Page 4 of Prince of the Undying

By the time we arrived at a tiny village, the snow fell as thickly as goose feathers. Soldiers for Austria-Hungary had pitched camp on the outskirts of the village. Smoke unfurled from scattered campfires between tents.

Wendel slumped in the saddle. With his head bowed, his long hair obscured his face.

“Wendel?” I asked.

He slid from the horse and crumpled on the ground. I rushed over to him, my heartbeat hammering, and checked his pulse.

Barely there. His skin felt like ice.

“Fuck,” I whispered, before shouting, “I need a medic!”

I waited outside the field hospital tent.

The medics wouldn’t let me inside. They had important work to do, they said, in a tone that invited no argument. I paced around the camp, polished my sword, and paced some more, feeling utterly useless. I’m better at killing people than healing them.

What would happen if Wendel died?

A knot tightened in my gut. I had heard terrible rumors. You didn’t want to kill a necromancer. If you killed him, he would come back ten times stronger. If you killed him, he would lose the last traces of his humanity and become a monster that mercilessly hunted you down in revenge.

Was that true? I was afraid to ask the medics.

Finally, a medic emerged from the tent and beckoned me. “He’s awake.”

Relief rushed over me. I hadn’t failed my mission.

And I was glad he was alive.

Inside the tent, faint light filtered through the canvas walls, supplemented by kerosene lamps. It stank of sickness and disinfectant. The wounded lay on makeshift cots, wrapped in bloody bandages, many of them lost in a morphine haze that dulled their pain. A patient near me shrank back, whispering a fearful prayer, and I knew he must be a rebel. As if I would murder him in a place of healing.

I found Wendel in bed.

He rested against a pillow like a prince lounging on a throne. Even more distracting, he was shirtless. He had a lean, hard body as pale as a marble statue. Scars marked his skin, acrisscrossing tally of all the fights he had survived before. How many times had he been hurt?

Wendel caught me staring and arched his eyebrows. Heat scorched my ears.

The medic glanced at a clipboard. “He’s stable for now. The field surgeon repaired the lacerated artery in his arm.”

Wendel waved at the bandage. “Am I done?”

“You need another blood transfusion,” said the medic. “Without that tourniquet, you would have bled to death in minutes.”

“I can’t stay.”

I crossed my arms. “You passed out. Twice.”

The medic nodded. “He needs plenty of fluids and rest. Morphine for the pain.”

Wendel said nothing, staring at me until the medic left. “I can’t stay,” he repeated. “If I stay, they will find me.”

“Who? The Order of the Asphodel?”

His eyes burned with intensity. “Yes.”

When he looked at me like that, shivers rushed over my skin, an echo of his necromancy on my body.

Holding my breath, I let it out in a rush. “We leave for Vienna soon.”

“Soon?”

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