The Hollow Pass had become a furnace of death. Smoke curled upward in thick plumes, blotting the winter moon until even its cold silver light was choked away. The air burned with ash and fire-pitch, heavy with the metallic tang of spilled blood. Men stumbled and fell upon the corpses of their comrades, and the ground beneath them had become slick, treacherous, a red mire of mud and marrow.
Ryon's blade screamed against the Wraith-knight's in a clash that sent vibrations rattling down his arms to the very marrow of his bones. The creature fought with a precision that was neither wholly human nor wholly of the grave, its every strike guided by a will colder than stone. Sparks flew with every parry, but the sparks were wrong—ashen-gray motes that fluttered in the air like dying embers, dimming rather than illuminating. With each clash, Ryon felt his limbs grow heavier, as if the knight's presence leeched at his strength.
