Stricken had been chased before. Each time, he’d retreated into the Moors of Misery, where the monotone landscape hid him. All he’d needed was patience, outlasting those who sought him.

  But this was the first time he’d felt hunted. His pursuer didn’t let him rest, somehow knowing exactly where he hid, or finding his location with an unnerving skill that bordered on the sorcerous.

  But Stricken had a few tricks of his own. Let this bastard come for me. Stricken could keep running forever. Yes, he experienced a terrible hunger, that was never fully satiated, however much he ate. But despite that, he was not reliant on sustenance, as he had once been when alive. He could keep going without food, or water, for days. His hunter was human. That made him weak. Stricken would outlast him in the end.

  He drove himself northwest, reaching the periphery of the great stretch of moorland. If he went much farther, he would reach the fast-flowing Auster as it hurtled south to Urlay.

  If I have to, I’ll cross and keep going, he told himself. Dead men can’t drown.

  The attack came before Stricken knew what was happening. His pursuer had been hiding in the heather, waiting for him. He’d got ahead of him, and—somehow—guessed the route Stricken would take. He launched himself up, and the butt of his spear smacked on the back of Stricken’s head.

  Stricken fell like a sack of potatoes, unable to recover from the blow. His pursuer was on him, kneeling on the back of his legs, pulling his arms behind his back with an iron grip. Stricken tried to wriggle free, but he was tied and trussed in moments.

  The bastard rolled him onto his back with his boot. “What do we have here?” he asked in a growl. He had an outdoorsman’s tanned skin, black hair, and stubble. A bow stave was slung on his back, and he wore studded leather, light enough not to hinder his movement.

  “Who’s asking?” Stricken spat back. He’d never been one for fear. Now he was dead, he felt untouchable.

  “Reckon I’ve caught myself the wight of Urlay,” the man said, ignoring the question.

  He went to grab the rope around Stricken’s chest, and Stricken lunged, trying to bite. He received a fist in the face as answer, leaving his head spinning.

  “Try that again, and I’ll chop something off.”

  Stricken’s captor led him through the moors, in the direction of civilization. Each step became a dull blow that wore away his confidence. Becoming dead, yet alive, had made him feel untouchable. Now he wondered what this man’s plan was. Where was he taking him, and why? Was it possible there was someone who could undo his master’s magic? Steal back the life force that Amotken had given him?

  The hunter was implacable. He pulled or pushed at Stricken whenever he slowed, and revealed nothing.

  The man twitched, suddenly alert. With a shrug of his shoulders, his bow stave was in his hands. With nimble fingers, he strung it, and grabbed an arrow. He stared back the way they had come.

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  Stricken turned to look. He saw what his captor had sensed—a figure, running towards them.

  The hunter grimaced, glanced at Stricken, then kicked out, taking away his legs. With his hands tied, Stricken landed heavily, getting a mouthful of dirt. He wriggled on the ground, trying to get sight of the approaching figure.

  There was the twang of a bow string, quickly followed by a thump as the arrow hit its target.

  Stricken struggled more, desperate to see what was happening. He used his knees to flop a few inches to the side. It was enough to reveal the figure coming for them.

  There was an arrow embedded in Princess Eyota’s chest, but she still came for the hunter with a look of grim determination. Another twang, and a second arrow sprouted in her thigh. It stopped her in her tracks; but it didn’t drive her to the ground, as such a shot would ordinarily have done. She continued on, relentless, if a little slower.

  Hope restored, Stricken pulled at the ropes binding him, desperate to free himself and join the fight. He heard his captor curse in his gravelly voice. It was followed by fumbling noises, then he emerged into Stricken’s vision.

  His bow discarded, the man attacked Eyota with spear and shield. The spear kept Eyota at a distance, unable to get close with her sword. She circled, but the hunter followed her with the spear. Then he pulled it back and led with his shield, rushing her. She sidestepped; he glided out and with perfect footwork returned to a forward momentum, launching the spear into her path.

  The iron spearhead penetrated her armour, ramming into her groin. Eyota was spitted by the weapon, her movement curtailed. She chopped down with the sharpened edge of her sword, as her opponent pushed with the spear, intent on knocking her down. She stayed on her feet, at the cost of the spearhead lodging ever deeper. With her third strike, she cut through the shaft, leaving Stricken’s captor holding two feet of wood.

  Stricken yanked at his restraints, to no avail. If anything, the knot tightened. Think, he demanded of himself. He managed to get to his knees again, then came down hard on his shoulder. He felt and heard the arm come out of its socket, but the pain was a distant thing, as if his mind didn’t fully understand it was there.

  Somehow, the princess had the energy to go on the offensive, swinging wide. Her opponent followed the blow with his shield, but it was a feint. She lunged the other way, her sword inside his defences. He met the blade with the spear shaft. Eyota raked her blade down the length of wood. With his hands undefended, he was forced to release it.

  The hunter rammed her with his shield. This time he was successful, the force of it sending Eyota to the ground. He was quickly onto her, a knife now in hand. He knelt on her, knee jamming against the spear that was still lodged deep.

  Eyota should have been in excruciating pain, but it didn’t seem to register at all. She used his weight to sit up, jabbing forward with her sword. The sword left her grip, flipping in mid air. His defensive knife block passed underneath, while she caught the sharp blade in one hand. She punched forward, the hilt of the weapon jamming into his neck.

  The hunter was suddenly all at sea, no longer in control of his body. They wrestled, Eyota trying to unbalance him. He hung on, desperate to maintain his position of dominance.

  Stricken slipped one hand then the other through the knot. One arm wasn’t working, but with his other hand he pushed himself to his feet. He staggered towards the fight, throwing himself at the hunter. They hit the ground, scrabbling at one another. Stricken’s opponent got both hands on him, and was strong enough to push him aside.

  Then Eyota’s boot cracked him on the side of his head and he collapsed onto his back.

  Stricken was onto him like a wild animal, his hunger taking over even his desire for revenge.

  “No, Stricken.”

  Stricken was inches from the man’s throat. He could hear and smell the blood pulsing along his neck arteries. He could already taste it. He opened his mouth.

  “I said no.”

  He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t close his jaws on the undefended neck. Stricken had prided himself on never doing what he was told. Not since he was a child had he allowed anyone to control him. Now, despite his all-consuming famishment, he had to obey her. What torturous spell had his master cast on him?

  “We will take this one to Amotken,” Eyota said. She studied the man who had hounded and captured Stricken. “He interests me. Who is he?”

  Stricken, a maelstrom of anger and misery, didn’t answer.

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