Hope had also been sprawled by the force. She could feel magic thrumming through the floor, a sleeping force that was slowly waking, but the priest was forcing it awake.

His staff touched the floor of the chamber, and his eyes rolled upwards. His body went tense like a taut rope as power flowed through him. He arched his back and lifted his arm to the roof. His mouth opened and let out a deep keening cry.

The entire city moved at his call, making a bass beat like an immense heart. The walls of the chamber heaved in and out. Brunhilde felt that the walls might crash into each other like a giant gnashing on ants. Her ears ached from painful pressure in the air. She saw Hope clutching her ears.

The earth did not want to give up its power, but the priest’s keen drew it forth. Several globes on the tree burst, thick amber-like sap dripped from them, quickly turning tar-black. The tree shivered as if it could uproot itself and mist the colour of dried blood rose from its base.

The mist crept out in tendrils, low to the floor. Brunhilde leapt over it, but it was not seeking her. It found its way to a statue in the walls. The stone flexed and the beast tore itself from the wall, one half finely carved, the other ragged and coarse.

It bit down at her, and she caught each jaw and strained to hold it open. It was heavy and alive, its thick stony tongue battered her. She slammed its body into the floor. It writhed and brought its claws up to grab her. She felt the unholy grasp of stone woken by magic around her body.

“May Bear break you like a wishbone,” she prayed. Its jaws split in two and the head sheared away from the body. But like a hydra the body lived on. She screamed in pain as its claw continued to crush her.

She forced open the claws holding her slowly. They cracked under the force; red mist sprayed from a broken talon. Her sinuses stung from the power in the air. More beasts tore themselves from the wall, turning their wild eyes towards her.

The priest and tree were surrounded by a tornado of red mist now. The power he was summoning had no place to go, it coursed around the temple.

Drawn to the power, crazed citizens forced open the doors and piled through. They staggered towards the tree, their arms held out. The red mist took them in, their bodies quivered with its power. The same deep life that had kept them sleeping for so long now brought renewed strength to their bodies. They crawled over each other to approach the tree. Bone dry bodies expanded like corpses in water as they absorbed the unleashed power in the air.

Hope found herself fending off their grasping hands. Their eyes were filled with hunger and also pain; they were desperate to be freed from their thirst. She had no magic left to fight with, so she fought unarmed, kicking and punching at their joints. She felt the pull of the Blade that Burns Night or Day in its scabbard, it wanted to be drawn to fight. She was too afraid of its power.

A zombie fell and its skin burst under the flood of dark magic. Burning red mist scalded her and she threw up her arms to protect her eyes. The corrupted magic of the tree burnt like acid. More of them clawed at her, their hands drew water from her, they tried to gnaw at her. She struck at their knees, causing them to tumble to the floor, but more of them clambered over their fallen.

She was overcome by them, they piled up over her like an avalanche. She was surrounded by soggy flesh, dry nails that clawed and jabbering moans. She pressed her hands over her ears. She was being crushed under the weight of them.

The pressure lifted suddenly and Brunhilde was there, pulling her up. The barbarian heaved at the mass of undead and toppled them away, allowing Hope to scamper to her feet and retreat behind her.

“Stop him, undo his magic,” Brunhilde cried.

“I don’t have any power in me.”

Another statue leapt at them. Brunhilde caught its jaws. These statues were moving but had no thought in them, they just attacked mindlessly. If not for its size it would not have been a threat at all. It wriggled like a worm on a hook, and she swung its body round at the undead. The long body slammed into them and knocked them back into the doorway of the temple. She twisted its head and it rolled against the wall, blocking the doorway with its mad wriggling.

“I’ll stop him then.” Brunhilde ran through the tornado of red mist. Her eyes burnt and her rose ran, she dropped to her knees on the other side and retched. Magic was thick in the air like grease, she wiped her eyes to try and clear them.

But she was inside the wall of power now. The priest was there, unaware of her, forcing magic up out of the earth. She grabbed his staff. The force of it was like lightning digging into her bones, but she held her grip and pulled it out of his hands. He crumpled to the floor, writhing and screaming like a baby.

“Get up,” she said. The storm still raged around them; he had unplugged a wellspring of magic. She took the staff across her knee and strained at it. It resisted like steel.

“Don’t!” he cried. He held his hands up to her.

She gritted her teeth; she felt the staff bending. “Ruler of the forest, let me break a lost child that corrupts your honour,” she prayed.

Wood snapped. She wrenched and felt the sweet tearing of a sapling in her hands. The living core of the staff was green and pure, as it broke the scent of fresh spring forest washed over her. Her eyes filled with tears again, but from tender sorrow not pain. The storm dropped, the mist in the air dissipated, but still hung thick near the floor.

Hope rushed to Brunhilde’s side. The biting magic wind had faded, and the thirsty undead were dazed, but still stumbling around.

“Let them go,” she said.

“I can’t undo it.” The priest clasped his hands together. “Let them take us, as punishment for my foolishness.”

“I’m in no mood to be a victim of your cowardly self-punishment.” She had no choice, she drew the Blade that Burns Night or Day. This time it was night black, so cold that it hurt her bones. She swung her blade back-handed through his neck, sending his head spinning away. His body fell sideways, hands still clasped together.

Brunhilde had to back away from the chilling aura of the sword. Mist swirled up into it as it drank in the wild power here.

“The heart of the spell is the heart of the tree.” Hope ran towards it, the sword’s hunger pulled her to the trunk like a lodestone. The sword would swallow every star in the sky if it were lifted high enough, it knew nothing but hunger. She knew that to free the people here and themselves, she needed to slay this whole city. Cut short the cowardly spell that had kept it in a state between life and death.

She thrust the sword into the tree, and it delved into the centre of the tree like a mosquito’s needle, probing and seeking the delicious magic inside. The sword found the pith of the tree, and Hope felt the magic of the city flow into the blade.

It was an old, warm power. Before humanity it had danced like fire in the dark. It was light, it was life. Then under the stars it had cooled and slept, pressed down by unthinking stone, like an old man carrying his years on his back. But it waited in the dark, for a chance to dance again. It sang a song to itself, murmuring in the dark, waiting.

When the city had called it up, it had found a way to live again. Thrust up into the trees of the city it had filled the homes and streets with light and warmth. It had breathed. The people had sung to it on holy nights and it had danced in their homes and streets. It had changed from a singular entity into a mind that lived in every glowing light and water-bearing tree.

Now it was being snuffed out by the blade, cooling into oblivion. She felt shivers in her hands, a dance that had existed since time began was coming to an end; The Blade that Burns Night or Day was insatiable when it burned night. In the core of the tree, its thick luscious blood turned black and solid.

It was done. The spell of the priest was snuffed out and a tree that held memories from the beginning of the earth died. It went from red to ochre to terrible dusty grey. Branches shrivelled and curled like arthritic hands. The great trunk split and cracked. It was rock now, nothing more.

She wrestled the sword back into its sheath. Like a wild hound it could be mastered after it had eaten. There was a moment when it called her to release it, to let it burrow down into the ground and snuff out the life of the earth. She was tempted. What better revenge on the world that she hated than letting it be devoured by the night? But she shook off the dark impulse and forced the blade asleep again. She would master it one day, force it to burn as she desired and cut through her arrogant rivals back home. For now, all she could do was make it sleep for a while.

The storm of red mist faded. The guardian beasts were statues again, and the people of the city fell into death for a final time. Brunhilde watched the crowd of corpses collapse, grasping at each other. She made her way to Hope, who leant against the tree.

“Are you safe?” Brunhilde placed her hand on Hope’s shoulder. The princess pulled away, her face hidden against the tree.

Brunhilde drew her into an embrace and she cried against the barbarian. They were alone again, in a quiet city. It was stupid to cry over a tree, and a city that was not her glorious home. But Hope cried for them still.