Cobweb Empire by Vera Nazarian

ringing with the cathedral tolling of bells.
    But there was no time to stop and
consider.
    There were two more men coming, and the
Infanta was right behind her, defenseless. . . .
    Vlau had reached her in two strides, and he
engaged the first of the attackers, feinting with the thick branch
in one hand, and then striking with his fist.
    The second man was Percy’s.
    Rather, he did not know it yet. Because he
lunged at her, with a dull roar of creaking bellows that was his
voice. Instead of moving away, Percy took him in her embrace, and
with her left hand she grabbed his shadow.
    It took less than a second. She pulled the two together, and again, the man’s entirely
lifeless body collapsed at her feet.
    Breathing harshly, Percy then turned to
Vlau’s attacker. And while he was distracted with the marquis, she
touched the dead man from the back—lightly this time, not even
requiring a close embrace—and at the same time she took his shadow
of death, as though it were an obstreperous child, in one furious
hand, and she jerked it into the body, shoving it inside and
feeling it dissolve.
    The third man fell with a sigh of broken
bellows, growing quiet and eternal.
    “Who are you?”
    Vlau Fiomarre stood at her side, looking in
dark wonder.
    Percy took one side step, staggering,
because in that moment she felt herself abysmally drained of all
energy, and so terribly cold. “I am—” she began, then again went
silent, because vertigo made the whole world spin in a carousel of
winter sky and snow and black shrubbery. It occurred to her that it
was such an odd thing that she could barely remain upright.
    Meanwhile, Claere Liguon was in the same
spot where she had been left, motionless, observing Percy’s every
move with her great stilled eyes. “No . . .” she
whispered, the moment Percy’s weary gaze rested on her. “Now that I
saw you do it, I don’t think I can die—just yet.”
    “Oh, good . . .” Percy heard
herself speak through a curtain of rising white noise in her
temples, the sound of rushing blood. “Because I don’t think I can
do it yet again now, Highness . . .” she managed to
utter, then inhaled several times deeply to keep herself from
fainting.
    The fighting behind them in the campsite had
drawn to a close. Now that they knew what they were dealing with,
the Chidair soldiers had overpowered the dead, by crudely divesting
them of limbs, or using netting. The few that still remained
upright were tied together and questioned by the black knight.
    “Who are you? Who sent you to attack us?” he
spoke, looming above them like an angel of death.
    A few of the dead men grinned back silently.
Others stared with vacant frozen eyes.
    Beltain Chidair removed the helmet from the
silent fallen knight and revealed a dead man with an old head wound
that had damaged his face and jaw and apparently vocal chords,
which explained his inability to respond during the fight. And now
the dead knight merely rolled his eyes in pointless anger and made
gurgling sounds from his slit throat. He was of no use.
    “Speak, or I will start cutting off your
limbs one by one,” pronounced Beltain wearily to the other
prisoners. “You will spend eternity, or however much time we have
left to us, as rotting stumps. Headless rotting stumps.”
    Despite her own unnatural exhaustion, Percy
made her way toward them. “My Lord,” she said, raising her voice
for effect. “If you like, I can simply put them all to rest.” She
was on her last strength; she was bluffing, but no one else had to
know.
    Beltain glanced at her, and even in her
exhaustion Percy felt an alarming inner lurch of emotion upon
meeting his clear-eyed gaze.
    He frowned, for a moment misunderstanding
her intent, and then Vlau Fiomarre approached, and said, “Just
now—Three men lie stone-dead, over there . . .”
    “What? Oh. ” And Beltain
understood.
    Everyone was glancing in the direction where
three corpses were sprawled near the edge of