It was a wonder Arthur was able to squeeze through the narrow passageways without getting stuck; Henry secretly pondered if the knight-apprentice's luck would change at any moment, if he would have to pull or push his armored friend to unblock the tunnel like a clogged drain.

  It probably wasn't wise to let him go first. He sighed, ignoring the critical voice in his head. It was right, of course, but at this point Arthur would probably balk and whine at the prospect of having to switch places, which would take up more precious time. Besides, the narrow tunnel hadn't widened into another chamber yet, which prevented any rotation anyway; the passage continued to snake on, a dark corridor lit only by the dim torchlight held aloft by Arthur.

  "How much further?" Henry asked, wincing as he brushed aside a thick cobweb from his face. "By my estimate, we've been following this tunnel for about a quarter-mile now."

  "Patience, old boy," Arthur replied without looking back. He gingerly motioned a warning to a small crevice in the ground. "Mind your step. Remember, this leads right to the dragon's lair."

  "Not directly," Lyla cut in, her voice a bit muffled by the rock walls. "We'll come to an antechamber first. Then it's a small hill, then we'll be in the lair proper."

  Henry nodded, navigating the rocky terrain after Arthur. The squire's legs and feet were beginning to ache, but his heart pounded; it was more than simple adrenaline. It was anticipation.

  Arthur suddenly straightened up and disappeared from Henry's view for a moment, before an armored gauntlet extended into the tunnel. "We're almost there. Come on, move it!"

  Henry grabbed his hand and felt himself being pulled into a larger chamber, followed by Lyla and Praetorus. As Arthur was helping Praetorus out, Henry heard a slight gasp from Lyla; her gaze was fixed on a slumped figure against the wall, still clad in bloodied plate and missing the head. He didn't need any more clues as to who this was.

  "I'm sorry, Lyla." He gripped her shoulder firmly. "We'll come back for him. For all of them."

  She said nothing for a moment; her shoulders sagged, and she bowed her head slightly. Henry shared her silence, but kept his hand on her shoulder until she looked back up.

  "I'm not taking him out through that tunnel, like some furtive pauper." She looked at Henry, her cold blue eyes cutting into his. "We're taking him - everyone - out through the tomb entrance."

  Henry nodded, releasing her shoulder. "I agree."

  Arthur and Praetorus joined them; Arthur bowed his head at the fallen knight, while Praetorus nodded at Lyla.

  "My condolences," the archer said, his stony gaze locking with Lyla's. "We will avenge him. Him and everyone else claimed by the dragon."

  Together, the four moved on and climbed up the steep rock hill, carefully traversing the precarious terrain; more than once, Arthur stumbled and threatened to topple over, were it not for the others' quick reactions to stabilize him. The heavy plate, silent as it may be, still held its full weight in steel, and Arthur was breathing heavily by the time they all crested the hill.

  "Regretting your choices yet?" Henry asked, suppressing a smug grin.

  The knight-apprentice scoffed. "What, this little hill? A warmup, nothing more. I ran leagues in plate for training, this is nothing!"

  "Could've fooled me back there," Lyla teased. "Let's hope your fighting is better than your fitness."

  The tunnel continued on a short distance before them, before opening up into inky nothingness; this was the short tunnel leading into the lair, where the dragon was supposed to be. They drew their weapons and made ready, with everyone looking to Henry.

  "Our priority is the hostages," the squire reminded them, looking into each of their faces. "We get them out first, then we engage the dragon. Defend yourself if you need, but don't attack directly until everyone is out."

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  "And if we find the dragon first?" Arthur hissed.

  Praetorus' face tightened as his stoic expression turned stony; Henry didn't need to look at his hands to know the archer's grip on his bow was taut enough to shake.

  "If the hostages aren't at risk... then we strike fast, and we strike hard." The squire looked at Praetorus grimly. "But only if we can't find the hostages first."

  They all nodded, and Arthur doused the torch; for a second, they stood in complete darkness, before their eyes adjusted to the shadows and allowed them a sliver of vision.

  Henry spoke, his low voice cutting the silence like a knife. "Go."

  The spearmen fought feverishly, their weapons thrusting out continuously as they fended off the sea of undead that surrounded them. Diana and the archers at the center of the circular formation provided whatever ranged support they could, but the spears did the bulk of the work, stabbing through or severing the heads of their undead foes. The arrows from the bowmen did little to slow down the snarling cadavers, but Diana managed to conjure up enough holy magic to strike down wherever the teeming masses threatened to overwhelm her allies. Her magic struck from the air like bolts of lightning, incinerating and vaporizing a dozen foes at once.

  Still, mighty as the militia and Diana were, they were badly outnumbered; the cleric had given up trying to count however many foes they faced, however many they killed, however many more rose from the snow to replace their fallen compatriots. Worse still, she fought the urge to break from her position to try and help those who were pulled out of formation, those who were swiftly dragged screaming into the undead hordes and ripped apart; losses were inevitable, but she had desperately hoped her magic would have been enough to prevent them outright.

  She tried to ignore the number of her losses - five now - and frantically rallied the defense, continuing to strike down wherever she was needed and shouting out targets and orders to the militia. The militia, for their part, still held firm against their foes, their spears and swords cutting down any corpse that breached the dome; to everyone's frustration, the corpses that were cut down immediately dissolved, preventing a buildup of bodies that would have provided a makeshift barrier and rampart. Hundreds of undead had been killed by the living, yet hundreds more continued their relentless assault upon the formation.

  Blast. Diana stifled a sob as another militiaman fell to his knees, his throat slit by a rusty sword; two others pulled him back into the formation before the undead could, as Diana finally gave in and rushed over to the wounded man. She quickly placed her hands on his throat, suppressing her instincts to recoil as they were quickly splashed with a torrent of warm blood. She tried to begin her healing spell, but as she did so, the dome began to flicker.

  Blast. Blast it all. The dome required her focus to maintain, focus that she couldn't spare to help the beleaguered man; she was paralyzed with fear and indecision, her mind torn between her options. She had to pick: save this life in her hands and doom them all, or let his life slip and maintain the dome.

  I'm a healer, not a soldier. She desperately tried to rationalize it in her head as she looked down at the man, bleeding profusely from his neck. I can't make these kinds of decisions. I can't-

  The man looked up at her, his eyes bulging. Above them, the dome was wavering, phasing in and out of existence; already, the skeletal archers were testing the dome, their projectiles slipping through the gaps where the dome had failed. One arrow sailed through a gap and embedded itself in another militiaman's back, who screamed in pain.

  The man's gaze suddenly hardened, as he suddenly held out his arm and tried to push Diana away. The cleric tried to grab it, to comfort him, but he kept up his attempt to push her off.

  "Leave me," he croaked out. "Keep fighting. Keep..."

  His eyes glazed over, and he fell silent and limp. It was over.

  Diana staggered back to her feet, shifting her focus back to the fading dome. As she concentrated once more, the dome regained its power, shielding them from the arrows again.

  Defense was becoming untenable, let alone offense. They were being picked off; no telling how much longer they can hold. The melee was still as ferocious as ever, but the line was beginning to falter; fatigue and exhaustion were beginning to set in, while the undead had no vigor to worry about. For every cadaver that fell, three more took its place, while every fallen militia member began to leave gaps in the formation.

  I'm sorry, Henry. Diana fumbled for the chalice still tied to her belt; she had to act now, while they still had the numbers. Lady forgive me.

  She whispered a quiet incantation, and the chalice glowed brightly; it continued to grow in luminance, until it hurt her eyes just to glance at it. As she was forced to turn her head and avert her gaze, she tossed the chalice into the air. It kept glowing brighter and brighter, like a miniature sun, until it exploded in a brilliant flash of light.

  For a moment, her eyes were blinded, even as she had turned from the blast; the din of fighting ceased at once, and the only sound that carried to her ears was the soft mountain breeze.

  Slowly, her vision ebbed back, shapes and figures returning to her eyes; all around her, the other militia members were recovering as well, surprised and confused.

  But the surrounding landscape was empty. All of the skeletal warriors, all of the shambling undead, they were all gone; not a trace of them remained in the pristine white snow around them, marred only by the militia's presence.