“Silver Flame,” said Tarrel gently, finishing her sentence. Brey winced at the sound, but gave him a wan smile. “I’ll make you a deal,” Tarrel continued. “Just for now, let me put it in my sack, where it can’t do any harm to anyone. When all this is over, I’ll give it back to you—or I’ll take it to Thrane and hand it over to the Church—and then it can be destroyed with all the ceremony, and righteous wrath, and anything else you want.” He looked at Brey, holding the mouth of his sack open. Slowly, she relaxed her grip on the two halves of the book.
“Don’t read it,” she said, fixing him with an urgent gaze. “It’s …”
“Don’t worry,” said Tarrel. “I won’t. But I would like an expert to look it over—with proper magical and religious precautions, of course. It could tell us something about what we’re up against—maybe even give us some idea of a weakness.” There was a moment’s pause, and then Brey dropped the pieces into the sack. Tarrel closed the top quickly.
“What’s the matter?” he asked after a moment. Brey was still shaking a little.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “There’s something about this room. I feel good being here. Too good. Does that make any sense?”
“Like when you’ve just … eaten?” With a worried expression, Brey nodded.
“It’s probably negative energy,” he said. “If this chapel’s been dedicated to Vol with the right spells, it will be flooded with negative energy. That makes necromancy more powerful, and undead stronger.”
Brey’s head sagged a little, and she closed her eyes.
“That makes sense,” she said. “It feels—I feel—stronger, but not so much in control. Like the monster is trying to take over.”
Mordan looked up in alarm. He had seen Brey in a blood-frenzy before.
“Listen,” he said, “if you’d rather step outside …”
Brey shook her head. “No,” she said. “I’ve been fighting this ever since—ever since I got my will back. I can handle it. Besides, I have to see this. Know the enemy, like Tarrel says.”
After a moment, she asked, “Are you finished with the altar?” Tarrel glanced at her uncertainly, but nodded.
“Good,” she said grimly. Striding forward, she swept the bone candle-holders aside and gripped the carved stone at each end, hoisting it above her head with a massive effort.
“Get out of the way!” she screamed, her face distorting and her fangs beginning to show. Mordan and Tarrel flattened themselves against the wall as she hurled the altar with all her might. It shattered against the far wall of the chapel as if thrown by a giant; the two mortals ducked and covered their faces as shards of stone ricocheted around the room.
“That felt good,” Brey snarled, looking down at the wreckage. A small crack had opened in the rock where the altar had struck the wall. With a soft grating noise, it began to widen, spreading rapidly. At the same time, the ground began to vibrate—slightly at first, and then more violently.
“What did you do?” yelled Mordan above the rising noise. Dust and small chips of stone were beginning to fall from the ceiling. Without another word, the three turned and fled.
Brey took the lead as they entered the necromantic workroom, hurling the heavy wooden tables to aside as she ran to clear a path for the others. Larger fragments of the ceiling had started to fall; in the main temple she hit Mordan with a flying tackle, knocking him aside as a piece of stone the size of a horse missed them by a hair’s breadth. Rolling to her feet, she shoved him through the doorway into the main passage. The floor was rolling like a ship’s deck in a storm as they zigzagged their way along it.
By a miracle, the staircase was still largely intact. They scrambled up it and out into the ruins of the fort, beneath the gray light of the Mournland. The rubble-choked grass of the fort’s interior was heaving; concentric ripples spread across the hilltop like the surface of a lake disturbed by a falling rock, or by the motions of some huge creature barely submerged. Then a hole opened up, widening rapidly. The remains of the fort toppled into the expanding void. The whole interior of the hill was caving in.
“Run!” screamed Brey, close behind her two companions. She had slowed her pace to match theirs, determined not to leave them behind. An earth-ripple as tall as a man swept beneath their feet partway down the hill, sending them tumbling and rolling to the bottom in a shower of dirt and stones.
A cloud of dust enveloped them as they reached the bottom of the hill, mingled with dirt and debris. They could no longer see the top—or even tell if it was still there. Coughing and cursing, they struggled through the dust—and found themselves staring at an immense pair of metal legs.
The cadaver collector towered over the three of them, peering down with small, luminous green-white eyes. Then it looked up at the top of the hill—or rather, at the place where the top of the hill had been. Finally, it looked down at them again.
“Run!” screamed Brey.
