“Ah,” Vadim said. “The new bowcannon bolts. You perfected the spell? “

“I did. I believe you will be very pleased.” Grule nodded to the cannoneers, who immediately began firing the newest weapon—bowcannons bolts spelled by magic to fly faster and higher than ever before—fast and high enough to outpace even a Tairen Soul flying at his top magic-powered speed. The High Mage spent a full quarter bell watching the cannoneers demonstrate the splendid performance of the new bolts.

“Well done, Grule,” he praised when the exhibition concluded. “You may well have just ensured our victory. With the skies tairen-free, nothing can stop my Army of Darkness.”

“You honor me, Most High.” Primage Grule bowed low. “But there is more. I’ve added a new improvement since my last report. The idea came to me after I read a book of Drogan blood spells. The potential is… incalculable.”

Vadim arched a brow. “I am intrigued. What is this new improvement? “

“If you please, Most High, allow me to demonstrate. Do you see that umagi running in that field there?” He pointed to a tiny spot on one of the distant grounds and handed Vadim a telescoping spyglass.

Vadim lifted the glass and saw a man in tattered rags running for the forest edge. “You are letting one of your umagi escape?”

“One of our less valuable prisoners from the battle at Teleon. I told him if he reached the edge of the forest alive, I would grant him his freedom.” Grule gave smile. “I thought he might run faster with a little incentive. Cannoneer Raegus, prepare to fire.” He nodded at the cannoneer on the far end of the battlement. The man turned the crank to reposition his bowcannon.

“I don’t understand. He is aiming away from the target.”

Grule’s smile grew wider. “Indeed he is, Most High.” He raised his voice and called, “Fire when ready, cannoneer.”

“Ta, Master Grule.” The cannoneer uncorked a small flagon, poured a stream of glowing red liquid on the tip of the mounted cannon bolt, then returned to the firing pad and pulled back the release lever. The thick, braided metal bowstring gave a sharp twang of sound, and the bolt shot into the air. The launch ignited the acceleration spell, and the bolt rapidly picked up speed, just as all the other new bolts had done.

What happened next, however, made Vadim Maur’s jaw drop.

The flying bolt, launched in the opposite direction of the escaping umagi, took a swift and sudden turn in the air and sped unerringly towards the running man. Moments later, the small dark speck racing towards the forest edge went down.

“I don’t believe it.” Vadim Maur raised his spyglass to an eye. Sure enough, the bolt had struck its target, cutting the fleeing man in two and pinning the upper half of his body to the ground. He spun to Grule. “How?”

“I used a variation of a Drogan summoning spell to direct the cannon bolt, and used that umagi’s blood as the base for the spell. Once the cannoneer applied the potion, the bolt was magically drawn to the donor of the blood.”

“You mean…”

“Yes.” Grule was smiling again. He knew he’d done well. “Give me the Tairen Soul’s blood, Most High, and I will shoot him from the sky.”

“Do that, Grule, and I’ll give you your pick of jewels from my own sash. And your choice of seats on the Mage Council.”

Vadim clasped the Mage’s hand in a celebratory handshake. “Well done, Grule. Well done, indeed.”

“Thank you, Master Maur. Your praise means everything to me. And now, I’m sure you’re anxious to see the real treasure of Boura Maur.”

Vadim and Grule took the wide, winding stair that circled down from Toroc Maur into the heart of its Boura below. Descending to levels known only to a select few, and accessible to even fewer, Grule opened the door and ushered the High Mage into the secret rooms that held the real purpose for his visit.

There, in a vast, low-ceilinged hall where the temperature dropped close to freezing, a raised earthen walkway led across what appeared to be an endless sea of mist. Brass ember-pots hanging from the ceilings illuminated the mists with a sickly red-orange glow. As Vadim and Grule stepped out onto the walkway, Grule wove a spell that sent sparks of magic flying across the chamber. Ember-pots brightened, and the mist thinned to reveal a vast series of open pits where masses of grayish white bodies crowded together like maggots packed in a rotting wound.

A dull murmur rose up from the undulating mass, senseless and wordless. A low, rattling moan, like an asthmatic breath dragged through throats choking on phlegm. The disturbing sound would instinctively raise hairs on the necks of the unsuspecting… and strike terror in the hearts of those who recognized its portent.

Revenants. Man-shaped creatures spawned from scraps of human flesh and bone, grown like witch-weed in a soupy morass of soil, magus powder, and the putrefying offal of both man and beast. Not entirely living, not entirely dead, but rather soulless hulks with a rapacious hunger for live flesh. And despite their current moribund state, when loosed from their pack, they moved with the speed of striking serpents—and the carnivorous ferocity of a lyrant taking down its prey.

They were the perfect weapon. Animated by the darkest of Dark magic, the creatures were all but indestructible. They had no hearts to pierce, no lungs to rob of breath, no veins to drain of blood. Instead, like great, gruesome sponges, they thrived by absorbing the blood and dissolved flesh of their victims. Both their outer skin and the lining of the long digestive tube that coiled from maw to waste duct exuded a corrosive enzyme that liquefied flesh and bone on contact, then soaked up the resulting nutrient-rich goo and shuttled it inward to the rest of the creatures’ ever-hungry bodies. On a battlefield, where revenants could gorge and wade through swamps of slain men, even dismemberment only served to multiply their numbers, for a revenant limb separated from its host needed only a soaking of fresh blood to grow again.