As the vampire woman set to work, the other defenders faced about and formed up, linking shields against the undead horsemen. But Mordan could see that they were tiring. They needed something to encourage them.
He somersaulted over the top of the line, landing beside one of the undead horses. A stab from his rapier dropped one rider to the ground, and he leaped into the saddle, holding his rapier in his teeth as he wrapped the reins around the stump of his left arm. He pulled the reins back and his mount reared; at the same time, he lifted his rapier high, shouting “Karrnath!” at the top of his voice. Even those defenders who didn’t hear him could understand the symbolism of his action, and a ragged cheer went up from their line.
The lancers were fast and skillful—more so, Mordan suspected, than they had been in life—but they were no match for a soldier who had spend five years fighting the dreaded Valenar cavalry. He was well accustomed to undead mounts, too—the Company of the Skull used them extensively for long-range patrols on the Talenta Plains, matching their tirelessness against the superior speed of the living Valenar horses. This one, he noticed, was quicker, more responsive—no doubt Unit 61 had improved its horses as well as the undead troops is produced.
Dodging and twisting in the saddle, Mordan laid about him, stabbing and slashing at horses and riders alike. He fought with savage intensity, knowing that he could hold out for only a limited time against so many enemies. His horse reared and kicked as he fought, backing gradually toward the line of defenders. This was deliberate; he wanted to avoid giving the undead lancers space to surround him, and by giving ground, he was slowly drawing them toward his troops.
A lancer chopped at his horse’s head with a longsword, nearly severing its neck. The animal staggered and regained its footing, but it was obvious that another such blow would kill it. A crossbow bolt whizzed past his head, burying itself in his opponent’s throat; the shot would have killed a living man, but the undead lancer merely snarled. Mordan followed up with a thrust to the heart. The wight displayed its sharp teeth in a savage grin and raised its longsword.
At that moment, a great shout went up from the defenders. Inspired by their unofficial leader, they charged into the lancers with sword and spear, surrounding Mordan and his damaged horse. A lancer fell from the saddle scant feet away; the Karrn pulled his feet from the stirrups, crouching briefly on the saddle before jumping to the newly vacant mount.
The lancers withdrew abruptly, wheeling their horses and opening space between themselves and the defenders. Tarrel took advantage of their maneuver to launch a fireball into their left flank; a couple of the undead horses fell smoking to the ground, while their riders sprang from the saddle and rolled to extinguish their burning clothing. Mordan risked a glance behind him and saw that Brey had destroyed the last of the zombies and was making her way to the end of the defenders’ line.
The two sides looked at each other. The defenders braced for another charge, raising their shields, setting spears, and readying whatever other weapons they had. But the charge never came. Instead, the lancers broke into two blocks, with an empty space between them. Riding down that corridor, at a sedate trot, came one who appeared to be their commander. Where his skin was visible, it bore elaborate tattoos. His armor gleamed, despite a couple of dints and buffets from the fight. He sat proudly in the saddle, flying the pennant of the Vedykar Lancers from the tip of his spear. Coming level with the front rank of his own troops, he handed the lance to a subordinate and drew a gleaming longsword. Still at a parade trot, he rode to within a few feet of Mordan, a savage grin on his face.
“Hello, brother,” he said.
Kaz Mordan stared at the apparition before him. It was hard to recognize his brother’s features under the tattoos, and the shrunken flesh concealed his muscular build—but something in the tone of his voice gave him away. It was dry, like a man with a sore throat, but the familiar contempt was unmistakable.
“Gali?” Mordan breathed. “Dol Arrah, what’s happened to you?”
Gali’s grin widened, showing wickedly pointed teeth. “I could ask you the same question,” he rasped. “What did you do after you deserted from Rekkenmark—run away and join the Company of the Skull under a false name? At least you lost that puppy fat”—he glanced down at Mordan’s left arm—“and that’s not all, by the look of it. Did someone get tired of that damned mark of yours?” He laughed. “I’m going to enjoy this.” Bringing his longsword up to shoulder height, he tapped his mount’s ribs with his spurs.
