The Prophecy by Hilari Bell Page B

Wyr forest,” said the bard. “Why do I let you talk me into these things?”
    A muted gasp in Perryn’s mind warned him.
    “Prism!” The unicorn’s eyes were rolling up. “Take deep breaths and put your head down. Another breath. Another. That’s it.”
    The unicorn’s eyes came back to normal, and she looked frantically at the dim corridor. With a mind-splitting shriek she bolted out of the tomb.
    Perryn winced. “At least she didn’t faint.”
    The bard was rubbing his temples. “Was that supposed to be an improvement?” Then Lysander jumped and stared wildly around him.
    “What is it?”
    “Something touched me.” The bard’s face was pale.
    “But there’s nothing here!” Something cold brushed across Perryn’s face and he flinched. “What was that?”
    The cold touch ran over his arm next.
    Lysander backed up against the wall, his eyes searching the shadows. “Perryn, we’ve got to get out of here.” He started forward and then jumped back.
    A freezing hand ran over Perryn’s shoulder and down the inside of his arm. He yelped and swung his torch. The cold vanished.
    “Use the torch,” he yelled.
    The bard burst away from the wall. Swinging his torch wildly he ran for the exit.
    Perryn followed. The icy air was thick in front of him, yielding only to the flame. Frigid hands stroked his back as he ran, only stopping as he burst through the door and out into the night. The cold, fresh air felt warm on his chilled skin. He was gasping with fear, and felt deeply, strangely weary. He stared at the open door of the tomb. There was nothing there.
    “Ghosts.” Prism came to stand beside him. She was trembling all over, her eyes fixed on the doorway. “They’re going back now. They probably can’t leave the corridor.”
    “You can see them?” Perryn asked.
    “You mean you can’t?”
    “Well, now we know why they didn’t need to lock the door.” Lysander joined them. “And what happened to those men in there.”
    “The ghosts killed them? But how?” Perryn asked. “And why?” Ghost stories were one of the few subjects that hadn’t interested him, and now he regretted it.
    “For the warmth,” Prism told him. “For the life in their bodies. Ghosts are greedy for it. They suck it right out of you.”
    “How do you know?”
    “I could hear them talking about it. They’re the ghosts of King Albion’s enemies. They don’t have a choice.” She looked down, refusing to meet Perryn’s eyes, and he decided he didn’t want to know what else the ghosts had said. The ancient mages had possessed great power, but not even the legends claimed that they were all good men. Some of them emphatically weren’t. Perhaps the loss of man-made magic in the world wasn’t such a bad thing after all.
    “That’s that,” said the bard. “No Sword of Samhain for us. It’ll be nice and warm in the south this time of year.”
    “No!” said Perryn. “I won’t turn back. The sword is in there and I’m going to get it.”
    “The sword may be there,” said Lysander. “I can’t imagine a grave robber who could get through that. So how, may I ask, do you plan to do it?”
    “With fire,” said Perryn. “They gave way before our torches. We fought our way out with them. We can fight our way in.”
    “I knew I should have turned you in for the reward,” said Lysander. “I am never going in there again.”
    “I am,” said Perryn. “Before I lose my nerve.”
    He grasped his torch firmly and ran through the mouth of the tomb.
    “Wait! Perryn, stop!” the bard cried.
    Then he was through the door. The cold swirled around him as he thrust forward, spinning and slashing wildly with his torch. He could almost see them, like wisps of mist at the edges of his vision, but when he looked for them they vanished. His back was growing cold. He couldn’t defend it and still move forward.
    Perryn kept going. Icy hands stroked his spine. His head ached from the chill, and his back was freezing.
    With a