by Drew Hayes
They were surrounded by a swarm of undead, and the only way out was to hand over Gabrielle. Not for the first or last time in his life, Thistle silently cursed the paths his god loved to lead them down.
5.
Abandoning Gabrielle was a laughably stupid proposition. Even if Thistle weren’t a paladin and thus forbidden by the gods to perform such cowardly acts, there was no chance the others would leave one of their own behind. From the instant the demand was made, they all knew the only way out of this would be through combat. Still, they held their positions, eyes on Thistle and the monsters, waiting for either to make a move.
For his part, Thistle was scouring his brain for any kind of solution to their current conundrum. Undead enemies were all around them. It would only be a matter of time before they were overwhelmed in battle—and not a very long matter, at that. The rotting army hadn’t been here earlier, though. The undead had shown up at the same time as the darkness and the voice. There was a slim chance they were illusions, but Thistle wasn’t quite that optimistic. Then again, they almost certainly were some kind of magical summons; it was the only way to explain how they’d appeared all at once.
Summons meant a caster, which gave them a weak point. Theoretically, if they could deal with the mage, the undead might vanish. Or, with no one to control them, they could suddenly run wild and overwhelm them even faster. And that was assuming his party was skilled enough to handle a mage who could cast this level of magic, not to mention clever enough to find their true opponent in the first place. All Thistle could see in every direction was darkness and more undead.
However, that wasn’t all he could feel. The lingering twist in his stomach, not quite the sensation of evil being nearby, but close, had some limited directionality. When Thistle faced different directions, the intensity of his gut pain varied, meaning there was a difference in what he was looking at, even if his eyes couldn’t see it. Turning in the direction where the feeling was the strongest, Thistle adjusted his grip on one of the light-enchanted daggers. If this was going to work, he needed every advantage, including surprise.
With all the force his arm could muster, Thistle hurled the blade deep into the shadows, farther than he’d ever managed without the enhanced strength of a paladin. The moment it left his hand, Thistle turned to Eric, meeting his eyes and then jerking his whole body back toward the dagger. It was a split-second communication, but mercifully, Eric got the message. Not sparing a single moment to hesitation, Eric leapt off his horse and raced after the dagger, plunging into the darkness. There was a good chance he’d figured out what they were up against, as well; the man was learning quickly, cataloguing each lesson like a tax collector absorbed gold. Even if he didn’t have every detail, he at least knew that his job was to go after the true enemy while the others fought for time.
“I presume that is you declining my offer. Pity. I would have liked her in one piece before taking her apart.”
Much like Thistle, the voice gave no direct command to attack. The undead surged forward, seemingly of their own accord, as Thistle’s party rushed off their horses. Thankfully, the undead had little interest in the mounts. No sooner had boots hit the ground than skeletons and corpses lumbered forward, teeth gnashing and hands outstretched.
The first wave quickly discovered why Solium and Alcatham both had new rumors about a terrifying woman in blood-red armor, as Gabrielle met them with a mighty swing of her axe. Bones snapped into splinters as she tore into the nearest skeleton and followed up with a clean sweep through the neck of a stumbling corpse. Filthy, half-congealed blood poured from the wound, sending up a smell that might have threatened everyone’s stomachs in less dire circumstances.
Behind Gabrielle, Grumph was just finishing up a spell. The instant he was done, his muscles bulged with unnatural power. In terms of overall impressiveness, a spell to temporarily increase one’s raw strength didn’t hold a candle to summoning tornados of fire or opening holes between planes, but there was something to be said for pure functionality. With the demon blade atop his staff positioned at the fore, Grumph began his own assault, taking at least a limb with each blow he landed.
To the rear, Timuscor and Mr. Peppers had positioned themselves as guards, making sure their friends couldn’t be flanked or snuck up on. The knight’s shield served as a makeshift wall, slamming into the undead and driving them back so his sword could cut them down. It lacked the brutality of Gabrielle and Grumph’s methods, but it also left him far less exposed, ensuring that he’d be able to keep up the task for a while longer.
Of all the party, only Thistle had his eyes trained upward. Setting himself in the center of the group so he had space to focus, the gnome whipped his daggers through the air, taking out every one of the stitched-together abominations that came swooping for his friends’ heads. Fighting the ground troops was bad enough; if they had to split their attention, they’d be overrun in seconds. Even with his support and their aggressive opening, it was only a matter of time. For every one enemy they dropped, three more moved into its place. This was not a fight they were going to win.
Impractical and unfair as it was, all of their hope for survival had been laid squarely across Eric’s shoulders.
* * *
They were gathered around a giant cauldron behind Jolia’s shop. There were other ways to watch—she could have conjured an illusion around them so vivid it would feel as if they were actually in the battle—but such measures took time, whereas she could have the cauldron going in under a minute. Therefore, that was the method she often deferred to. It wasn’t as though detail mattered tremendously in this situation, and all of those present had seen enough battles to make sense of the chaos.
“The gnome is the one putting light on the daggers. And, unless I’m wrong, he just sensed their larger threat despite the darkness.” Kieran inched closer to the water shimmering with images. “Never seen a priest wear armor like that before. Times are always changing, I suppose.”
“There’s a boar in armor fighting at a knight’s side, and you can’t look away from some priest’s fashion choices?” Brock sounded disappointed as he took a mighty bite of his roasted lamb. He’d brought more than enough for everyone, catering their impromptu viewing party as usual. “Now that’s an odd one.”
“I just watched a half-orc perform a spell, then use his staff to handily chop through body after body. Honestly, I’m still trying to figure out if that’s blasphemy to the arcane arts, or a genius blending of two different combat styles,” Jolia added.
All eyes turned to Grumph, who, at that moment, was ramming his demon-bladed staff directly through the skull of a skeleton that had been trying to claw Thistle. The head collapsed from the force of the blow, sending the rest of its bones tumbling loosely to the ground.
After several seconds, Kieran let out an annoyed grunt. “All right. I suppose I will admit that, in some limited circumstances, a staff might be scarier than a wand.”
* * *
Leaving his horse and saddle behind meant Eric possessed no direct source of light as he sprinted after Thistle’s dagger. In a way, that was a blessing. A single glowing target was easier to track, and the limited visibility meant Eric couldn’t see many of the things he was sprinting past. Given how terrible the few bits he saw were, reduced vision didn’t seem like such a bad bargain.
Thistle’s aim was true, which was little surprise. Even for a throw in the dark, he’d managed impressively. Eric followed the dagger just to the left of a small gap between two trees, the left of which was now host to Thistle’s weapon. The undead were thinner around this area, leaving Eric enough time to pry the dagger out. Just as he yanked it free, his eyes passed across the darkness between the trees, and a jolt ran through his spine. The first time he’d experienced this, Eric had no idea what he was feeling. However, training with Elora had expanded his awareness, and now he knew precisely what that sensation was.
Attention. Rogues could sense when someone nearby was watching
them closely. Last time, it had been another rogue on their tail. This occasion felt different, although it was possible the circumstances were tinging his perception. Of course, a sudden sense of awareness around an undead army was scarier than the same feeling on an open road. Yet there was something more to it, like each version had a mental flavor or scent, something intangible and undeniable. Whatever, or whoever, was watching him made the hairs on Eric’s neck stand on end.
A normal, reasonable person would have taken that information into account and then run as far and as fast as their legs would take them. Eric, unfortunately, could no longer consider himself a reasonable person. That title had been lost the day he and his friends were forced to become adventurers. While they weren’t always perfect at their parts, their journey had taught them many things about the roles they’d adopted. And the first, largest lesson of all was that, when adventurers found something dangerous, they ran in with weapons drawn and smiles on their faces. Especially when their friends were in danger.
Flipping the dagger around so it could be quickly thrown if needed, Eric plunged into the gap between the trees. He was squeezed briefly between the rough bark, and then popped out into an open space on the other side. Immediately, the change in sound stood out. Gone were the noises of battle and combat. Instead, there was near-silence. A scuttle here, a rustle there, otherwise, this small clearing was empty of sound. Empty of anything, actually, so far as Eric could see. Inching his way along, Eric moved in deeper, dagger held in front to illuminate the imposing darkness.
“Let me get that for you.”
A snap came on the heels of the voice, and seconds later, a gentle green glow ebbed through the clearing. Insect-sized lights drifted through the air, each acting like a miniature torch. As the world snapped into view, Eric became quickly aware of two key elements: one—the size of this clearing was roughly circular, only about fifty feet across at the widest point, and two (perhaps more importantly), he was not alone.
This wasn’t a slight against his senses, at least. One look at the man standing across the clearing made it obvious that Eric wouldn’t have heard him breathing or shuffling about. Those were habits of the living, and this fellow was blatantly undead. Pale skin, sunken face, and hands that looked like bone wrapped thinly in skin. He was clad in dark leather armor, with a pair of blades hanging at his hips. The most striking feature was his eyes—blazing green orbs that matched the color of the gnat-like lights in the air.
“Your voice is different than the one we heard before.” Eric shifted his footing, deciding if he was going to strike or defend first. Given the situation, planning for any other outcome was optimism to the point of foolishness. “I take it that means you’re not the one who caused all this?”
“I could be. Perhaps I use a different voice to disguise my true identity.” In spite of the fact that he was dead, there was more life to the undead man’s voice than the first one they’d heard. A smile even seemed to tug at the edge of one thin lip.
“It’s possible, just unlikely. I’ve admittedly met only a few mages in my time, but I’ve yet to see someone with this kind of power who didn’t want to get credit for it. If you were the caster, I have a hunch you’d use your own voice.”
Those glowing eyes tracked his movement, attention never wavering for so much as a blink. “I suppose it’s hard to deny that there’s truth in that. Magic and ego often go hand in hand. Very well. You have found me out. I am not the orchestrator of this attack, merely another pawn within it. My master is the one who has engineered your demise. She was kind enough to offer you an exit, and in turn, you attacked her soldiers.”
“Leaving you behind to clean up in case we were too strong for the skeletons,” Eric surmised.
To his surprise, this drew an actual chuckle from the stranger, as well as a shake of his head. “My, my. And here you did so well at first. You’ve deeply misread this situation, unfortunately. I am not the one here to ‘clean up,’ as you stated. My role is that of bait. Due to the specifics of my particular undead condition and some unique aspects of my past, I make an extremely potent target for priests and paladins, most of whom can sense my magical aura. The power of the divine often serves as an excellent counter against the undead, you see. Hence why we lure those with such abilities away from the rest of their party.”
Another snap, and this time, Eric heard the shifting of branches. He spun, just in time to see the gap he’d entered through close up as the trees behind him grew closer together.
“The armor is a touch odd, but between the glowing dagger in your hand and the blessing I can smell coming off that short sword, I’m guessing you’re a paladin.” The undead man drew both his blades, swinging them once before taking an offensive stance. “For your sake, I hope that’s accurate. A priest isn’t going to last very long against me.”
6.
They were losing. They’d been losing since the fight began, really. From the instant they’d looked at the forces they faced, it was obvious the party was outmatched. All the same, it stung as they were pushed back, more and more wounds accruing slowly. Everyone, save for Gabrielle, was starting to get tired. Unlike most engagements, there was no dance to this, no alternation of fighting and analysis, no time to catch one’s breath. It was a ceaseless torrent of one enemy after another, and no amount of dropped skeletons or corpses seemed to lessen their numbers.
Grumph was visibly panting, Thistle’s face dripped with sweat, and they could all see Timuscor’s movements growing slower and heavier. Gabrielle, like the rest of the undead, still seemed to be going strong, but even she could only cover so much for them.
A trio of skeletons surged forward. One managed to slam a sharp claw into Grumph’s bicep before being knocked away. The damage was still done, sadly. His heavy staff wavered; Grumph was no longer able to wield it with one of his arms compromised. The others scrambled to get near him, but already, they knew this was the end of the fight. Together, they’d barely been holding the horde at bay. With a break in their circle, a weak link in their chain, collapse was inevitable, especially given their weary states.
Then, without warning, the army stopped. It was still there, every undead face staring at them with arms raised, yet all were utterly unmoving. If they hadn’t just been on the verge of defeat from this very army, it would have been easy to mistake them for macabre statues. A subtle crunch of leaves filled the air as a new figure stepped into view.
She was pale, though not quite to the degree of the undead. Her dress and robes were simple—black with silver trim—yet the quality of their material made it plain at a glance that each garment was wildly expensive. In her right hand was a staff unlike anything the others had previously seen. Slender, tall, and pitch black, it seemed like she had shaped the very essence of night into a tool. There was an energy to the weapon as well, a gentle ripple in the nearby air that made one’s head ache if they stared at it for too long. Every step was careful and small as she wound her way through the frozen undead. At last, she came to a stop about ten feet away from them, the path between her and the party largely clear of both obstacles and enemies. Perhaps it was an intentional choice, to show them she wasn’t afraid. Or maybe she just wanted a clear view of whatever came next.
“A fine effort. Pointless, certainly, yet fine regardless. You didn’t want to abandon a friend without trying to save her. I can respect that. What sort of adventurer gives up an ally so easily? But now, having experienced a small fraction of my forces, perhaps you are more willing to see reason. These creatures are like mayflies to me. I can bring forth so many that I could physically drown you in them, or I could call on something mildly stronger and see you all torn to pieces in under a minute. This was my warning, trespassers. Heed it, if you have any desire to live through the hour. Yield your undead to me and—”
“Never.” Thistle cut her off, staggering forward despite the exhaustion in his legs and the weight of his armor. As he moved, his eyes met Grumph’s briefly; a flas
h of a look, and nothing more.
To their surprise, Gabrielle also shifted slightly forward. “Look, I obviously am not in love with this idea, but maybe we should consider it. If we can’t win, isn’t it better if we just lose me?”
“No,” Grumph replied.
“Absolutely not,” Timuscor agreed. “And even if we did concur, we couldn’t very well leave Eric, too.”
The woman looked up at the name, tilting her head a hair to the side. “Ah, is that the one you sent deeper into the woods? I wouldn’t worry about him. By now, Julian has certainly carved the fellow into pieces.”
Part of her had expected that fact to douse their spirits: being down a party member often changed the odds in substantial ways for adventurers. What met her gaze, though, was not surrender. Rather, they glared at her with anger and healthy skepticism. Evidently, they had more faith in this “Eric” than to believe he’d go down easily. Since that avenue hadn’t panned out, she quickly shifted gears.
“Am I to take this as you choosing death over leaving just one of your people behind?” While not an overly demonstrative person, she did have to suppress a small smile at seeing them hold together so well. Rarely did an entire party pass the test, demonstrating such loyalty and strength of character; she was glad to be present for this occasion.
“In that case, allow me to show you—”
Once more, Thistle cut her off, although this time it was with nothing so benign as a mere refusal. “Grumph, now!”
