The ghost streaked toward her, and she had only one choice, one maneuver that would work—though she’d never dared it outside lessons, which was saying something, as Wren would dare a great many things.
It involved holding her sword out, blade forward to meet the coming attack. The idea was to split the ghost in two, to cut through the spirit like the prow of a ship through waves. The problem wasn’t in the initial strike but in the runoff. If the ghost was moving too slowly when the blade cut through, the scraps of the spirit that were meant to slip to either side of her might in fact come to a stop, ebb and flow and swirl against her flesh.
It worked only if the attack was fast and strong, the ghost’s momentum taking it clean past her and ensuring there could be no sudden redirections.
Wren, who always fought with two swords when she could help it, preferred to hack and slash her opponents, but with the ghost barreling down upon her, this maneuver was the only thing that would save her.
She raised her sword with two hands, narrowed her stance, and braced for impact.
The ghost slammed into her blade, the flare of light causing her eyes to water and Julian to throw up an arm against the glare.
But Wren could afford no such reaction. Eyes streaming, muscles straining, she held her ground as the ghost split in two, streaking past on either side of her in an explosion of sickly green light. A rush of cold threatened to sear her skin—but never made contact.
The ghost dissolved, reduced to wisps of icy vapor. Then nothing.
Julian stared up at her in the sudden darkness, awe etched into his features. “That was… You are…” He swallowed. Shook his head. “Amazing.”
Wren was panting as if she’d run a mile, but it was his words that momentarily robbed her of breath. Had he just called her amazing?
Heart hammering against her ribs, she finally lowered her blade, glancing down at her arms to make sure she hadn’t been harmed, but she was safe.
Julian got to his feet, looking to her for direction.
She gathered her wits. “Let’s keep moving.”
They encountered no further undead, and when they circled back toward the bridge, they came at it from the side.
Unfortunately, the undead that had blocked their path had not pursued. Worse, they had been joined by at least ten more. They were clustered there, unmoving, waiting. Working together, like those revenants in the forest.
Again, the wrongness of it hit Wren in the chest. The undead should be wandering after them, drawn as always by the flame of the living. Instead, they patiently awaited their foe, as if they knew where Wren and Julian intended to go. They were thinking, problem-solving, and taking orders, if what they had said to her before was true.
As if a land overrun by the undead wasn’t bad enough, these undead were unlike anything Wren had ever seen.
Now that they were nearer, it became evident that the bridge was damaged—bent and rusted in places, while in others, the iron had given way entirely. The structure had been built in a rush, meant for a hasty crossing, and did not represent the ironsmith’s best or most enduring work.
Beyond it, beneath it, was the wide chasm of the Breach itself. It glowed brightly now, coloring the landscape and revealing swirling tendrils of mist. Could those be ghosts, floating so high in the air? It shouldn’t be possible, but Wren wouldn’t take anything for granted.
Her mouth went dry. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.
Julian sidled nearer to the bridge, which was about twenty feet away, his movement drawing the attention of the revenants standing on the road. They turned to face them in a single, unnatural movement but did not pursue. Yet.
“Do you trust me?” Julian asked.
Wren turned to him. “Seriously?” she asked, waiting for him to elaborate.
“I’m all you’ve got,” he said, parroting the same words she’d given him inside the watchtower.
She blew out a breath. “I guess so.”
He shrugged. “Good enough.”
He looped an arm around her back, pulling her to his chest. Wren staggered against him, suddenly awash in the scent of worn leather and cold iron.
“Hang on,” he said, drawing his sword and flicking it downward, transforming it back into a whip with a snap. He cocked his arm and tossed it out, across the abyss and toward the struts that rose over the bridge’s deck.
It was an impossible throw—by anyone other than an ironsmith. In his hands, it landed exactly where he intended, wrapping easily around a joint, the segments of blade interlocking securely.
Wren’s heart stuttered when she realized what he was about to do. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidd—” she began, but she never finished, her breath leaving her lungs in a rush as Julian leapt from the edge and they went plummeting to their deaths.
Or, at least, that’s what Wren expected to happen. Instead, they dropped several stomach-tightening feet before the whip took their weight. There was a lurch—Wren clung to Julian with every ounce of strength she had—and an abrupt change in trajectory. Then they were no longer dropping but swinging across the open space, soaring toward the bridge.
They collided against the outer railing, clinging to one of the vertical beams as the metal shook with their impact. They remained motionless, ensuring their perch was steady, before Wren dared to open her eyes.
Unfortunately, she was looking down when she did and could see nothing but swirling green mist in the seemingly bottomless chasm below. How deep was it? And were there countless undead staring back at her?
“Eyes up here,” Julian said sharply. Wren’s attention snapped to him. “Do not look down.”
“Got it,” she croaked.
But looking up meant looking back at the bridge, and while they had landed safely, they were not actually safe.
The railing they clung to rattled loosely, and the undead hadn’t missed their little trick. They turned together, starting their slow, staggering plod toward the bridge. At least they insisted on bringing their bodies with them. If they left their corpses behind, their ghosts could cover the distance between them in seconds.
“Up and over,” Julian said, as the two of them climbed the railing and landed with a clatter on the wide deck of the bridge.
Wren took a moment to rest her hands on her knees and revel in the somewhat stable ground beneath her feet before gathering herself once more and facing their approaching enemy. They were starting to cross, causing the entire bridge to shake, but with her and Julian’s head start, she was confident they could win a footrace.
Until she looked the other way.
While the western side of the bridge appeared relatively stable, the eastern side was barely standing upright. Whole beams of metal were gone, or rusted through, or dangling from missing bolts and damaged struts.
They couldn’t run across this bridge. They’d be lucky if they could crawl… slowly.
“Shit,” Wren said, reaching for a pouch of bonedust. Crouching along the walkway, she poured a thick stream from one side of the bridge to the other.
“Genius,” Julian said, and Wren refused to be flattered by that.
“It should buy us time, I hope,” she said, returning to the problem that lay before them. “Can you swing us across?”
Julian glanced down at his whip, which he had tugged free from the strut. “I can try.”