Hope and Brunhilde were not facing the slovenly undead that toiled in the docks, these were unsettlingly nimble. They loped forward like lean street dogs sniffing prey, their long arms swinging. There was a menacing playfulness to the way they approached.

The closest struck out, surprising Brunhilde with a long-arm that stretched longer than a spear. It raked her side with its fingernails. She tried to snap its arm, but it bent like clay and wrapped around her. The limb tightened and drew her in. Another gurgling chuckle came from its drooping mouth.

Hope sliced through the arm with her magic. It split like butter and Brunhilde wrestled away the remaining loop of rubbery skin and bone.

“Stay behind me,” Hope said.

Brunhilde turned to the children. “Go back the way we came, quickly.”

Miray and Yusuf were stiff with fear, but Miray pulled her shortsword and grabbed Yusuf. She pulled him back towards the other end of the alley.

Their escape was stopped by two more of the undead dropping from the rooftop.

“Moon take your memories,” Brunhilde cursed at the monsters. She ran past the children towards the zombies, her arms wide in a challenge.

Hope was driving her blade again and again through the one-armed zombie before her. Though she could cut through it with ease, it twisted and writhed in inhuman ways, turning her limb-slicing blows into glancing cuts. Its three companions jigged towards her with their long arms held high, waving like stalks of grass in the wind. She was forced to dodge blows from above as they slammed their distended arms down at her.

She was cutting away at them, but not quickly enough to slow down their attacks. She brought up a barrier, slamming it against them so that they stumbled backwards like pinwheels.

Brunhilde became wrapped up in the arms of her two opponents. She was strong enough to pry away their rubbery arms, but they merely shifted and snaked their limbs around her legs and torso. It was like wrestling tar, she had no purchase to lever them away from her, but at least she was keeping them from Yusuf and Miray.

Hope lashed at the zombie arms waving towards her, she couldn’t keep pushing them away with magic under the night sky. If she expended all her energy, she would be defenceless. She rolled under their arms and slashed through a leg. The owner tumbled over, but then stretched its arm down to keep itself up. It scampered around her, flailing at her with its free arm. The others launched their arms at her and she leapt up and out of the tangle. She was getting annoyed by their persistence and chaotic behaviour. Her thoughts went to the others, and she saw Miray and Yusuf, backed against the alley wall. Miray and Yusuf cowered against the wall, Miray with her sword out and Yusuf with his eyes closed. He pressed into his sister’s side as she waved the sword back and forth, not knowing where an attack might come from.

One of Brunhilde’s enemies peeled itself from her and whipped towards them. Miray screamed and slashed. The sword bit into its flesh and it tugged on the blade, wrenching it away from her. It loomed over the two children.

“Eyes open, Yusuf!” Hope shouted.

His eyes flickered open and he remembered the passing heat of the bonfires. He drew his sword, it felt re-assuring and familiar even in his shaking grasp. He stabbed upwards at the zombie, copying the move that Hope had showed him. His sword sunk into the belly of the creature and he gagged as alchemical bile erupted out of the wound. Thick sticky fluid smelling of vinegar and flowers spurted over his sword and hands.

Both Yusuf and his opponent reeled backwards. The zombie hissed in what sounded like pain, but soon turned into escaping air. It scrabbled to contain the animating fluid inside its body, but could not stop the flow. It crumpled in on itself like a sodden paper bag. Yusuf was left standing over its fallen body, shocked at his sudden triumph. Miray pulled her sword from the heap of flesh and struck at it, just to make sure.

“Yusuf, the warrior that struck down the living dead and revealed their secret!” Brunhilde roared. She grappled her roiling foe, punching it and driving it away from her. “Strike this one, quickly.” She exposed the belly of the zombie to Miray and she plunged in her sword. More necromantic fluid spilled on the alley floor, and the zombie turned from a python-strong foe to something more like lank lengths of rope.

“Miray, who struck down a foe like her brother.” Brunhilde flung the corpse away from her. “Did you see this?” she called to Hope.

The princess had, and knowing the location of the animating fluids, she sliced her foes open with ease. The alleyway stank now, and they urged the children on towards home.

They watched the rooftops as they ran home, but they saw no more foes.

“Your necromancer sent these,” Brunhilde said as they jogged.

“Of course, he did, the little ghoul. I’m going to drown him in his own vats.”

“We should strike now.”

“Tomorrow, after the morning sun.” Hope’s tattoos were dim and barely visible.

The battle had been witnessed by Marid and the Nameless One. They had peered into the eye-socket of a Tireless One. The necromancer twisted his beard so hard that it hurt, but he hardly noticed. His first taste of revenge had been foiled by that brat.

Marid shifted in his seat. He ill-liked this alliance with a necromancer. “Perhaps they have suffered enough, punishing them further no longer serves the interests of the Glorious Emperor.”

“You would give up now? I thought you a man of honour.”

“A man of protocol. Honour is a personal vice, protocol encourages unity and the order of things. We have both been wounded, but I have no interest in a long-term co-operation with you. Your Tireless Ones disgust me.” He sat up a little straighter. Here in his compound, with his guards surrounding him, he felt more sure of himself. He worried about his reputation with the Glorious Emperor if it he heard that Marid had worked with a necromancer, and furnished him with witchfinger vines and other plants from his gardens.

“Those were Flailing Ones. Much more suited to battle. Though not immune to injury as I have seen.” The Nameless One collapsed onto his cushion. He was exhausted from working over the vats to produce these servants. “Perhaps my formula could be improved,” he muttered to himself.

Marid considered the two children he had spied through the Tireless One’s eyes. He was not much older than they were. He had no doubt the Nameless One would set his servants on him once the truce was ended. He had made a mistake in helping him. “I hardly care to know the difference. Let us call our temporary truce ended. I have more pressing matters to attend to than chasing a barbarian through Elova.” Marid shivered. The idea of countless varieties of undead, all catalogued by this truly perverse man was too much for him. He recalled how the necromancer had sifted through the vines of witchfinger, sniffing them and nibbling the edge of leaves to test their potency. As far as Marid was concerned, flowers were for arranging, not re-animating the undead.

The Nameless One stared at him.

Marid clicked his fingers and two guard came between him and the necromancer. They lowered their spears. The Nameless One choked and spluttered, but he could do nothing more. He muttered and threw bitter glances at Marid. But Marid held his composure, surrounded by guards and beneath his prize rhino, a sign of his authority and strength. And the guards looked eager to run through the zombie and its animator at the smallest excuse.

The Nameless One could do nothing but return to his dockyard, and retire to his chambers. Inside, his mood lifted when he saw another troop of uninjured Flailing Ones waiting for him. They had completed their separate mission with no trouble at all. He inspected the package they had brought him and smiled. There would be another chance. And he still had another resource gathering mission for these Flailing Ones. Marid would help him one more time even if he didn’t want to.