The first corpse fell before it reached the monument.
Fendor’s arrow entered beneath its jaw and drove upward through the hollow ruin of its skull. The thing staggered, its broken spear slipping from its fingers, and collapsed upon the frost-covered stones.
For the span of a heartbeat, the other dead seemed to pause.
Then the cave released them all.
They came stumbling from the darkness in rusted armor and rotting mail, some carrying weapons so old that strips of metal peeled from their edges. Others fought with bare hands, their fingers worn to blackened bone. Frost clung to their bodies. Roots had grown through empty ribs. Several still wore fragments of cloaks bearing symbols none of the six recognized.
The dead did not cry out.
They did not threaten or roar.
They simply advanced.
Kaylor met the first rank at the edge of the memorial platform.
His sword struck a corroded blade and shattered it. The shock traveled through his arm, but his body moved before thought could interfere. He turned his shoulder, stepped inside the corpse’s reach, and drove the point of his sword through its chest.
The dead warrior continued forward.
Kaylor stared as it dragged itself farther along the blade.
“It does not care that it is dead,” Isamu observed.
He passed beside Kaylor with swift, measured steps. His empty hand struck the corpse beneath the chin. The blow snapped its head backward, but Isamu was already moving. His heel swept through its knee. Ancient bone broke, and the creature folded.
Kaylor pulled his sword free and brought it down across the fallen corpse’s neck.
“That seems to work.”
More poured onto the summit.
Grazim raised his hammer.
The words that came to him were not memories. They lived deeper than memory, engraved somewhere within his spirit. He spoke them without understanding their language.
The metal emblem at his chest grew hot.
Light spread from his clenched fist and traveled across the head of the hammer in thin golden lines.
The nearest corpses recoiled.
Not from the weapon.
From him.
Grazim felt a presence turn its gaze toward the mountaintop. It was distant and weakened, as though calling across a great gulf, but it recognized him.
For the first time since awakening, Grazim knew something with certainty.
He had not always fought alone.
He swung the hammer.
The blow crushed a corpse’s breastplate and hurled it backward into two others. Golden fire burst from the impact, racing across dead flesh. The fallen warriors convulsed as the light consumed whatever force animated them.
Hexen Brew stared at the burning remains.
“You might have mentioned you could do that.”
“I did not know.”
“That appears to be a common problem.”
A corpse lunged at Hexen from the side.
He raised one arm too slowly.
A rusted axe cut through his sleeve and opened the flesh beneath.
Hexen looked down at the wound.
Something changed in his face.
His pupils widened. His teeth seemed sharper. A growl rose from his chest, too deep and powerful to belong to a human throat.
He seized the corpse by the wrist.
For an instant, his hand appeared larger than it had been, the fingers thickening into something closer to a paw. He twisted. Bone splintered. The axe fell.
Hexen drove his shoulder into the creature and threw it from the platform.
It vanished over the edge without a sound.
Hexen stood staring at his own hands.
“You did not know about that either?” Nethnarel asked.
“No.”
“Good. I was worried I was the only one.”
A blue-white thread of magic twisted between Nethnarel’s fingers.
She aimed toward a cluster of dead warriors emerging from the cave.
The magic struck the first like a spear of cold light. Frost exploded across its armor. The creature froze in place, then shattered when another corpse collided with it.
Nethnarel smiled.
Then the magic changed color.
The blue-white glow became violet.
“Is that supposed to happen?” Fendor called.
“No.”
The energy leapt from Nethnarel’s hand before she could stop it.
It struck the ground between the dead.
For one alarming moment, nothing happened.
Then a wave of bright feathers burst from the stone.
Hundreds of them filled the air—red, gold, green, and colors none of the heroes could name. They spun through the advancing corpses in a blinding storm.
Everyone stopped.
A dead warrior reached toward a feather drifting past its face.
Fendor loosed another arrow.
It passed through the cloud and struck the corpse between the eyes.
“Useful,” he said.
The feathers vanished.
Nethnarel glanced at the others.
“I meant to do that.”
“No, you did not,” said Hexen.
“No.”
The six were being pushed back toward the monument.
For every corpse they destroyed, two more emerged from the cave. They climbed over the remains of those that had fallen. Some crawled with broken legs. One dragged the upper half of its body across the stones, clawing toward Isamu’s ankle until he stamped down upon its skull.
Fendor had already emptied the arrows from one quiver.
He moved constantly, selecting targets before the others noticed them. An arrow severed the cord holding a dead warrior’s shield. Another passed through the gap in a helmet. A third struck the hand of a corpse reaching for Grazim from behind.
Each shot seemed impossible until he made it.
Yet every time Fendor drew the bow, frustration tightened his expression.
His hands knew more than they could perform.
He could feel shots hidden somewhere beyond his reach—arrows curved around walls, shafts divided in flight, targets struck without sight. The knowledge existed, but something prevented him from grasping it.
It was like remembering the shape of a word while being unable to speak it.
Kaylor felt the same absence.
His sword moved with discipline and purpose. He knew how to stand beside Grazim without obstructing the hammer. He knew when Isamu would pass through a gap and when Fendor needed a clear line of fire.
But something greater waited behind those instincts.
A light he could almost summon.
An oath he could almost remember.
A dead knight stepped from the cave.
It was larger than the others and clad in blackened plate. A ragged cloak hung from its shoulders. Unlike the shambling corpses, it carried its greatsword with practiced control.
A deep split ran through its helmet.
Faint blue fire burned behind the opening.
The lesser dead moved aside for it.
Kaylor watched the knight descend onto the platform.
“That one is different.”
The knight raised its sword and pointed it toward the six figures standing beneath the monument.
When it spoke, the voice came from far away.
“False.”
The word carried across the summit.
Grazim tightened his grip on the hammer.
“False what?”
The knight advanced.
“False lives. False names. False heroes.”
Something inside the monument answered with a low vibration.
Kaylor stepped forward.
The dead knight’s blue gaze settled upon him.
“You were ended.”
Kaylor felt a flash of cold behind his eyes.
A field of ash.
A broken shield.
A blade entering his chest.
He staggered, and the vision disappeared.
The knight charged.
Its greatsword came down with enough force to split the stone where Kaylor had stood. He threw himself aside and rolled to his feet, barely raising his sword before the next blow struck.
Steel screamed against steel.
Kaylor was driven backward.
The dead knight was stronger. It carried the force of the mountain behind every swing, but strength was not what frightened Kaylor.
The creature knew him.
Or believed it did.
“Who am I?” Kaylor demanded.
The knight answered with another blow.
Kaylor caught it poorly. His sword was forced aside, and the dead knight’s armored fist struck him in the chest.
He fell hard against the base of the monument.
The creature raised its greatsword.
Isamu appeared between them.
He did not attempt to stop the blade. He touched the knight’s armored elbow, turned beneath the descending weapon, and used its own momentum to carry it past Kaylor.
The greatsword struck the monument.
A crack ran through the old stone.
The six carved figures trembled.
The dead knight froze.
Something like fear entered the blue light behind its visor.
Grazim saw it.
“The monument,” he shouted. “It fears the monument!”
Fendor changed his aim.
His arrow struck the crack Kaylor’s sword had opened in the knight’s helmet. The shaft buried itself deeply but did not bring the creature down.
Hexen rushed it from behind.
His form seemed to blur as he moved. For several strides, Grazim could have sworn that the shadow crossing the stone belonged not to a man but to a great bear.
Hexen struck the knight with both hands and drove it against the monument.
The stone figures shuddered again.
The dead knight screamed.
It was the first sound of pain any of the corpses had made.
Kaylor rose.
A pale radiance gathered along the edge of his sword. It was weak, no more than a glimmer, but the dead knight turned toward it.
“You remember nothing,” it said.
Kaylor held the sword in both hands.
“I remember enough.”
He drove the blade through the split in its armor.
Light erupted from the wound.
The dead knight convulsed. Cracks raced across its breastplate, glowing from within. Grazim stepped beside Kaylor and brought his hammer down upon its shoulder.
The armor collapsed.
The blue fire went out.
All across the summit, the remaining dead stopped moving.
For a moment, they stood perfectly still.
Then one by one, they fell.
Silence returned to the mountain.
The six remained where they were, breathing hard among the scattered bodies.
Nethnarel looked toward the cave.
“That seemed too easy.”
Hexen wiped blood from his arm.
“It did not feel easy.”
“No. I mean they all stopped when that one fell.”
“Then let us be grateful.”
“Gratitude is how the next terrible thing surprises you.”
Isamu knelt beside the remains of the dead knight. He pulled aside its broken cloak and found an emblem worked into the armor beneath.
It showed six stars surrounding a mountain.
The same symbol had been carved into the foundation of the monument.
Fendor crouched beside him.
“These dead belonged here.”
“Guardians?” asked Kaylor.
“Perhaps.”
“Guardians do not usually attack those they protect,” said Nethnarel.
Grazim looked toward the dark cave.
“Unless they no longer remember whom they serve.”
That possibility unsettled them more than the battle had.
They searched the summit.
There were no supplies except those lying near where they had awakened: weapons, packs, a little food, and clothing that fit each of them perfectly. None of the objects bore names. None contained letters or clues explaining who had left them.
Fendor recovered what arrows he could.
Grazim examined Hexen’s wound and found that it had already begun to close.
Hexen noticed his expression.
“I assume that is unusual.”
“I cannot remember what is usual.”
“Fair.”
Kaylor returned to the monument. The crack created by the dead knight’s sword had broken away part of the inscription.
Behind the fallen stone, several new words were visible.
WHEN SHADOW CLAIMS THE THRONES OF MEN
WHEN CHAINS OUTNUMBER CROWNS
WHEN THE LAST FIRES FAIL
THE FALLEN SHALL RISE WITHOUT THEIR PAST
AND WIN THE WORLD ANEW
No one spoke for some time.
Nethnarel finally broke the silence.
“The fallen?”
Hexen looked at the bodies surrounding them.
“I prefer not to make assumptions.”
“We awakened at a monument to dead heroes,” said Fendor. “An undead knight said we had been ended.”
Kaylor touched the place on his chest where the remembered blade had struck him.
“What if we are the heroes buried here?”
Isamu studied the six worn stone figures above them.
Their faces had been erased by wind and time.
“Then why remove our memories?”
“Perhaps whoever returned us could not restore everything,” said Grazim.
“Or did not want to,” Nethnarel replied.
The mountain wind passed between them.
Far below, smoke continued to rise.
Whatever answers waited at the summit had been buried by centuries. The village in the valley was real, and something there was burning.
Fendor pointed toward the cave.
“The path outside is exposed and steep. That passage may lead through the mountain to a lower trail.”
Hexen peered into the darkness.
“It also contained an army of dead men.”
“Contained,” said Nethnarel. “Past tense.”
Grazim lifted his hammer.
“We go together.”
No one argued.
They entered the mountain.
The cave narrowed quickly, becoming a worked passage beyond the first bend. Stone blocks lined the walls. Niches had been carved at regular intervals, many holding the remains of armored warriors.
Most were empty.
Fendor glanced back toward the summit.
“We did not destroy all of them.”
“No,” said Isamu. “Some left before we awakened.”
The thought followed them into the dark.
Nethnarel summoned a small flame above her palm. It flickered violet, then green, before settling into a steady blue light.
The passage descended in long, uneven steps.
Ancient murals covered the walls. Much had faded, but the surviving images showed six figures battling impossible enemies: a winged serpent above a burning city, a crowned giant holding a broken moon, a mass of darkness filled with countless eyes.
In each image, the faces of the heroes had been deliberately removed.
Not worn away.
Chiseled out.
Kaylor ran his fingers across one of the damaged paintings.
“Someone wanted them forgotten.”
“Someone succeeded,” Grazim said.
They continued downward.
At several points, the passage had collapsed, forcing them to climb over broken stone or squeeze through narrow openings. In one chamber they found a dry fountain shaped like an open hand. In another, six stone doors stood sealed around an empty bier.
The doors bore symbols.
A hammer beneath a divided sun.
A tree beneath a full moon.
A sword wrapped in flame.
An arrow passing through three rings.
A many-pointed star split by lightning.
An open hand before a mountain.
Each hero stood before the symbol that called to him.
None of the doors opened.
“They are ours,” said Hexen.
“Or they belonged to people like us,” Fendor replied.
Nethnarel placed her palm against the lightning-star.
A spark traveled over the stone.
For an instant, whispers filled the chamber.
Not one voice.
Hundreds.
They spoke too quickly to understand, but one word rose above the others.
“Return.”
Nethnarel pulled her hand away.
The whispers ceased.
“We should keep moving.”
No one disagreed.
The burial passage eventually opened onto a natural cavern. Cold water ran along one wall, disappearing into a crack below. The heroes drank and filled their flasks.
Beyond the cavern, daylight shone through a narrow opening.
They emerged halfway down the mountain.
The summit loomed above them, already partly hidden behind gathering clouds. The monument could no longer be seen.
Below, the land became clearer.
The village lay in a broad valley surrounded by forest and rough farmland. Several buildings had collapsed. A wooden wall encircled part of the settlement, though sections had been torn down or burned.
No people moved in the fields.
No livestock grazed.
A road climbed toward the mountain but ended near a series of dark openings cut into the rock.
Mines.
Fendor crouched and studied the ground.
“Tracks.”
“How many?” Grazim asked.
“Many. Boots. Bare feet. Wagons.”
He touched a dark stain on the stone.
“Blood.”
Isamu had moved toward the edge of the trail.
“There.”
Farther down the slope, figures emerged from one of the mine entrances.
The first were men and women dressed in torn clothes. Iron collars encircled their necks. Chains connected them in groups of five.
Several were elderly.
Two were children.
Behind them walked broad figures in hide armor carrying whips and axes.
Orcs.
One of the prisoners stumbled.
An orc seized the chain and dragged the entire group to a halt. It shouted something the heroes could not hear, then struck the fallen captive across the back.
The prisoner did not rise.
The orc lifted the whip again.
Hexen’s breathing changed.
Kaylor drew his sword.
Grazim felt the metal emblem against his chest grow warm.
They still did not know who they had been.
They did not know why they had returned or what power had awakened them upon the mountain.
But as they watched the chained villagers being driven into the mines, one truth became clear.
They knew what they were going to do next.