by Akella,G.
"Uh-huh," I smirked. "We even look like twins. Monozygotic."
"What?" the Mistress of Death frowned, then glared at Reece. "I leave you with the commander for three days and already he's spewing filth you've taught him?"
"It's a scientific term," I chortled, and gave Elnar the signal to set out. "I'm glad you're back with us."
"As am I," Vaessa smiled. "Where are you taking us this time, by the way?"
"I'll tell you along the way," I grunted, raising a prayer of gratitude to Celphata for this unexpected, spectacular present.
Chapter 17
It's hard losing friends. I don't think I could ever develop a casual attitude towards it. War is war, you say? Can't have war without casualties, right? Excuse me while I wipe my ass with all these justifications and excuses! I was staring down at the mutilated bodies of Ivar, Olta and two more scouts, a cold rage seething inside me. Rage against the bastards that had dared harm my people, against that scumbag Korg for wreaking havoc even in death, against all the filth he'd brought with him to Xantarra's walls...
"How did this happen?" I asked Elnar, standing to my right.
I didn't recognize my own voice. Hart! Back home I would be narrating low-budget horror flicks, the thought flashed on the fringes of my consciousness. I fought down the wrath fulminating inside me, much like a master might calm a wolfhound growling at a human.
"I know no more than you do, dar," James said, struggling to hold my stare. "It looks like they were ambushed, but who could have done it?"
"Spectral spiders," leaning over Olta's body, Vaessa brushed her palm against the scout's colorless cheek, then held it up, demonstrating the gray dust that had stuck to it. "Latessia. The spiders were carriers of this hex."
"Try again, this time in the common tongue," I asked her, trying my damnedest to keep my tone civil.
"Apologies, Dark One," the magus bent down to the ground, picked up a small bone fragment and showed me the symbols carved upon it. "Put simply, with a bone like this and some knowledge of necromancy, a sorcerer can conjure up a spectral spider, bind it to him or herself, imbue it with one to three hexes, and send it out to scour the area. The creatures transfer the hexes to the target they attack, and live no more than five minutes thereafter. On their own spectral spiders are no more dangerous than the zombies I used to raise before we came to Gilthor. They're immune to ordinary iron and steel, and any priest can just dispel the hexes. However..."
"What?"
"Our guys caught a bad break. There were at least eight spiders on this meadow, and three of them went right for the priest," Vaessa pointed at the corpse of one of the scouts. "Latessia is a nasty hex that causes partial paralysis, and—"
"Get to the point!"
"Theirs was a painful death, dar," the magus said softly, looking away.
"Who? Who sent the spiders? Korg? Or that prick in the black mantle?"
"No," Vaessa shook her head without looking up. "A lich cannot conjure up a spectral spider. This is the disavowed's doing."
"You mean to tell me the scouts were wrong? That among the undead army we'll also find Vill's lackeys?"
"Not necessarily. Typically a spider won't go further than twenty five miles from its master, but it could also be bound to someone else, like Korg, and made to follow the host to Xantarra."
"For what purpose? Why all the complications?"
"Nothing complicated about it, dar. One necromancer can conjure up and send out up to ten spectral spiders to hunt." Vaessa caught the tip of her tail, twirled it in her palm, and finally looked at me. "When the target dies, the necromancer that had sent the spider draws power from it, a part of which goes to their patron. It won't surprise me if there are dozens, maybe hundreds of similar creatures prowling about in Xantarra's vicinity."
"I see," I looked up at the sky overcast with dark thunderclouds, and gave a heavy sigh. This made it five... I'd lost five people out of those who had joined my clan a month ago. How many more lives would be sacrificed for me to complete this damned quest? No, I couldn't afford to wallow. I couldn't change what happened, couldn't bring back the fallen. But if the scumbags holed up in Suonu thought they could kill my people with impunity, they had another thing coming.
"Hyld," I addressed the short black-haired tifling. "You're the new squad leader. You heard what the magus said, yes?" Waiting for him to nod in confirmation, I continued. "Elnar will assign you five trios of fighters. Together with your surviving squadmates, that makes twenty units under your command. From here on your orders are to never scout with a team of less than ten."
"Aye aye, dar," Hyld nodded and patted the muzzle of his horse, who was neighing worriedly. "I have three units about two miles south of here. Shall I call them back?"
"No, they should stay put, but send reinforcements right away. Did you hear that, Elnar? I want fifteen soldiers assigned to scout duty posthaste!"
When James and the new scout leader rode back to the half-legion, I looked back to the corpses of our friends, and then to the magus.
"Can you do that, too?"
"What exactly? Conjure spiders?"
"No. I mean the hexes."
"Latessia? No," Vaessa shook her head. "After you've 'remade' me back at the mages' tower, I can barely remember the name of the hex and what it does, but..." the demoness stopped short, wavering.
"Quit mumbling like an intern in a bordello!" I growled at her. "Spit it out!"
"When I'd turned the altar over to the Mistress, that unlocked a whole new branch of hexes," Vaessa relented. "It doesn't offer anything particularly unique, but if you're looking for something similar to this, there's Velena's Embrace that I could learn at will."
"What does it do? And who's this Velena?"
"Velena is Celphata's companion and her punishing hand. They say no one sees her more than twice in their lifetime. The hex itself paralyzes and slowly kills the target over a period of three days. The victim suffers tremendously and dies in agony, but the Twice Cursed don't get anything from such a death. The hex remains on the target until it dies, and only a servant of the goddess of death can remove it. I wouldn't be able to cast it on the likes of Korg or Nerghall, but only on those weaker than me... Only, as I remember, you were against me learning and using similar abilities."
"Go ahead and learn it. There's a reason Celphata unlocked this branch for you." With a nod to the magus, I turned around to face the tiflings lined up behind me.
"Two more from your original group are gone," I said to the dour-faced soldiers. "Reece, get your mages and burn the bodies—the scouts and their horses. We'll set out to the main tract in half an hour." I looked them over, then gazed toward the distant Suonu. "Those bastards will pay dearly for their deaths, this I promise you. As will their wretched god."
My half-legion made it to the besieged Xantarra by the afternoon of day three after departing Mishtah.
Through much of our journey I'd cursed at the game's developers for making it impossible to build a portal within one hundred miles of a besieged city. This restriction had been implemented long ago to combat attempts at foul play. Otherwise, what would prevent, say, a clan leader whose castle was being attacked from summoning allies to his aid? Or quickly striking a deal with bands of mercenaries? "No, gentlemen," the devs had said then. "Even in a magical world we mustn't completely dismiss classic medieval methods. If you own a castle, make sure to maintain a garrison capable of defending it!" This exclusion zone of one hundred miles went in effect for everyone without exception the moment any army entered the territory of a city or castle with the aim of capturing it. The decision to block portals was made by the AI governing a particular territory, and it never had a problem telling an army that posed a danger to the local population from your typical band of brigands.
Leaving my Wolves a few miles from the city, my scouts and I sneaked up to within a few hundred yards of the city walls, giving me good view of the undead army laying siege to the city.
I counted rou
ghly four thousand skeletal warriors, seven hundred archers and three hundred undead mages. All had been brought to the city by General Korg—the same commander of Erisjat's legion of punishers who had been killed at Xantarra by Ahriman's getare two hundred eighty years ago. Why couldn't the shithead just stay in the Gray Frontier? Korg had come to Xantarra accompanied by fifty different monsters in the 180-200 level range with very similar stats to Daeron and Magroom whom I'd dispatched to the Gray Frontier not too long ago. The mobs' health varied from eight to twelve million HP; with the right attack strategy, my half-legion should be able to eliminate all fifty in five minutes of regular combat. But it wasn't those beasts that worried me. The general—an eighteen-foot-tall level 350 death knight clad in a suit of matte black plate—boasted 700 million HP, while his companion, a lich named Meresmet who looked like a huge field scarecrow in a black mantle, had 380 million HP at level 300. The lich was hardly a dangerous opponent on his own, but in tandem with the general I could see the odd couple posing a real threat to my troops.
The undead were behaving strangely. In the three hours I spent observing the siege, I saw their soldiers approach the city walls several times, then fall back immediately while leaving behind a few dozen skeletal corpses. The general, stationed in the back of the main host along with his retinue, wasn't moving at all, which made it seem like the undead army was waiting for some sort of signal. Why did they come here? My guess was that the undead had stirred into action because the end of the continental event was barely more than two weeks away. It was perfectly conceivable that the continental event's script had the general attacking Xantarra exactly two weeks before it was scheduled to end. Then again, Korg wasn't your average mob but more like an NPC, so I shouldn't underestimate him.
But what was I to do in this situation?
My scouts had found several boats on the bank of the Great Lake. I probably could send a courier to Satrap Gorm with a request to deploy some naval vessels for us. However, it would take at least several days to transport five hundred soldiers with horses into the city, and then only Hart knew how long the siege would last. Two weeks remained till the end of the continental event. I still had Suonu and Craedia to deal with, and I couldn't afford to lose time by taking a passive position. And besides, I never liked the word "passive." In the end, the courier dispatched to Xantarra was carrying entirely different instructions from me.
I had no intention of reinventing the wheel. Rather, my plan was to move around the army besieging the city, then launch an attack on the general and his sidekicks. Destroying a disorganized leaderless throng of mobs would be infinitely easier, especially with the support of the Xantarrian army. If all went according to plan, the entire army of stiffs would be put to eternal rest tomorrow.
Once done with reconnaissance, I'd returned to the raid party to coordinate the itinerary with Elnar, and was about to signal to start moving toward the road when the recon channel came alive with the death rattle of my men.
I wasn't especially knowledgeable in the local belief systems as far as what happened to sentient beings after death. According to one belief, most were reborn in some new family and didn't remember anything from their past life. If you were a warrior who had lived a worthy life, you would definitely merit another incarnation as a warrior. A noble would reincarnate as a noble, and a farmer as a farmer. But that was just one school of thought. Others argued that you could be forever imprisoned in the Gray Frontier, or haunt the realm as an evil spirit, or resurrect at a graveyard like real players. With so many different theories to go around, some locals wouldn't bat an eye if someone they saw torn to bits in battle just yesterday would turn up for dinner the following day, all in one piece. There were tons and tons of different rituals, rules and directives in this world, and none of them interested me in any way. I didn't even really believe in the local gods. I simply knew that they existed.
I was staring quietly at the magical blaze of the funeral pyre, burning with hope that Celphata would return my soldiers to me alive. But before that could happen, I would need to capture Celphata... Hell, I would conquer Rualt as well, if need be—all I needed was time.
"Dar, it's urgent!" the voice in the channel belonged to Raud, the fourth tifling from formerly Ivar-led recon squad. "A strange wagon train is moving towards Xantarra about two miles south of here. Four centuries are guarding the transport: skeletons, mages and five knights."
"What's strange about it?"
"There are thirty wagons covered with gray sackcloth, and some kind of wooden..." the tifling hesitated for a moment. "Catapults, dar! They're catapults!"
"How many?"
"Ten catapults. They're moving slowly—should be about three hours till they reach Xantarra."
"Understood. Keep an eye on them, we'll be there soon," I said to the scout, and switched to the officer channel. "Everyone hear that? Elnar, get everyone ready, we move in five minutes. We must intercept those catapults."
Now I know why the undead army is staying put, I thought, and felt a sense of gratitude to providence that the undead general hadn't gotten smart enough to travel with his siege weapons. Then again, thinking logically, what did he have to fear? All of the princedom's residents were presently hiding behind the besieged city's walls; the transport had a decent escort already; and, most importantly, the general had no idea my half-legion was anywhere near.
"Wolves! Straight ahead! At a trot! March!" James shouted the commands, standing up in his stirrups. Casting one final glance at the scorched grass on the meadow, I pressed my heels into Gloom's sides, and steered him after my half-legion.
In my past life I'd only seen catapults in movies, and film directors were infamous for sacrificing logic for spectacle. That was how we ended up with beautiful women in skimpy leather skirts for armor, elves skipping along floating rock platforms as they collapsed to the ground, and millions of tons of gold stashed away in dragon caves. The point being, I was highly suspicious that my observations of catapults from movies had any basis in reality. Then again, this wasn't reality but a magical game world. Now, sure, the local women could put on armored bras and steel thongs if they wanted to, but they would only do so in a very particular setting and no more frequently than they would back on earth. Floating rock platforms were similarly hard to come by, to say nothing of dragon caves stuffed with gold. As for the wagons making their way toward the city, they too had little in common with what I'd seen in Hollywood's conceptions of medieval fantasy worlds.
Roughly twelve feet tall, they were constructed entirely of old discolored bones, each of which, in turn, seemed to be made up of forty to fifty people. Who needed theoretical mechanics and structural integrity? In movies and games these were utterly pointless sciences. Whereas in the regular world this contraption couldn't have moved five yards without collapsing, these beauties had already traveled hundreds of miles and looked as good as new.
We were positioned about a hundred yards off the road, waiting for the right moment to attack the strange caravan. Though the aggro radius of mobs in the 180-190 level range allowed us to draw much closer, our armored horses needed this distance to pick up sufficient speed.
Serving as draft animals for the caravan were repugnant looking creatures that kind of resembled grizzly bears—that is, if you slaughtered those grizzlies, skinned them, turned their hides inside out and glued them back onto the wretched animals. Raud had been right: there were five death knights in the front, three quadrants of infantry behind them, followed by ten catapults and a long string of peculiar carts covered with dark fabric operated by skeletons dressed in rags and tatters. Carts like these were typically used by farmers to transport hay, though Korg and his crew must have needed them for their own reasons. Finally, there was another century of skeletons in the rear guard.
As a coworker of mine used to say, "Any video game you make, you had better give your players the ability to rob caravans." This is for you, Richard, I thought to myself, then turned to Elnar and motioned
at the level 190 death knight at the head of the caravan.
"That one's mine! We attack when he reaches that pole right there," I pointed at a fat rod sticking out of the ground.
"Wait!" Vaessa cried into the general channel. "Those carts are carrying corpses infected with anthrax!"
"Infected with what?" I looked at the magus in shock.
"An infection from Anthraxia, that's a zone deep in the Gray Frontier. I don't know much else, only that the disease had originated there. The corpses don't remain infected for long, as the infection starts to decay when subjected to sunlight. That's why the carts are covered with fabric. I also sense preservation magic cast over them."
Oh, you wise-ass comedians, I thought to myself, barely restraining myself from laughing. A zone in the Gray Frontier, was it? Well, at least now I knew what Korg's plan was with respect to the city. First the catapults would hurl the diseased corpses over the walls, then he'd take the beleaguered city by storm. I seemed to remember a similar scenario from another classic game. As the saying goes, there is nothing new except what has been forgotten.
"Anyone who breathes in the infected air dies in ten minutes or less," Vaessa continued in the meantime. "Our priests can dispel the disease easily enough, but any diseased sentient will still suffer tremendous pain for a solid week."
"Everyone got that?" I roared into the channel. "Steer clear of the carts! Reece, burn them to the ground from a distance, along with the drivers."
"Wolves! Lances ready! Prepare to gallop... Attack!" James bellowed, and the half-legion rushed into motion like a single organism. All targets were accounted for, coordinated perfectly among all my troops. A wolf's howl—our battle song—soared over the valley, picking up in volume and intensity as we drew closer to the enemy. It must have been heard as far as Xantarra.
Aggro! One of the death knights turned his head and pointed at me with his sword. Three centuries of skeletons began turning toward the charging half-legion, throwing up their shields and closing their ranks.
