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"I'm ready," said Daryth, standing proudly. He looked like a typically arrogant young officer of the Scarlet Guard, thought Tristan. The high hat, with its crimson plume, accented his red cloak and dark trousers. The shiny black boots, higher than his knees, looked suitable for trampling roughshod over the lives of lesser folks.

"And I," said the prince, adjusting his tunic. The fit was almost perfect. The Sword of Cymrych Hugh swung loosely at his side.

"Be careful!" warned Pawldo, looking at them very seriously. "I'm not sure I'll be able to rescue you this time!"

"And good luck," said Fiona, kissing each on his cheek.

Devin scowled at his daughter and led them up the stairs and through the silent house. He stopped at the door and studied the street before waving them forward. They hurried down the steps and along the street, seeing no one.

"Around the next corner, you'll see the gate. There'll probably be a few officers waiting there. You don't want to arrive too early, or you'll have to talk to them. When the guard marches out, the gate will remain open for a few minutes, and you two should walk in with the other officers. Remember, act like you own the place!"

Tristan looked at Devin and wondered about the motivations of this apparently frightened but obviously brave man. Devin rubbed a hand through his thinning hair as he looked nervously back at the prince, eager to leave them.

"I know we've put you in danger," said Tristan. "And I'm sorry. Perhaps, if we are successful, you will be able to return to the cantrev you were driven out of. Thank you."

Devin met his gaze with a look that combined skepticism and hope. "Good luck to you," he finally said. "May the goddess grant that you are right!" Then he turned and darted back down the street, bolting from one stretch of shadow to another like a creature of the night.

The pair stepped into the street, supporting each other and stumbling along as if they had been drinking heavily. They turned the corner and saw a dozen or more officers in uniforms similar to theirs standing beside the road. A file of red-garbed soldiers was marching from the castle. After the column of soldiers had passed, another group, waiting on the other side of the street, marched into the castle. Then the waiting officers stepped into the street and followed the guard through the looming gate.

* * * * *

Genna stumbled backward as a pair of zombies crawled over the fallen crosspiece. She chopped with her sickle – once, twice, and two heads thumped onto the ground. The bodies twitched harmlessly off the stone, but four skeletons came scrambling up behind them.

Isolde stood at the next arch. Her wolves lay dead at her feet, and a circle of zombies closed around her. The druid's stout stick rose and fell, each time smashing an attacker to earth, but bony claws reached for her legs, her thighs, her waist. Still clubbing, she fell under a sea of death, disappearing below the rotted corpses and ghastly jaws of the zombies. A dozen of them clustered around her, pressing in for a chance to bite or claw at the druid. Finally Isolde's club fell from her bloody, lifeless hand.

Genna, still striking with the sickle, fell back from the arch. The other druids, too, were gradually driven from their posts. The light of the Moonwell felt warm upon the Great Druid's back, but even the power of the goddess, she knew, would not stop the relentless attack. There were less than a score of druids left.

The battle could have only one outcome.

Or could it? The Great Druid turned back to a zombie that advanced, seeing that half of the thing's face was already gone. The leering skull seemed to mock her plight, and rage powered her arms as she drove her sickle through the skull, the neck, and halfway into its chest.

No, they could not win this battle. "Goddess, our mother," said the druid, slowly and reverently – even as she raised her sickle to smash an encroaching skeleton. "Do not let them have us."

No longer