Her muscles were taut as Nessalir brought her mighty sword arm down upon a draugr. The undead creature was cleft in twain, and Nessalir spun past to meet her next foe. Another draugr struck at her with a sword of its own, and the clang of metal sang out through the trees as blade met blade.

  "What are these!?" Iarius demanded as he tried to direct his mare away from their attackers.

  "Draugr!" repeated Nessalir. With a surge of strength, she pushed her enemy back and with a quick swing of her ax, she separated its head from its shoulders. "Among your people, I believe they are called revenants."

  "Revenants are real!?" The scholar stabbed his sword down on the draugr which presently menaced his steed, and by chance he managed to split its skull. "How do you Northerners survive, when so many myths walk among you?"

  A savage grin split Nessalir's face at his words, but she did not answer him. Rather than reply with mere words, she resolved instead to demonstrate to the Remuran precisely how Northerners such as she not only survived, but thrived in these dangerous lands.

  A draugr charged at her, carrying not a sword like its fellows, but a spear. This was a mistake on its part, if indeed such creatures possessed the presence of mind required to make mistakes. Nessalir easily sidestepped the polearm, and hooked her handax over the wooden haft. She pulled, ripping the weapon from the draugr's hands and robbing her would-be assassin of its balance.

  The creature was thrown to the ground. Had it been a living, breathing man, it might have needed a moment to recover, to shake off the stun in its mind. But the draugr was a thing bereft of life, and immediately it began to stand once more.

  Nessalir was upon it before it could return to its full height. She hacked away at its neck until it was headless and unmoving.

  Most of her foes now vanquished, the dragonblooded woman turned her attention to the final draugr, which stood some distance away, observing the battle and holding a woodsman's ax over its shoulder. From its posture alone, she could discern that this one possessed an intelligence that its fellows had lacked.

  Its dry lips peeled back in a blasphemous mockery of a smile, and the draugr stepped forward. "You are the one who will free me from this torment," said the undead creature.

  "Who are you, draugr?" asked Nessalir. "You and your fellows seem freshly dead and freshly risen."

  "You observe true," said the draugr. It lifted its ax from its shoulder and swung it back and forth, as though testing the weight of it. Or, more likely, it was testing its own joints. "We were slain a mere fortnight and a half ago by the master of that hall, and since that night, we have been charged with guarding its home from intruders. I alone maintained my sanity amidst the transformation, and so I alone amongst my people have been cursed with a horrible understanding of what we have become."

  "And who, or what, is this master you speak of?" Nessalir asked.

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  "Alas, I cannot say, for that same geas which binds me to its protection also prevents me from speaking its true nature to another soul."

  Nessalir nodded. She had suspected as much. Any being capable of raising and binding draugr must assuredly also be a being which values its privacy. "And this same geas now demands you oppose me?"

  "It does, though in truth my hope lies in your victory."

  "I would have your name, draugr."

  "Froki," the draugr said. "My name is Froki Horikson. Please, tell my father that I died well."

  "You have my word," Nessalir told him. "May the stars guide you to peace."

  The draugr laughed a bitter laugh, though Nessalir did not know why. Before she could question his strange reaction, Froki leapt forward and swung his woodsman's ax at her torso.

  It was clear that, in life, this man had been fit and agile. Had he not befallen such a terrible fate, he could have become a strong and skilled woodsman. Nessalir mourned this life that might have been, even as she parried his blow and cleaved his head from shoulders.

  Froki fell to the ground. His corpse twitched, then lay still, and silence fell upon the forest path.

  "What sort of creature must call this fortress home, that it can create such monsters?" asked Iarius.

  "Something dangerous. Something powerful." Nessalir turned to her companion, and she frowned. Iarius ex Maritoris was a scholar, suited for candles and quills and parchment. He was no warrior like herself. "It may be wise for you to remain outside while I venture within."

  Iarius was silent. Hurt was plain upon his face. He dismounted from his mare and stood straight, as though he were attempting to seem every bit the warrior as she. Yet even so, Nessalir stood taller than him, as she did most men.

  "I will enter with you," he said. He did not speak more, but he did not need to. It was clear to Nessalir what words he had left unsaid. Like so many of his sex, he would gladly march to his own death to prove he was no coward.

  Nessalir's heart ached for him, as it had once ached for another man she had known many years ago, who had likewise been ill-suited for battle.

  "I am a child of dragons," Nessalir said. "I have fought and faced death since first I bled. Judge me not by the standards of the coddled women you knew in Remura, and judge yourself not by the standards of the soldiers who knew who have blindly thrown away their own lives. You have nothing to prove here, Iarius, for I have seen your courage and what you give to the world. Consider what I have said, and then tell me: do you truly believe it wise for you to enter this fortress, which has already claimed multiple lives and twisted them for its own purpose?"

  And she was gratified to see that her companion did consider her words, and his shoulders sagged and a look of disappointment crossed his face. Yet it soon faded, and a look of determination took its place.

  "In truth, no," he said. "It is not wise. But I will enter regardless."

  "Why?" Nessalir demanded.

  Iarius smiled, and for a moment he looked as boyish as he had when first they'd met, regardless of the beard which had now begun to grow upon his chin.

  "It's simple: I want to know what's inside," he told her. "I cannot stomach remaining ignorant."

  This was an answer Nessalir did not expect, and upon hearing it she threw back her head and laughed.

  "Very well," she said. "Then let us enter this ruin, and learn what sorts of secrets it holds, that the dead themselves rise to guard them."