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rage and brought his axe around for a retaliatory strike, but Carver’s blade fell upon him again, striking the same spot and driving the bokor to his knees. The shoulder of a nearby ironback spitter tore open as Barnabas shunted the damage, leaving the creature’s arm dangling by a thread of skin. A third stroke fell, then a fourth, and Barnabas collapsed amid the corpses, the spitter collapsing with him. Yet there was awareness in his eye and he seemed almost expectant. Barnabas did not try to evade the farrow warlord’s axe as it crashed into his chest, splitting it wide to reveal his pulsing heart.
The gathered spirits erupted into heightened activity, the green glow surrounding them flaring with intensity as they converged on the mortally wounded bokor. Runes carved upon the sacral vaults glowed with unwavering light while the flames of their candles leapt high. When the bokor looked up at Carver, the only sound that rose from his battered and broken body was harsh laughter. Then he fell silent. The exposed heart stilled, and Barnabas slumped, motionless. Carver raised his blade to the sky in triumph. Gatormen froze, staring in shock and dismay.
The bokor’s reign had come to an end. His ascension had been cut short by the efforts of those closest to him, those he believed to be his faithful servants. Now all would serve The farrow pushed back against his assault. Their crude
clubs and blades bit into Calaban’s flesh to open wounds across his chest and knock free his mask. The pain was immense. It blazed through his body like a wildfire, then it was gone. The blackhide staggered as the transferred wounds tore its body open.
With a blast of potent energy, Calaban withered the bodies of the farrow surrounding him and turned in time to witness the roaring mass of tubes and metal and muscle knock the wounded blackhide aside without slowing. Other gatormen moved to intercept, but the work was done.
The boar charged up the mass of corpses to where Carver and Barnabas continued their bout, the stream of supplemental adrenaline spurring it onward. Barnabas turned with a look of surprise as the charging beast neared. He shifted his weight forward and stepped into a swing, and with a measure of force augmented by the spirits of the slain, he planted his axe deep within the boar’s chest and stopped the charge outright. The moment of distraction was enough.
Even as Barnabas pulled his axe free from the boar’s chest, Carver’s blade sank into the bokor’s shoulder, biting bone and severing tendons. Barnabas hissed with
the will of the Grave Walker. It was time to collect Barnabas’ soul, to bind and enslave him to become dreadbound like Maelok. Calaban reached inside the satchel at his waist. His clawed hand closed over something smooth and hard, not the shape of the totem he had so painstakingly created for this moment.
He withdrew his hand and in his palm rested not the totem, but a stone. Panicked, he looked inside the satchel but found nothing except river rocks, the totem nowhere to be seen. He upended the bag and scattered the stones at his feet. Calaban looked around in seething anger, finding only Maelok’s dead eyes upon him. He knew that creature was incapable of such an act. Jaga-Jaga, then? But her eyes were fixed on Barnabas.
A howl of sheer terror rippled through the masses of farrow, and Calaban looked up to see the spirits of the dead rising from the mass of bodies on which Barnabas lay. Paying no mind to his wounds, Barnabas regained his footing amid an aura of green power, buoyed by the souls clinging to his reanimated body. He laughed once more, each burst expelling red mist. His body began to knit itself together, though his chest remained open, his beating heart grotesquely visible. He fixed his gaze on Carver.
“You have slain me as a mortal,” Barnabas said. “But can you slay me now that I am a god?”
The Tharn descended screaming from the slopes of the Iosan mountains with smears of crimson across their faces. Some careened down the mountainside on the backs of wolves while others followed on foot and lunged from one rocky outcropping to the next. Warpwolves and satyrs wove between the sparse trees as they neared. Above, a massive tree with gnarled roots watched from the mountainside, a robed figure standing beside it. A chorus of howls mingled with the screams of the Tharn, and together the sounds were enough to send a chill down Madrak’s spine.
The Tharn quickly overwhelmed the few trollkin defenders at the rear of the village. Pockets of kriel warriors had remained to defend those who could not fight, but most had seen too many years of combat, and the speed and ruthlessness of the Tharn left them sorely pressed. Spears sailed through the air to impale the reserve warriors, and warpwolves rushed from one structure to the next to cut down those who emerged.
Madrak and a handful of warriors rushed toward the back of the village, away from the battle along the wall. He released his mental hold on the mountain kings, ordering
them to batter those who assailed them rather than the kriels. Behind him, Doomshaper shouted ancient curses as he unleashed the contents of his scrolls. The gathered troll kings expressed their rage in great bellows.
Madrak had to trust his friends to hold without him. He could not allow the Tharn to rampage unchecked. “Drive them back!” he shouted as he and his warriors joined the fray. A female Tharn on wolfback charged to meet him. He swung Rathrok in a rising arc, the blade nearly scraping the ground before coming up to bat aside the spear and behead the rider. He extended a hand toward the warriors, runes blazing to life in the air, willing their fatigue to vanish and renewed strength to fill their limbs. He shouted, “Gather any able- bodied kin and make for the hall!” At his command, the warriors broke off to assist the reserves fighting the Tharn. Madrak stayed his course, sprinting toward the feast hall and his child. He saw Bron and Jor at the structure’s entrance. Alongside a pair of veteran warriors almost as old as Doomshaper, they were holding back the attackers. Earlier he had regretted not putting these most loyal trolls along the wall, but now he was glad he had chosen to leave them here. They would remain rooted there as long as they lived. Still, without help those who defended the village would not last long. He wondered which side the Tharn were aligned with, gatormen or farrow.
Something large, heavy, and covered in fur slammed into Madrak’s side and took him off his feet—a warpwolf. Ironhide managed to position Rathrok's haft between himself and his assailant to create a barrier between his throat and the beast’s snapping jaws. He planted one booted foot in its stomach and kicked, using the force to free himself. He regained his footing and prepared to catch the warpwolf on the charge. The attack didn’t come. The warpwolf stared at him, lips pulled back in a snarl, body tense. Still it did not lunge. To one side, a low growl alerted Madrak to other warpwolves, each as tense as the first. They circled him with tentative steps but none made a move to strike.
“Ironhide!” a voice boomed. Madrak whirled. Before him stood Kromac the Ravenous, the great Tharn king. A crown of bone rested upon Kromac’s head, testament to his authority, and the blood of Madrak’s people marked his chest. His arms hung relaxed at his sides, an axe in each hand. Madrak recognized them as Dusk and Dawn, the blades carved into crescent shapes symbolizing the sun and moons.
“So it is you,” Madrak said. His grip tightened on Rathrok, and the urge to bury the weapon in Kromac’s chest seethed within him. He recalled Kromac’s attack in the Wyrmwall Mountains and how close Borka had come to death by the Tharn king’s axes. Yet Kromac seemed much smaller now,
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more human. He was not yet in his bestial form. “You have come very far to destroy our homes. What have we done to deserve such wrath?”
“I do not come for your people or your village,” Kromac replied. He stepped forward. “It is you I come for, Madrak