It started as a rustle. Like a sudden gust of wind brushing through the thinner tree trunks.

  Derek stared at the slender stems surrounding them. They stood tall and perfectly still.

  Not a breath of wind.

  On his mini-map, the red blob marking the enemy extended tendrils outward, curling around their position like some enormous unicellular organism. Within seconds, they were completely surrounded.

  Nothing was visible yet, but the sound grew louder by the second—a faint, creeping rustle, like dozens, maybe hundreds of feet moving across damp grass.

  Whatever was coming, it didn’t move like a brainless zombie horde from some holo-horror flick. This was careful. Coordinated. A deliberate encirclement designed to trap them, step by step, with no escape.

  If not for the mini-map, he wouldn’t even know they were being surrounded.

  Even if those things were intelligent... how could they be this organized? They moved like trained soldiers, executing precise maneuvers.

  But who—or what—was giving the orders?

  Had Alyra and Sierelith gone through this too?

  Derek clenched his fists. The armored gauntlets locked tight, metal grinding like a steel trap. He couldn’t afford to dwell on it. He had to stay sharp, stay ahead.

  He had to find a way out.

  Without saying a word, Tunga sat down cross-legged, staff resting across his lap. He closed his eyes and began muttering a stream of incomprehensible words under his breath.

  “Hey, jungle man,” Derek said. “Now’s really not the time for prayer.”

  Tunga didn’t even flinch.

  Isabelle squinted and looked around in every direction. “Where are they coming from?”

  Derek glanced at the mini-map again. The red dots had formed a perfect circle around them. A circle that was slowly, steadily closing in.

  “Everywhere, I’m afraid.”

  Two yellow dots flickered to life beneath the shadow of a massive strangler fig—like tiny lanterns glowing in a graveyard.

  Derek narrowed his eyes.

  A moment later, the dots became four.

  Then eight.

  Then dozens.

  He spun in a full circle. Yellow dots now surrounded them. Eyes—countless glowing eyes—stared out from motionless, indistinct shapes hidden in the dense jungle.

  No moans or growls. No idle shuffling, coughing, or even swatting at the millions of bugs swarming through the thick, humid air.

  If not for the mini-map, showing their perfect synchronized movement. He could almost believe they were statues. Like they'd always been there. Watching.

  Tunga’s chant rose in pitch, but the shaman showed no sign of opening his eyes, let alone standing up to help. Looked like he and Isabelle would be on their own for now.

  With a mental command, Derek activated the shoulder-mounted missile launcher. There was no way they could win a direct fight. Not against enemies this hard to kill.

  No. Their only shot was to create a diversion. Something big enough to shatter the formation and buy them a chance to run.

  He opened the launcher menu and selected a volley of illusion rounds. A green LED blinked:

  round loaded and ready.

  “Something’s not right,” Isabelle murmured.

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  “What gave it away?” Derek asked. “The undead army, or the part where they haven’t eaten us yet?”

  Isabelle scanned the trees. “They’re not attacking. Undead don’t act like this.”

  She shifted, uneasy. “If they were feral, they’d have charged already. If they’re sane… why just stare?”

  Derek shrugged. “Maybe they’re shy.”

  Isabelle raised her hand, fingers splayed like a claw. A bolt of crackling white lightning bloomed in her palm. With a swift flick, she hurled it into the trees.

  It arced through the air and struck near the apostate creatures. The impact triggered a burst. Lightning exploded outward in jagged lines, tearing through vines and underbrush.

  For a split second, the entire jungle lit up in blinding white.

  And revealed everything.

  Trunks. Branches. Vines. Bushes.

  And faces.

  Dozens and dozens of faces. Faces twisted and broken like old toys. Missing ears. Single eyes. Unhinged jaws. Noses caved in. Skin hanging in shreds like torn curtains.

  Some—just a few—looked intact.

  But even then, the lifeless stares and grayish skin left no doubt.

  “Shit,” Derek hissed. These people had been dead a long time. Some of them probably buried, until the sphere dragged them back from the peace of decomposition.

  He aimed his plasma cannons at the horde. At least it’d be harder to miss.

  Isabelle placed a hand on his shoulder. “Wait.”

  Derek looked at her. “Wait for what?”

  “Until we know what’s really going on.”

  “Looks clear enough to me.” Derek jerked his chin at the glowing eyes. “Undead are real. Tunga was right. And we’re surrounded. So unless you’ve got a miracle handy, we blast our way out.”

  Tunga’s chanting grew louder. Still cross-legged, the shaman began rocking back and forth to the rhythm of his own mantra.

  A sharp, androgynous voice rang out from ahead. It seemed to come from the half-rotten corpses.

  “Listen to the Warden, Cashnar. She speaks wisely.”

  “Vanda,” Derek muttered. “Pinpoint the source of that voice. I want tactical analysis.”

  “On it, Derek.”

  Through the thick jungle, a green light began to pulse.

  It was a sphere.

  Derek had seen enough of them to recognize one from a distance by now. This one was embedded—or maybe mounted—on a staff.

  A man was using the staff to move through the brush.

  As he approached, the undead parted for him, stepping aside only to fall back into position once he passed.

  One final cluster shifted, and Derek finally got a clear look at him.

  The man was tall and gaunt, with a pale face and wisps of gray hair plastered to his skull. A long, ragged blue robe clung to him like a funeral shroud, dragging across the undergrowth. He held a gnarled staff, not unlike a shepherd’s crook. At its tip, the sphere of Life pulsed with green light like some alien beacon.

  His eyes glowed faintly green, as if the light from the embedded sphere had soaked into his skin.

  “Derek,” Vanda said gently. “I’ve finished my analysis. The speaker is the man with the staff. The sphere seems iron-rank. The man is... biologically dead, same as the rest. No detectable body heat. No pulse. No electrical activity. Nothing.”

  The man stepped over a bush and onto the dirt path they’d been following. He came to a stop.

  Derek aimed both plasma cannons at him. The targeting reticle locked onto his figure instantly. “Who are you?”

  The man didn’t even flinch. He placed a hand over his chest and spoke in a shrill voice, like the screech of an out-of-tune violin. “Allow me to introduce myself, my Cashnar. I am Elias Morvain.”

  “Elias,” the Warden hissed, her voice low enough for Derek alone to hear. “He’s the priest who used to represent the Church of Orbisar in Ebonshade. I saw him several times... he was a righteous and devout man.”

  Derek smirked. “Doesn’t look like that man’s still around.” He lowered the plasma cannons and removed his helmet.

  If he could talk his way out of this, so much the better. “Well met, Elias. I was just on my way to Ebonshade to pay you a visit.”

  The priest gave a deep bow. “I am honored beyond words.”

  Derek smiled. Even zombies had egos. Good to know.

  Elias continued. “The news that the Cashnar had finally appeared, right here in Rothmere, of all places, fills us with joy.” He raised his milky eyes to the sky, and his voice, impossibly, grew even sharper. “Orbisar has not forgotten us.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Derek muttered. “Does he seriously not realize he’s a damn zombie? And that it was one of Orbisar’s spheres that did this to him?”

  “Derek,” Vanda whispered in his earpiece. “Be careful. I’m picking up energy flows from his sphere, straight to the horde.”

  He cleared his throat. “Very well. If you’d be so kind as to escort us, we’d be more than happy to follow you for the last stretch to Ebonshade.”

  Tunga, still seated, stopped chanting and opened his eyes.

  Elias turned his gaze toward the shaman, then back to Derek. He raised one arm slowly, like a puppet pulled by invisible strings, and pointed a bony finger. “Why does the Cashnar travel in the company of a heathen savage?”

  And why was a priest of Orbisar commanding an army of undead? But that was a question better left unasked. At least until they got to the village and found Alyra.

  “I’ll gladly share my story with you once we reach Ebonshade,” Derek said, forcing a smile. “I’m sure you’ll find it… illuminating.”

  At the very least, it would buy him some time to come up with a story that the devout undead might actually find acceptable.

  Tunga sprang to his feet like a cat.

  Elias’s head turned toward him, slow and deliberate.

  Their eyes locked.

  Isabelle shifted uncomfortably, sword in hand. “Tunga, don’t do anything stupid,” she whispered.

  Tunga’s expression twisted into a feral grin. His staff ignited—flames crawling up its length, licking all the way to his shoulder.

  Derek stepped toward him. “Tunga, don’t. This is not the time—”

  “You,” Tunga growled at Elias. “Death not allowed to walk.”

  “Tunga, what the hell are you doing?” Derek shouted.

  A faint flicker lit up one of the nearby corpses. The flame spread, engulfing half its body—but the thing didn’t move an inch.

  Moments later, others caught fire as well. The flames seemed to burst out of nowhere, like they’d spontaneously ignited.

  Tunga bared his teeth, caught somewhere between raw effort and a savage grin.

  Derek turned to Isabelle. “What… what is that lunatic doing?”

  Isabelle stared wide-eyed at the shaman. “I know that magic. They must be fire ants. That’s what he was summoning when he was chanting earlier. He must’ve sent them crawling over the undead while we were talking. Now he’s using them to ignite their bodies.”

  Derek turned to the old man, mouth hanging open. “You crazy bastard, you’re gonna get us killed!”

  Tunga raised his staff high, and the flames surged. One by one, the undead turned into blazing torches. The magical fire burned hot and wild, but didn’t harm the jungle around them. A thick, acrid smoke rose from the burning corpses.

  Elias turned to calmly observe the inferno around him, then looked back at Derek.

  Derek shook his head. Damn shaman. He’d pay for this later. He locked the helmet into place and let the HUD slide into focus.

  “Derek,” Vanda warned, “the energy levels in the sphere on Elias’s staff are climbing.”

  The priest raised his staff, almost exactly as Tunga had done. A burst of green light flared at the top, like a miniature sun, and when it faded, the flames were gone.

  The half-charred bodies were still there. Blackened… and unbothered.

  None of them had been truly destroyed.

  Derek swallowed hard. If anything, they looked worse now.

  Elias lowered the staff. “Of course,” he said, in that screeching, chalk-on-glass voice. “I’ll be honored to grant the Cashnar’s request. I’ll bring you all to Ebonshade. And none of you shall leave again.”

  A glowing label appeared above the undead priest’s head:

  ||Level Silver 1||

  The burned, rigid corpses began to move, one step at a time.

  Bones cracked. Feet shuffled across the wet grass. Eyes stared, empty and lifeless.

  The red circle on the mini-map was closing in again, drawn tight like a noose around them.

  And now, he knew exactly whose mind was pulling the strings.

  With a mental command, Derek swapped the purple micro-missiles for the black ones, the ones charged with Death Sphere energy.

  “Derek,” Vanda said, voice tight. “We’ve never tested those. Ithara believes they’re extremely unstable. Are you sure—”

  “No.”

  And he fired.