"They've definitely pulled guards away," the thin, lean man observed, crouching low beside the sputtering fire. A woman across from him nodded in agreement.

"I heard a few of them talking about chaos back at the river. That... that can only mean one thing."

Those assembled in the grim meeting nodded in understanding. The refugees had come to a common agreement about their survival. The soldiers of Altia steadfastly refused to listen to them, and it seemed this refugee camp was intended to remain for the long term. And yet they all knew their survival could be measured in days—if not hours. The horde of undead was coming for them, and the river would only slow them for so long.

They needed to leave. Now.

"A few of the guards say there'll be hangings at sundown," one man said idly, rotating a curved wooden stick over the fire. They'd decided to make rudimentary knives, hardening them over the flame and passing the crude weapons around. It might be enough to take down an unwary guard... if they were lucky. "That might make for a good distract... what?" he trailed off, noticing the looks around them. He glanced over at Darius as others nodded toward him.

Darius gritted his own fire-hardened knife, though it was more of a splinter than any true weapon. "We need to break out before then, and spring them out before they're executed. They fought to save you all!" He stared into the eyes of those around him—at least, those who met his gaze. "Fine... damn your ingratitude, but even you cowards have to realize just how powerful they are in a fight. We'll need to free them if there's any hope of surviving what's about to happen."

"Pardon me, friend," the lean man said after a moment. "I've heard tell of the Elves and Dwarves who fought in a few towns, but I've never seen them myself. The missus and I snuck across the river four days ago, before we were captured, so I've no idea about them. I hope you don't take this the wrong way, but why should I risk my neck for strangers I don't even know?"

"They would have done the same for you." Darius breathed in deeply, taking in both the scent of the crackling firewood and the unwashed stench of those around him. He found himself thinking back to their time in the Barrowlands, to meeting with the unfamiliar spirit who brought them back south. Truthfully, Darius hadn't been able to follow along too closely, but the spirit had spoken of being tethered in certain sacred places. When the Elf Gynefra had made her farewell, they had gathered together, energy crackling around them as they closed their eyes.

And when I opened it, I was standing by the chapel in the town of Brinkwater...

Darius bit his lip, still not sure how it had happened. Yet it was in that town that they had met up once again with the wagons of refugees, astonished to see that they'd outpaced them into the abandoned city. And then the undead had come...

"You want to hear about them?" Darius growled. "Oh, I'll tell you what you really need to know. When we reached the swamps around the border there was no going forward except through the ranks of the Altian border guard. And do you think that stopped them? No..."

***

Panic sounded among the refugees as the lurching horde of undead splashed through the swamp. The rotting vegetation around them felt a fitting complement to the tattered rags and yellowed, diseased-looking skin of the zombies wading through the mud and pond scum.

"We hold here!" Gynefra shouted, her voice clear over the chaos around them. Several of the zombies had struggled up onto dry land, but a blast of her concentrated wind magic flung them backward, splashing into the murky water. The water continued to ripple as Barnabus whirled his wand in the air, calling on the water to rise up, higher and higher. He whipped it downward, and the tide of water overhead now froze at once, shards of icicles slamming into the ranks of the undead wading through the swamp.

"Back to the earth with you!" Jag was roaring, each swing of his axe cleaving through the unarmored bodies of the undead who staggered out of the water. One turned to grasp him from behind, but the Seeker got to it first, her twin blades ripping into its back and knocking it to the ground. A quick slash severed the zombie's head, and the fighting spirit within was instantly extinguished.

"On the left," Jez warned, her charred staff gripped in both hands as she flung a barrage of rocks into an approaching group of undead. Each strike that hit burst through the targets with an explosion like an overripe fruit falling apart, and those that missed splashed filthy swamp water into the air.

Darius watched as the target he'd hit reeled backward, an arrow sticking out of its left eye socket. He spared a quick glance for his quiver.

Three arrows left.

"They're coming up on the rocks!" Jez continued, flinging as much magical energy as she could, but still unable to stem the tide of undead. Darius swore, loosing another arrow and taking a zombie in the shoulder. Heedless of the arrow, it staggered forward, until another arrow took it in the head. Darius nocked his last arrow, straining to hold it as Jez took a few steps back, the nearest zombie just a few paces away. This one shattered through the rotting skull right between its eyes. The zombie fell to the ground, stumbling another as it shambled forward.

Darius shrugged off his quiver, tossing his bow aside as well, and snatched up his sword. Five of the reanimated corpses were pushing forward now, one shrugging off a quick blast of energy from Jez. Darius stepped forward, impaling the first target in the throat, dashing to the side as another tried to snatch him. His second strike tore through the neck of another target. Then he felt tugging on his clothing, a snarl uncomfortably close, the cold breath of a corpse on his neck. It snapped as he jerked his head to the side. He shoved the zombie free, and then a point-black blast from Jez's staff flung it several paces backward.

"Hold them here!" Gynefra was shouting over the carnage, but Darius had no idea what was happening just a few paces away. He slashed with wild abandon, backing up against Jez, and for several furious moments they fought back to back against an unstoppable tide of undead.

Then the tide broke.

The Seeker emerged first, slashing from behind and attracting the attention of the nearest zombies. Then shouting refugees charged in. The first one Darius saw was black-haired and gaunt, nearly as bedraggled as the undead, and he nearly took the man's arm in a desperate swing. Darius pulled his sword stroke back at the last instant, and the man ran on, heedless of the danger. The Frontiersman plunged his own blade in the gut of a zombie, wrenching it to the ground, then stomping on the creature's skull.

Breathing hard, Darius lowered his sword, taking in the scene around him.

The flood of undead had receded, barring a few ripples of motion in the swamp water, and those few that still remained on the near bank were being put to the sword. A ragged cheer broke out among the refugees who had joined them. Gynefra herself raised her staff in triumph, though she swayed in place, as if on the verge of falling over.

"We cannot stay here," Barnabus said, his boots squelching in the muck as he came near. "We held off this wave, but the Altia River is our only hope of survival. We need to pass across it."

"But the bridge," Jag pointed out, ripping his axe free from within a fallen zombie. The refugees stood, wide-eyed, perhaps a hundred in number and penned in at the very edge of the Frontier. A long stone bridge led into the Kingdom of Altia, but it was clear that refugees were being turned away. At the far end clusters of armored soldiers could be seen.

"We don't have time," Gynefra said, shaking her head. "There's no telling when another wave will come." She strode to the nearest wagon, where Paul Fowler and a few half-remembered faces could be seen. Others were strangers, but they had perked up at the unexpected arrival of the strangers. "Hearken to my words," she began. "Our deaths are imminent if we tarry here. The only way to survive is by crossing into the Kingdom of Altia."

"We already tried," a voice moaned from beside one of the wagons. "They threw us back here. They refuse to listen and call us plaguebearers."

"I will make them listen," Gynefra declared. "Every one of you, ready yourselves. We will break into the kingdom. Follow close in our wake or you will be left behind for the Ghoul Army to devour." Her words had their desired effect. Wagons creaked as they fell into motion, forming a trail leading toward the bridge, even as other refugees spread out on foot. One of them pointed into the distance. Gynefra's ears twitched, and a moment later Darius could make out the faint snarling of the undead.

"We're out of time," Gynefra declared, gripping her staff and passing the nervous refugees. "It's now or never. Follow me!"

Gyenfra strode forward, building up into a charge, the others charging alongside her. At the far end of the bridge, the Altians snapped to attention, rattling their spears as they hurriedly fell into a shaky shield wall. Shouts echoed from the far end as the border guards warned them off. Metal gleamed atop the nearby watchtower, and the blast of a horn sounded out.

"Stop!" the guard captain roared.

In mid-stride, Gynefra aimed her staff, now barely twenty paces away. "Lower your weapons!" she yelled back, sending out a blast of concentrated wind magic. The shield wall buckled, those in the center toppling onto their backs—and then splashes of magic from Jez and Barnabus slammed into both sides. They reeled backward from the impact as the others pushed through. "Weapons on the ground!" Gynefra sent a blast of magic at a nearby guardsman who drew his sword, flinging the blade backward, the side cutting into the shoulder of his comrade.

"Watch out!" Barnabus called out, blasting a charging guard in the side of his helmet, just before the blade could sink into Gynefra's back. Most of the guards were bowled over, hesitating, but others were charging in. A wild swing of Jag's axe shattered the arm of one man, then he rammed the haft into his helmet,

"Stay down!" Jag roared, turning to slam his axe into another border guard's knee. "Drop your weapons!"

The fight in the border guards gave out at once, Darius whipping his blade out and holding it at the throat of their captain. His sword fell to the ground a moment later.

"Back up," Gynefra snapped, forcing the group a few steps away. She glanced back quickly, waving over the refugees, then refocused her attention on the guards. More horn blasts were sounding in the distance. "Go, go, make way!" she shouted now. With yells and scattered magic, the guards were forced back, bringing a few wounded along with them—though three of their number remained, fallen dead in the southern bank of the river. Gynefra glanced back and tsked.

There was nothing for it, Darius thought, adjusting his blade from side to side. It was the only way through.

Behind them wagon wheels rolled along the stone bridge. The panicking refugees now broke out into shouts of exultation as they crossed the bridge, though Darius suspected the relief would be only temporary.

My ancestors left this land for a reason. Besides, we've just made enemies of them.

The sounds of the horns echoed around them, and Darius could make out the glittering armor of more patrols arriving, weaving around the foothills beside the river. The walls of Altia were just visible in the distance, beyond the watchtowers that guarded this crossing point, but Darius knew they wouldn't be enough. Even so, the forces here were more than sufficient to take their own small band now.

Gynefra lowered her staff and turned to Barnabus, whispering a few words that Darius couldn't pick up. The other Elf nodded, taking off his satchel, and she turned to face Darius. "Can you do something for me?"

"Anything," he said at once. Behind him, the last of the refugees were streaming past.

"Take this concoction," Gynefra said heavily. "It's a brew that we intended to use only as a last resort. The tainted blood of the undead, mixed with certain herbs."

Darius nodded, unsure.

"We're certain to be searched," she murmured. "Yet perhaps they'll let you go. Use this... if it comes to it." She set the vial in his open palm and fixed him with a stern look. "I do not entrust this to you lightly."

Darius nodded, fingers clasping the vial tightly.

More border guards were arriving now, shouting for them to drop their weapons, some of the refugees bolting away while others simply raised their tired arms. "We give up! We give up!" Gynefra called out, turning away. "Everyone, lower your weapons. The Elven Ambassador should be here... we can talk our way out, surely."

"But..."

Gynefra turned at Darius's whisper.

"What does this... do, exactly?"

She clenched her jaw shut, then leaned forward to whisper in his ear.

***

The sun hung low in the horizon as Darius trudged toward the wooden perimeter around the refugee camp. He knew what he had to do, and he was determined to do it—even as he hated himself for it.

The others could not be roused to save his comrades. They'd try and scuttle away in the night, and most would fail. Darius would not be among them.

After everything we've been through... Darius pulled the vial free from his boot and uncorked it. We fight and die together.

Carefully, oh so carefully, he let a few drops fall on the sharpened stake he'd crafted. He watched in silence as the foul substance smoldered, faint traces of putrid smoke rising up before they were extinguished. Darius clenched the stake and limped toward the perimeter, emphasizing the pain that he'd felt during his imprisonment. It wasn't a difficult task.

The guards had dwindled in number as chaos continued along the river, and while before they had rounded the perimeter in pairs of two, now a single soldier walked along. Darius could make him out through the narrow gaps in the wooden perimeter as he passed by. He had found a larger gap in the wall, perhaps just barely enough for a full-grown man to squeeze through, and he paused there now as the guard came close.

"Don't even think about it," the guard growled.

I'm sorry.

"Listen, could I have a word?" Darius asked in a raspy, weak voice. "We're running low on water."

The guard came to a halt and paused. He sighed. "Look, I—"

Darius struck without mercy. He jabbed through the gap, his stake slashing into the man's throat. The guard pulled away, gurgling as he patted at the blood gushing to the ground. Darius stared, clenching his jaw, watching the man slowly topple to the ground. He bore a bow on his back, along with a quiver, and as his victim bled out Darius snatched both. The man also bore a longsword on his hilt, but that was farther away. He strained through the narrow hole, squeezing partway through the dirt, then gripped the pommel. Slowly, he pulled it partway out of the guard's sheath.

A rasping sound echoed from the dead man.

Darius held his breath—then pulled the sword loose and squeezed back into the refugee camp. Silently, he watched as the man's boots twitched. Then they kicked, and the dead man lurched to his feet. For a moment the two stood silent. The seconds seemed to drag by like eons.

Then the undead guard turned, shambling away down an alley.

Darius gulped and rose to his feet.

What have I done?

He clenched his fists tightly. As time passed, he thought he heard a scream, broken off abruptly—but he might have just imagined it.

Darius let out a long breath and grabbed his bow. It was nearly sunset now, and if the rumors were true his comrades wouldn't live to see the morning.

I'm not about to let that happen.