The Queen slid her hand down the chain around her neck and clutched the pendant hanging from the end. She rested the jade-green gem in her palm and closed her eyes. A ball of light appeared in the middle of the room. The glow faded to reveal a view of the bridge outside The Vale and the battle in the meadow beyond.

The enemy had caught the Elven with their pants down, literally. Out of nowhere, the Undead had appeared at the far end of the meadow while the Legion was still checking for lurker scorpions in their gear.

The onslaught of half-decomposed, semi-skeletal warriors pushed the Elven warriors back to the edge of the lake. The Elven remained disciplined and formed a barrier around the entry to the bridge. Ancient weapons, rusted and blunted by age, struck with deadly ferocity. With no time to put their armour back on, the Elven casualties quickly mounted.

Lack of space forced the Undead to pile behind each other, allowing only the front ranks to engage the Elven defenders while those in the rear shrieked impatiently and tried to clamber over each other for a chance to strike at Elven flesh. It was only a matter of time before sheer force of numbers pushed the Elven into the lake.

In the Great Library, the Queen analysed the battlefield with an icy glare.

“They dare attack our home? They will regret it.” She clasped the pendant tighter.

The bridge glowed a soft white colour, then shifted to a watery blue. As soon as this happened, the 1st Legion funnelled onto the bridge until one man remained fighting with a sword in each hand, slicing off limbs and appendages with each strike.

“Look at Uncle Jimi,” said Titch, his face practically pressed up against the hovering image of the battlefield. “He’s amazing!”

Single-handedly, or rather, double-handedly, Jimnar held the Undead at bay in the bottleneck. He stabbed his weapons in short, controlled strokes, sometimes high, sometimes low, corralling the Undead together. Left and right sweeps with his swords cleared the frontlines. More Undead warriors swarmed forward, stepping over the fallen without hesitation.

Jimnar set Neer may not have been born to lead—certainly he was no great tactician, and his inspirational speeches had a soporific effect on most listeners—but in one area he excelled. No one enjoyed hitting things more than the man whose battle cry was, “Get out of my way!” An order his men readily obeyed for fear of being caught by his flashing dual blades.

Parrying on one side, thrusting on the other, and a boot in the exposed ribs of the howling skeleton in front, he repelled them for a moment, but then a huge figure shoved its way through the ranks. It wore a long horsehair coat and a fur turban with a spike on top. In its hands it carried a staff with an axe-head attached. It towered over the Undead in its way, simply picking them up and throwing them aside.

The top half of its face was brown and weathered, with unblinking crazed eyes. The bottom half was bare jawbone, bleached white. It opened its lipless mouth as though roaring, but the only thing that came out was a blast of fetid air. Even the Undead needed vocal chords to make sounds.

Jimnar lunged with the broad-bladed sword in his left hand, but the giant swatted it away with his poleaxe, the steel bouncing off the iron-sheathed staff. Then it planted the poleaxe in the ground and leaned forward to emit another silent roar.

Jimnar kicked away the bottom of the poleaxe and the giant staggered forward to regain its balance, lowering its head. Jimnar grunted as he swung the sword in his right hand, crushing the iron helmet under the fur turban as though it were made of wax. The helmet burst open in a spray of lime-green mucus and dessicated brains.

The loss of their oversized comrade had little effect on the Undead. Their ever-deepening ranks pushed forward, a mass of disfigured corpses converging on the entrance to The Vale.

Even Jimnar couldn’t hold them off indefinitely. He backed onto the bridge, pursued by the stumbling, groaning throng. But as soon as they stepped onto the bridge, they sank through the stone and fell into the lake.

“What’s happening?” said Davidor as he watched the mindless Undead follow each other onto the bridge and plop into the water below.

“I have altered the bridge to only support those of Elven blood,” said the Queen.

“You can do that?” said Davidor. “Very fancy. Still, I doubt a little water will hurt them. Not like they need to breathe.”

“No,” said Tas. “But the lake is thick with magic. They will find it difficult to climb out and over time their life force will be dissolved into its waters. The real problem is their apparent endless supply of reinforcements. Even if they can’t get into The Vale, they can stop us getting out.”

And then the Undead stopped their relentless surge forward. They stood on the grassy bank, while the 1st Legion stood on the bridge, both sides waiting.

As the adults considered their next move, the children held their own discussion.

“Hmmm,” said Fen. “They’re too dumb to stop on their own, aren’t they? Someone must be controlling them.”

“Maybe we should call the Legion back,” said Igail. “Before the Undead switch to firing arrows.”

“I doubt they’ll do that,” said Gart. “They don’t usually bother with missiles. They have terrible eyesight.”

“How do you know that?” said Igail, perturbed by information she had never seen in any book.

“Dad used to tell us bedtime stories,” said Fen, indicating himself and Gart with his finger. “Mother made him stop because of the nightmares.”

“I know what we have to do. See this?” Gart indicated a flickering light at the top of the meadow. “Here, you see it? I think this is where they’re coming from. Probably whoever’s giving the orders is there, too. We need to stop them before they have enough troops to keep us pinned and start attacking the surrounding towns. Once the bridge disappears, there’s nothing we can do.”

“How is anyone going to get through that?” Fen pointed to the middle of the meadow packed with the Undead. “There must be thousands of them.”

Gart turned to the Queen. “Granny, during the Ceremony of Ide you use—” He stopped when he realised the Queen had her hands around the pendant again and her eyes closed.

There was a change in the image of the battle as two ramps appeared, one on either side of the bridge. They rose high into the air, ending in wide platforms. Archers ran up the incline and started peppering the crowd of Undead with flaming arrows. Those that were hit flapped at the flames out of some ancient instinct, but the damage was minimal. Even when leathers reduced to parchment-thinness caught alight, the burning Undead just stood there encased in fiery armour.

Only headshots had an effect, and the occasional lucky shot that hit a pocket of bilious gas inside a decomposing body, causing the Undead to explode.

“That’s not going to work,” said Gart. “There’s too many of them, and more coming. We have to stop them at the source.”

“And how will we do that?” asked Davidor.

“The Ceremony of Ide, they use pantrite powder to light the effigy.”

Pantrite was the luminescent mineral that permeated the walls of The Vale, providing light. The powdered form was hard to manufacture and very volatile.

The Queen looked shocked. “It is a sacred and secret ceremony. How do you—”

“Really not the time, Granny,” said Gart. “We need some of the powder. As much as you have. Now.” His tone was less than respectful.

“Young man, you haven’t quite ascended to the Seat of Power yet. I don’t appreciate—”

“Lyr,” said Davidor sternly, “do you have the powder?”

The Queen bit her lip, and then nodded.

Davidor turned to Gart. “What else do you need, son?”

“Elven horses for me, Fen and Titch.”

“What?” Titch perked up. “Really?”

Roona grabbed the back of Titch’s collar, keeping him in place. “You don’t need him.”

“We do need him,” said Gart. “And he’ll be fine. I won’t let him off the bridge.”

“Okay,” said Davidor. “Go.”

Gart raced out of the room, followed by Fen. Twitch gleefully scampered after them with both arms raised. “Woohoo. Davidor Boys to the rescue.” He pointed at Igail as he ran past her. “Ha ha. No girls allowed.”

Igail watched them leave and then snatched the dagger from Davidor’s belt. She slashed her gown a little above the knee and ripped off the bottom half. Tossing the rent material aside, she ran after the boys.

Roona looked distraught. “How could you…?”

“The bridge only supports those of Elven blood,” said Davidor.

“Then use an Elven horse, they will not fall through,” said Roona. “Damn it, I’ll carry you myself if I have to.”

Davidor looked over at Tas, considering what he’d said about the side-effects of being Undeniable. It was true, he only let them act under close supervision, always ready to step in if things turned sour. Had he coddled them too much?

“Roona, we have to let them do this.”

“Do what you want,” Roona said bitterly. “I won’t stay here and watch.” She sprinted through the door after her children.

Despite considering it necessary to step back and give his children room to grow, he also felt relieved by Roona’s refusal to allow it. The selfish desire in his heart to keep them away from danger, even when that danger would ultimately make them stronger and more capable, was hard to resist.

Compared to that, fighting an endless army of Undead was child’s play.

“Right,” said Davidor. “Can we get a sharper picture on this thing? I’d like to see what that boy of mine is planning.”

***

Gart, Fen and Titch came charging out of The Vale on borrowed horses.

The soldiers at the rear of the column, turned at the sound of pounding hooves and raised their hands to stop what they supposed had to be confused children.

Gart stood in his stirrups and barked an order in the royal tongue. The soldiers immediately stepped aside, forming a channel through their ranks all the way to the man at the far end, Jimnar set Neer.

Seeing his nephews approach at speed, Jimnar cocked his head and frowned. Surely they weren’t the reinforcements he had been waiting for. What could three boys do against the sea of death and decay threatening to flood The Vale?

The horses came to a stop in front of Jimnar. He opened his mouth to demand an explanation, but Gart spun around so he faced the other way, reinserted his feet into the stirrups and stood up. He clasped his hands together and nodded to Titch, who was standing on his saddle.

Titch leapt across, placing a foot in Gart’s clasped hands, and was hurled into the air. Even with Titch’s light frame, the distance Gart managed to boost him surprised those watching.

Just before he started to fall back down, Titch tossed the small pouch in his hand, sending it even higher into the sky.

Fen leaned back in his saddle, the bow in his hands drawn to its limit. He released.

Gart shouted another order in the royal tongue and every Elven soldier covered their eyes, including Jimnar. Members of the royal family were exempt from compulsory observation of royal commands, but even he knew when to do as he was told.

The rotting, festering corpses that comprised the Undead army lined up along the edge of the lake had all eyes on the band of soldiers. Their gaze tilted up when Titch took to the air. So their eyesight took the full brunt of the searing white light that filled the sky when the small pouch exploded.

The Undead suffered from weak organs, their eyes in particular were very sensitive. The highly combustible pantrite burned only for an instant, but the flash left the Undead completely blind.

Titch opened his eyes and looked down at the fast approaching saddle beneath him. He landed with a vicious slam. “Oof! My balls!” he squeaked.

Gart dropped back into a sitting position. “Titch, get back to The Vale.”

“Oh, come on,” said Titch, wincing in pain. “I can help finish them off.”

Fen stowed his bow and drew his sword. “I think you have bigger things to worry about.” He pointed towards the other end of the bridge.

Titch, still bent over, looked over his shoulder at a sight far more frightening than any number of the Demon God’s minions—his mother running towards them, dragging a large sword behind her. The tip skimmed the surface of the bridge, sending up sparks.

“Titch!” shouted Roona, her meaning requiring no further words.

Reluctantly, Titch turned his horse to head back.

Gart spun around to face front again. “Uncle. If you would.”

Jimnar broke out a broad smile. “Aye, lad.” He raised his two swords. “1st Legion! With me!” He charged forward, followed by his men.

The Undead stumbled around, knocking into each other and falling into the lake. Defenceless and blind, they posed little threat to the Elven warriors who ploughed through their ranks.

Gart waited until Titch had reached Roona, who stopped to barrage him with instructions as she pulled him down from the horse and sent him limping back to the archway. No doubt she would have words for him and Fen, too. Gart had no intention of hearing them.

“Let’s go.”

Fen nodded and they both set off into the heart of the Undead swarm.

The Legion hacked down those closest to the bridge, creating enough room for Gart and Fen to gallop through the gaps.

The Undead either stood in place, jerking their heads trying to find their lost vision, or thrashed around wildly, striking their own.

The horses slowed to a walk as Gart and Fen hacked a path through the thick of the mob, and then the numbers thinned and they were on the other side. Unaffected Undead staggered towards the bridge, vision still intact, but they were easily dealt with as the boys raced past, lopping off heads.

At the top of the meadow, a green light flickered. As Gart and Fen approached, they could make out a large portal. The air crackled and hummed. The light emitted from the circular gateway pulsed every time it spat out another new arrival. They came through in twos and threes. Men who had died fighting against the Demon God, to be resurrected as his warrior slaves.

Silhouetted in front of the green glow was a rider on a massive mount, far too large to be a horse.

It reared up at the sight of the fast approaching horsemen, and unfolded its angular wings. The head had long, triangular ears which the rider held on to as the giant bat flapped its wings and sent out a powerful gust of wind, buffeting the boys to a standstill. They watched as the beast rose into the air then fell back down before another downward thrust of its leathery wings sent it up again. It clawed its way skyward and then opened its heavily fanged mouth to release a shriek.

The sound hit Gart and Fen like a punch in the sternum. The horses stumbled, barely managing to stay upright.

All across the battlefield, the fighting stopped as the Elven reeled from the shockwave. They called out to each other, becoming confused when they heard nothing.

The bat’s piercing cry rendered all those within earshot deaf. This made little difference to the Undead who didn’t follow orders or need to converse with their fellows, but it left the Elven dazed and unable to communicate. Still, deaf was better than blind and they resumed their fight.

Gart and Fen, also deafened, exchanged words through hand signals. A lifetime of hunting silently had led to them developing their own simple language.

Gart jumped down from his horse and ran to the portal as two more Undead stepped through; a knight in full plate armour and a surprisingly fat warrior carrying a double-bladed two-handed axe. Gart lunged forward making short brutal strokes. The first smashed the metal cup protecting the knight’s knee, the second, a rising slash, sliced open the axe-man’s gut, releasing a noxious gas with such force it knocked the considerably thinner warrior on his back, and the third cracked open the helmet of the knight whose knee had been broken.

With both his opponents on their backs, Gart thrust his sword into their skulls without meeting any resistance.

Fen, meanwhile, had unstrapped his bow and fired arrows at the swooping bat. The rider was low against the bat’s back, guarded by the wings. He hit the enormous body a number of times but to little effect and it managed to grab an Elven warrior in its claws, taking him up into the air and letting him fall, screaming, to his death.

It came gliding down again, but this time a horse charged to meet it. Roona, riding the horse she took from Titch, chased away the flying rodent, whirling her huge sword overhead, leaving nothing to grab onto except the scything blade.

Fen aimed carefully so as not to hit his mother, and continued to fire arrows at the bat in the hope of hitting some vital organ.

***

Titch stood by the entrance to The Vale with Igail. The appearance of the giant bat had him transfixed and he refused to go inside despite his sister’s attempts at dragging him across the threshold.

He looked up at the platform where archers were now targeting the bat. “We could get an even better view from up there.”

“No.” Igail clenched her fist even tighter around her brother’s arm. She had taken a firm hold as soon as he’d returned, knowing his propensity for running off and the trouble she’d be in if she let him, but even she wanted to see how the battle would turn out. And it wasn’t like they were in any danger. The archway was right behind them, after all.

The archers had made the bat their target and it was a veritable pin cushion of arrows. It changed tack and gained height until it was level with the archers’ balcony. With a flap of its huge wings, it sent a strong gust into the archers, blowing them off the platform. They fell into the water, but the lake was full of Undead who pulled them under and set on them in a frenzy.

“Okay,” said Titch, “maybe up there isn’t a good idea.”

The bat switched its attention to the other balcony, diving across the bridge. Igail pulled Titch back and released her dagger from an underarm swing. The blade struck the passing bat in the eye, causing it to turn hard. Its wing caught the bridge inverting its body.

The rider, upside down, fell off, twisted in the air, and landed in a crouch. She rose to her feet, pushing back her hood to reveal flowing white hair and crimson eyes. She was tall, dressed in tight, black leather, and, judging by the fact she didn’t sink through the bridge, she was Elven.

“My, aren’t you two cute. I could eat you up.” She raised her hands over her head and drew two rapiers from her back. “Kebabed, I think.” She sprang forward.

Titch and Igail found themselves suddenly yanked backwards as Tas Tel Muir Ley moved himself in front of them. The two rapiers struck him cleanly in the chest, but bent nearly in half before bouncing off without inflicting damage.

The attacker jumped back, one sword high, the other low. Then she relaxed and put the swords away. “It’s no fun if you’re going to get in the way, Father. Just because you’re Undeniable, you shouldn’t spoil it for the rest of us.”

“Why are you here, Erald? Do you really believe you can breach The Vale?”

Erald smiled. She held up her hand, showing off the ring on her middle finger. It pulsed with a green light. “But I brought friends. What happened to our famous Elven hospitality?”

Tas stepped forward but the bat swooped back down and grabbed Erald by the shoulders, lifting her into the air. She waved her fingers in farewell.

Titch ran out from behind Tas.

“Titch, no!” cried Igail.

He didn’t listen. He jumped up, reaching out as though to grab Erald’s hand, even though she was well out of reach. Then he snatched his hand back and Erald screamed as her middle finger was sliced off, the glowing ring flying through the air.

Titch ran to the edge of the bridge, casting aside the devil’s silk, and leapt for the ring, catching it just before he fell into the lake.

The cold water swallowed him up, but Titch calmly waited for his downward trajectory to slow, before kicking for the surface. But he didn’t move upwards.

He looked down to see a skeletal hand holding him by the ankle. A putrid face, swollen with lakewater, loomed towards him out of the murky depths, reaching out another hand to grab at Titch’s waist.

He kicked and thrashed but couldn’t get free. More grasping hands appeared as the Undead confined to the lake bottom attempted to make him one of their own.