“Exsanguinations!” Bloodbyrn lifted Feerborg’s body above the range of the first zombie’s suddenly vigorous attacks, and skipped backward herself away from the other two.
“What the hell did you do to them!” Feerborg’s voice came from somewhere in the vicinity of the ceiling.
“What did you do to them, you mean,” Bloodbyrn panted. Her athame slashed out and the two attacking zombies cringed back. “You fed death energy into beings animated by death energy. What did you suppose would happen?”
Feerborg cursed again.
“Well, now we are in rather more serious danger,” Bloodbyrn dodged another claw’s swipe, “Since my athame is meant only for inflicting flesh wounds and can do these creatures no harm.”
“Can’t you use your blood on them?”
“I cannot! Not with the support of your not inconsiderable weight taking up all of my concentration,” Bloodbyrn was indeed trembling with the effort of holding Feerborg aloft and moving her own body at the same time.
“Maybe I can…” black mist flared again and the winged monster below Feerborg began to twitch and jerk like a victim of the falling sickness. Suddenly clumsy again, it took two hesitant steps backward, then slipped and fell on the slick stones. “Strike it!” cursed Feerborg, “Feerix left something in there to fight me. I can’t take control of them. Ow. Gibber. My head.”
That zombie, released from Feerborg’s contrary impulses, was already pulling itself back to its feet, rising to join its fellow, clawing at the base of the pillar of blood Bloodbyrn was maintaining.
A cold, slick hand closed over Bloodbyrn’s wrist. Her athame flashed blackly at it sliced through the tendons in its wrist and she managed to wrench herself from the zombie’s grip.
“Bloodbyrn, I promise I won’t run away,” came Feerborg’s voice from overhead, “now use this blood to do something.”
“Excellently specific command, my lord,” hissed Bloodbyrn, but in point of fact, she did know how to dispatch these zombies.