried another tack. He hacked frenziedly at the creature’s arm. After
three blows it severed, exuding more rank dust. The arm fell away. Half free, Stryke exerted pressure and rolled the thrashing
zombie far enough away for him to scramble clear. Quickly he found his feet.
The creature rose too. It looked about itself, lifeless eyes unblinking, and saw its amputated arm. Reaching down, it grabbed
the arm, hefted it as though it were a club, and lumbered in Stryke’s direction. Stryke charged and plunged his blade into
the thing’s chest. It met little obstruction. Its tip exploded from the zombie’s back, liberating yet more dust. Stryke yanked
the sword out and withdrew a couple of paces. The zombie kept coming, apparently unharmed. Stryke made to attack again.
Haskeer appeared and darted between them. “It’s mine,” he growled, facing the creature. “You
go
!” Ducking to avoid its fleshy club, he commenced chopping and slashing at the zombie.
Stryke ran for the open carriage door, leapt up and jumped in.
Jennesta sat alone. She wore an expression that could have been called serene.
He seized his chance and thrust his sword at her heart.
It felt as if the blade had struck an anvil. The impact sent a shock wave up his arm that instantly suffused his entire body.
It was a pain unlike any he had ever known. He imagined that being stung by a dozen venomous serpents would be like this.
An energy ran through him, a malevolent force, bringing agony to every fibre.
He was flung backwards, landing on the floor, his back to the opposite seat. The pain immediately began to fade.
Jennesta was swathed
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