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deserted.”
    “What about the manor house?” said Adalar. There had been a ruined manor house outside the village. Whether it had burned during the Great Rising, or if bandits or Malrags had burned it later, Adalar could not say. 
    “Empty,” said Wesson. “It was picked over long ago.” He looked at the sky. “We can get a few miles further before dark. Unless you wish to make camp here? The manor house or the church would be defensible.”
    Adalar looked at the ruined church. People had burned to death inside it, and the thought of spending the night there turned his stomach. 
    “This village,” said Adalar. “Do you know what it was called?” 
    “I fear not, my lord,” said Wesson. He shrugged. “I don’t know who ruled it, either. This far west in the Grim Marches, it might have been sworn to Lord Mazael. Or maybe to one of the petty lords of the Stormvales. Or maybe they were freeholders, sworn to no lord.”
    “And now they are dead,” said Adalar. “As are so many others.”
    “Aye,” said Wesson. “We should move on. This is an ill-omened place.”
    Adalar nodded.
    “Adalar,” said Wesson, and that caught Adalar’s attention. “It does the men little good to see their lord brooding in old ruins.”
    “Why not?” said Adalar. “We are on our way to a funeral, after all.”
    Wesson gave him a flat look.
    Adalar sighed. “As ever, you are right. Very well.” He turned his horse around. “We shouldn’t camp here. We’ll make another five miles before dark, and then we’ll make camp.”
    “As you command, my lord,” said Wesson. 
    They rode to where the rest of their column waited. Fifty knights and mounted armsmen escorted their supply wagons. The lead armsmen held the banners, a stylized red heart upon a field of green for Adalar, and a gray castle tower upon a field of blue for Wesson and the House of Stillwater. 
    “You needn’t have come, you know,” said Adalar. 
    “You are my comrade and friend, my lord,” said Wesson. “I met Sir Nathan, too, when we came to Castle Cravenlock with Lord Mazael. He was a noble man, and it is proper to honor him.”
    They returned to the head of the column, and it lurched back into motion. 
    “I should have done this years ago,” said Adalar. “To have left it for so long…”
    “You had duties,” said Wesson. “Your father would have understood. When word reached you of his death, we were both on campaign in Mastaria. By the time we returned to Knightcastle, Caraster’s rebellion had begun. Then the Great Rising and the runedead…”
    “Perhaps there is no point to it,” said Adalar. 
    Wesson frowned. “It is always proper to honor the dead.”
    “Greatheart Keep isn’t there any longer,” said Adalar. “The runedead would have wiped it out. The Greathearts have been vassals of the Cravenlocks for centuries, and we vowed to defend that land. Now…now that is gone. A dead village. A tomb, like half the world is now.” He shook his head. “We go to bury a dead man in a dead village.”
    “Half the world, perhaps,” said Wesson. “But not all of it.”
    “Perhaps,” said Adalar, and he sunk into a grim silence and spoke no more. 
     
    ###
     
    That night they made camp in the midst of the endless plains, and Adalar retired early to his tent. 
    That was a mistake. 
    As ever, nightmares awaited him. 
    The runedead rose around him, their foreheads shining with the fiery green symbols of Lucan Mandragon’s accursed magic. Adalar fought and fought, cutting down runedead after runedead, the screams of dying women and children filling his ears as the undead swept across the land. Lord Malden and his household knights, men Adalar had once admired and revered, grew dark and murderous, corrupted by Lucan’s sorcery. 
    Again he lived the final battle at Knightcastle, the horrible demon god forming in the sky and gloating over its triumph. 
    They had won the battle. Mazael and Lord Gerald and Prince Hugh had defeated