Barthim, Denisius, and Casimir had cleared a sizable gap through the rubble, Denisius having pelted back and forth adding fuel to the wall of flames. Vos stood midway between the passageway and the blaze, sword at the ready, dusted head to toe with that awful yellowish powder.

The skeletons were becoming bolder, some grazing their fleshless hands into the fire, drawing them back as the powdery clots that served them as ligaments ignited. The alarm in Barthim's voice was merited, though: around Vos was a burning half-circle of blackened bones and smoldering clothing. Some of them had apparently charged through the flames, overcoming whatever lingering instinct it was that gave them an aversion to fire. As Ammas watched, another one made the attempt. It hurled itself with shocking speed through the fiery barrier, a figure drenched in flames as it sprang at Vos, seeking now not only to claw and strangle but to burn.

Vos deflected its blows, cleaving one arm from its ribcage, severing its spine at the waist. It fell to the ground in pieces, fingers and toes clutching the floor. Flames licked upward. The corridor was illuminated in a hellish haze of reds and yellows, and the smoke was beginning to make breathing difficult for all of them. Vos's dusty clothes smoldered faintly.

"Leave them!" Ammas roared, beckoning to Vos and Denisius with his dagger. More of the skeletons were making their way through the flames, all becoming walking torches as they did. Whatever burned in their eyesockets reacted to the fire, gouts of orange flames spilling from their skulls, hideous thick smoke rising in twin columns from every blazing head.

Ammas knew they could not exist under such conditions for long; that fire consumed them rapidly, but they could do enormous mischief before they were destroyed. Denisius charged past him, panting and nursing a burnt hand; Vos followed, pausing for Ammas to go ahead of him through the passage. Beyond the rubble, Barthim and Casimir were struggling with a door. Luck was with them, seemingly, for though it was barred the bar was on their side. But it had been braced against the door for so long it would not move easily, even with Barthim throwing all his strength into it.

"Go, Ammas," Vos hissed. "I'll cover your back."

"No. Take Carala. Try to get that damn thing open. You need me to cover your back, not the other way round."

Vos, who after all had served with cursewrights in his youth, didn't need much convincing. He took Carala's hand and guided her into the excavated passage, stepping ahead of her to help Barthim with the door. Denisius stood behind her, taking a spot between her and Ammas, sword brandished awkwardly. The blisters on his fingers were swollen and miserably aching. Beyond the cursewright's shape he could see what looked like dozens of the yellowed skeletons, most of them aflame, a river of bone and fire implacably worming toward them. The passage Barthim had dug out was more confined than the passageway they had fled, and the smoke was becoming a real danger. Denisius could feel his eyes burning. His breath caught up in his lungs, painful and harsh.

Then Ammas spoke -- he spoke to people who were not there, and the sound of it chilled Denisius right down to the marrow.

"Take them!" he roared, thrusting his dagger at the marching rows of skeletons, as if commanding an unseen cohort. "Their death was denied, give them the mercy you never felt!"

What Denisius saw next he could never adequately describe. A wind so icy it chilled his face, even here in this tunnel where it only blew indirectly, blasted across the skeletal legions, knocking them backward -- even sending some of them sprawling -- and extinguishing the reeking fires in thick plumes of smoke. Something could be heard, something that howled and gibbered and screamed, but at the same time its volume never rose beyond a whisper. In some ways it reminded him of the screams he had uttered in the worst nightmares, the ones where some terrible thing demanded a full throated scream but all that he could summon was a puling whistle.

The skeletons burst asunder, seemingly of their own accord, smoldering ribcages flying apart, legs severed from hipbones, grasping hands smashed into tiny splinters and fragments. Through it all the cursewright stared ahead, the charms on his hat rattling and jingling in the freezing wind. The skymetal dagger in his hand trembled perceptibly, a bluish glow visible in the curving edges of its blade.

Darkness fell across the corridor. A stench of burnt bone and sulfur still lingered. As Ammas turned around his and Denisius's eyes met. Lord Marhollow thought he had never seen such terror in a human face before, something unspeakable and horrified in those usually friendly gray eyes, blazing above their mask of black paste.

"Go," he murmured. Beyond the black smudges his face was unusually pale. Sweat dripped from his cheeks. "We must go forward, as fast as we can."

From ahead there came a resounding crash -- the heavy wooden bar thudding onto the ground, at last freed of its rusted brackets. The doors swung inward with a scream of hinges that had not felt oil in decades. Barthim roared triumphantly; Casimir jumped up and down, the light of his lantern swaying crazily. All of them plunged ahead, Ammas watching over his shoulder for more of the dead -- both those he had summoned and those he had not.

They found themselves in a plaza even larger than the old drilling grounds. Galleries rose up into the gloom, and ahead of them a wide road marched off into darkness. To their right stood a waist-high stone wall, engraved with various Munazyri military icons, signifying the cohorts that had once been stationed here. Beyond this wall was a shallow drop into what looked to be a natural cavern, a sluggish but clean waterway trickling alongside it.

From the galleries above, they could hear the scrapings and clicking sounds of more of the creatures making their way toward them, unseen but with that sulfur stench thickening moment by moment. Behind them that icy wind followed, rustling the charms on Ammas's hat. From above there came a sudden shower of yellow bones. Both Carala and Barthim cried out in disgust, shielding their heads. The light from the airy spirit danced across the galleries, where a handful of the creatures were being rent apart by the same invisible force that had followed on the frozen wind the cursewright had called upon to shield them.

"There," Ammas panted, pointing his dagger to the stream. "That should lead us where we want to go. Find a gap in the wall and head down. Cross the river. Then look for doors in the rock wall -- a portal, or arch -- something -- " He stopped, gasping for air, one hand massaging his chest. "Look for symbols. Signs of the gods. Any of the Ninefold faiths. Go, go."

They followed his directive, unnerved by whatever the cursewright had summoned to aid them against the remnants of the Yellow Death. Only Casimir lingered, maybe because he was more familiar with his master's lore than any of the rest of them, or maybe because he could see the near-illness in Ammas's face. Either way, it was with no small amount of gratitude he laid his hand on Casimir's shoulder, staining the boy's shirt with a bloody handprint. "Thank you, lad," he murmured. "Stay close to me. It shouldn't be much farther."

The first gap in the wall appeared perhaps a hundred feet down the road. No broken heap of masonry, it was instead a deliberate aperture, leading to a flight of preserved steps that opened on a pathway beside the river. Whether it was a source of fresh water or a place where the soldiery dumped their waste they did not have time to debate. They splashed across the chilly water, lights bouncing against the jagged unworked stone of the wall on the other side. From here the galleries and rails, still swept by the winter wind Ammas had summoned, gave the abandoned fortress the look of a forlorn ghost ship. The rasping sounds of bone being dragged across the paving only made the illusion all the more apt.

Ammas fell to his knees for a moment, out of breath. Casimir patted his wounded hand, unsure what else to do, weighing whether he should call for the others to halt a moment.

"There!" cried Denisius. Carala's light had shone upon a narrow rusted iron door set into the stone. On its lintel was carved the dancing spirals of the Graces, making their eternal journey from birth to death to rebirth.

Barthim roared and smashed the door with a fist and, for a wonder, it creaked open agreeably, as if it had only been waiting for an invitation. They hustled through, Carala first as she carried the light, closely followed by Barthim and Vos, Denisius coming last, holding the door for Ammas and his apprentice.

Grimacing, Ammas got to his feet. "Go, Casimir," he murmured, wiping sweat from his forehead. "I'll catch up. You'll be safer on the other side of that door. The dead there are quiet." Most reluctantly, Casimir did as he was told, but would not move beyond Denisius's side, waiting until Ammas had joined them.

Past the door was a round chamber with a long-dead firepit in its center. Niches carved into the stone around them sported ancient wooden coffins, some inlaid with gilt lettering identifying its occupant, all of whom seemed to be monks of the Graces. The others were gathered around the firepit, huddled around the light Carala carried.

Irritably Ammas waved them off. "Go. This shouldn't be a large crypt. Find an exit -- a door set into the ceiling, a stairway, something like that. It might just be a stone. Break it open if you have to. We have prybars somewhere."

Casimir stayed at his master's side, and this time Ammas wanted him right there. "Point the lantern here," he panted, indicating a patch of ground just on their side of the door.

Past the darkened portal they could hear the chuckle of water and the inexorable march of the dead things that still roamed this place. Casimir watched his master anxiously as he knelt, dragging the tip of the skymetal dagger across the stone floor, scrawling faint but distinct symbols. For a long time he stopped, eyes closed, breathing hard, seeming to lean on the weapon as though it were a crook. "Casimir," he said faintly.

The boy knelt at his side, his eyes huge and frightened, but determined to do what was needed of him.

"My hands are shaking. Just -- help me hold this steady."

Two small brown hands clutched the back of Ammas's, pale and uninjured. The cursewright nodded and, after a moment, was able to complete the ward. As if on invisible wires the door slammed shut, drawn to the sealing power in the ward. With a sigh Ammas clapped Casimir gratefully on the shoulder. "Good lad," he whispered. Laboriously he clambered to his feet, Casimir supporting him. "Let's see if we can finally make our way out of this hole."

Around the corner, past many occupied but quiet niches, they could hear the sound of metal striking stone. A moment later they saw the source: a wide stair rising up to meet a slanted ceiling, a rectangular slab blocking egress. Barthim and Vos each held a prybar, mercilessly bashing them against the stone. After a few minutes it cracked, and the Beast lunged forward, kicking the broken slab out of its frame. Beyond the rectangular portal shone the stars of the night sky.

They all surged through like a wave, a faint cloud of yellowish smoke accompanying them. Some of them fell to their knees, taking in great gulps of fresh air; others leaned against the stone wall that flanked the crypt entrance. They found themselves on a sort of porch with curved benches running from either side of the portal, following a masonry wall that diminished to a small curb as it swept away from the broken slab in a half circle. A great horseshoe tomb had been dug into this hillock, they saw. Beyond it lay the low shapes of dozens of tombstones amid a shadowy grove, and beyond the trees rose the shape of a small tower and connected buildings, dark and forlorn.

"Where's Ammas?" Carala asked from her spot on the bench. The airy spirit in her lap seemed delighted to be outside at last, and it flickered so rapidly it seemed a sort of silent music. The others looked around, then back into the darkened portal. The cursewright had not yet joined them.

At last he appeared, staggering, clutching his hat to his chest, his injured hand held stiffly at his side. Ammas stepped into the night air and took a huge, relieved breath. Then, without a word, he collapsed forward, slumping to the ground in a dead faint. Below the black smudges on his cheeks his skin was sickly and pale, and he lay on the weathered flagstones as still as death.