"A real king honors his bargains," spat Sunbright. "Defend yourself!"

The king stood still, hands by his side.

Sunbright didn't know what to think. He hated to kill an unarmed man, but the king had access to any number of weapons in the hands of the nearby courtiers who watched the contest of wills. And Sunbright had given more than fair warning, been overly generous with this oath-breaking snake.

Rearing back, slinging his sword behind him, Sunbright sucked wind, gave a mighty battle cry, and slashed Harvester in a great, glittering arc at the king's neck.

The sharp sword with the arched and hooked tip slammed to a halt against the king's cheek and bounced off, as if Sunbright had hacked at an iron-wood tree.

Hurled off balance by the force of his blow, the barbarian staggered, shuffled his feet, and brought Harvester up in automatic defense. Aghast, Sunbright prayed. What in the name of Mystryl's mysteries…?

The One King had barely moved. No blood appeared at the long cut on his cheek. Instead, dark gray smoke flowed outward.

Courtiers gasped. Soldiers dropped swords.

In the dragged-out silence, with only the rending and booming of falling stone in the background, there came a slow, soft chuckle, as dry as last year's dead leaves.

For the first time, the One King exhibited emotion.

He was laughing. But not properly, head back and shaking, but with the same deadly calm as always. The mouth was like a black slit from which issued the slithering chuckles.

Then, more horror. The king reached strong, corded hands to his face, and dug thick fingernails into his eyebrows below the shining crown. Smoke swirled faster from the wound that was not a wound. People groaned involuntarily as the monarch tugged, then tore the skin from his own face.

Shreds of false skin hung limp from his hands like taffy. But no one noticed, for they stared, pop-eyed, at the smoke-wreathed face.

It was dark gray, shriveled like an old leaf, with wrinkled pits for eyes and mouth, and only slits for a nose… and a parchment-wrapped skull.

"Lich!" grunted an orc.

"Lord of the undead!" rasped another.

Fiend, monster, Sunbright's mind reeled off the names. And master trickster and schemer, plying the patience of the dead to work its evil ways amid living men.

Gripped by terror, Sunbright backed involuntarily, his feet clumsy and heavy. Harvester's tip dragged on black marble to strike sparks. There seemed to be only one thought in his mind, and that was to run, hard and fast.

Then all present turned as the rear wall of the castle broke and crumbled. Great blocks of stone crashed down into the hall or fell to clatter outside. Weak sunlight illuminated the room.

Then it was blocked completely by a scaly face and glaring yellow eyes. Smoke spilled from Wrathburn's nostrils as he rumbled, "King! I want you!"

Sunbright backed farther away from the lich king. Fearsome as it was, the threat of the dragon receded. The beast could only destroy his body. A lord of the undead could destroy him utterly, body and soul and being.

The lich that had been the One King seemed to revel in the humans' terror. It raised healthy-looking hands above its hideous, rotted visage and shrilled a mad, screeching laugh. Smoke continued to dribble from the deep cut in the parchment skin of its cheek, but a single swipe of the man-hand sealed the wound.

This was nothing he could fight, Sunbright knew. There was no way to kill something undead. And a lich was the most powerful undead thing of all, it was rumored, an indomitable spirit wedded to an indestructible body, centuries or eons old, perhaps once a true and mighty sorcerer-king in the dim, distant past.

Whatever, attacking the lich would have the same result as attacking the dragon: a senseless and painful death, or worse. In the superstitious turmoil of the barbarian's mind, he feared the lich might simply will him to death with sheer terror.

And the dragon was rumbling, hissing, the lich keening some weird cry or incantation like nails on a slate.

More of the walls collapsed until, looking up, Sunbright saw portions of the apartment he'd occupied above. Plaster and blocks fell like lethal rain. The courtiers and soldiers had finally had enough and raced for the far doors. Seeking only to free Greenwillow and flee, the barbarian bulled his way through them.

The elf threw out her chained hand, shouted something Sunbright couldn't hear over the crash of masonry. Whatever it was, he thought, it would wait until he'd gotten her out.

A strap whisked past his nose, snugged around his throat, and tightened like steel. His wind was cut off, his lungs empty. At his ear, the minister Angriman hissed, "You'd destroy the dream, so I'll destroy you!" He gave the thick leather belt around Sunbright's throat a savage twist.

Backing, Sunbright lashed out with his elbow to ram the man's gut, then stomped to crush the minister's instep under a hobnailed heel. But dumpy, pouchy Angriman must have been a soldier at one time, a good one, and was still tough as oak. Dodging the wild swings, he jerked the barbarian backward until he crashed into the side of the ebony throne. By the time Sunbright thought to stab overhead with his sword, the minister had ducked behind the massive structure. He could strangle his victim without being stabbed.

Sunbright would be out of the fight in a moment anyway, for his vision was blackening like storm clouds. He flailed and kicked, but only managed to shoot a foot from under himself. He fell, hung by the throat. He had his sword but precious little good it would do him. His last image was of Greenwillow, thirty feet away, hopping up and down and making a chopping motion. His eyes must be deceiving him.

How humiliating, to survive a dragon and a lich, only to be killed by a crazed clerk.

Then he got it.

He tried to suck a deep breath and got nothing, gave up, arched his back, aimed as best he could through the red, swirling air, and flung Harvester hard.

Spinning like a birch leaf in autumn, the heavy sword sliced the air and thudded point-first into the heavy oak bench to which Greenwillow was chained. He'd hoped to get the weapon close enough for her to sever the chain's links, but his aim was better than he imagined. Harvester's heavy nose slammed through the links as if they were paper, and Greenwillow was free.

That was all Sunbright saw as the world flooded red and black. Maybe the dragon had finally coughed and blistered him into another world.

Dimly he heard an elven shriek, and the pressure on his throat disappeared. Gagging, he sank onto the floor, found it wet with blood not his own. Immediately a cool hand was tugging him back up. Through a roar like the ocean he heard Greenwillow shout his name. Lumbering to his feet, he draped an arm around her shoulder. He croaked, "Harvest-"

"I've got it!" She hauled him along bodily while her severed chains clanked and his boots dragged. Slowly vision returned, and he could see to walk.

Or run. Greenwillow dashed to the wall the dragon had almost leveled. Sunbright could have reached out and touched the creature's smoking nostrils. Wrathburn rumbled at the lich in a guttural language while the lich shrilled and waggled its arms like a skeleton outraged at being dead. They were arguing, but about what? Possession of the crown? Was that why Wrathburn had, so far, withheld his wrath and burn?

Possibly, for as the two staggered for the far doors, the dragon stopped arguing, snuffled, and filled the room with fire. Smoke and flame exploded around them, and Sunbright threw the unprotected Greenwillow, who wore only a thin silk dress, ahead of him, then landed on her. Over his shoulder he glimpsed the lich, reduced to a true skeleton that slowly collapsed. Angriman, wounded in the head by Greenwillow, was reaching for his master and his dream when his skin turned black and ignited. Then burning paint, wood, cloth, plaster, and everything else in the room gave off such smoke it blew clouds out every exit.