"You do not belong here!"
His voice was deep and hard, like a shouting metal horse. His hand on his sword tightened, and it looked as if he might draw the weapon. "You are a strange creature."
Riven was surprised. The four soldiers parted for him, and he stepped forward. That wasn't what he expected to hear. "What makes you say that?" he asked curiously.
"You make the dead stand up and do things against their will. My comrades will never lift their weapons against their fellows, but I smell the blood of the rebels from you. What are you?"
Riven was again surprised. As far as he knew, there was nothing like magic in this world. If there was, then it was only in the form of rumors and stories—nothing concrete like the practitioner world he came from.
"I can see their slack muscles and eyes that have lost their passion. Only the dead on the battlefield have something like that. I have not seen your type before, but you will die when cut."
