The two femme fatales, Alexis and Alistaira, were not having a good time. Both of them had split up once they reached the border between Anglond and Darksol and had made separate pushes into the territory controlled by the living. At first things went smoothly, with both of them making significant headway into the Anglish lands. Unfortunately, their two differing army compositions and utter lack of cooperation meant that, for the Anglish, it was merely a matter of having the right forces to deal with the right foes. Rather than facing the monstrous cavalry of Alexis’ forces in a typical engagement, the Anglish used spear-squares to halt the advance of the Dire Wolves and to make the Fel Bats into shish kebabs. In the center of each spear-square was a small detachment of archers, cutting the typical Archer Formation in half to have them be protected on all sides from the charging monsters.
Alistaira was faring no better, with her infantry focused army being torn to ribbons by cavalry charges. As the two maidens of mayhem floundered separately, they slowly began to realize how they were being defeated by their own overspecialization. Almost like magic the two of them began to simultaneously prepare to try and unite. They still were not fond of each other, but they were even more against the idea of having to return home in shameful defeat. Alexis bit the bullet and sent a unit of Fel Bats to Alistaira with a missive that asked for aid, while at the same time Alistaira had to swallow her pride and reanimate a skeletal horse to deliver a message to Alexis offering the same. Remarkably, the two messengers arrived at both of their destinations merely a few minutes apart, and both armies (or what was left of them) began to move towards the town of Wessex to link up.
The humans quickly realized what was going on and launched attack after attack, forcing the two malefic maidens of murder to leave one of their armies behind in order to stall for time. By the time the two met up they both had lost two whole twenty-stack armies to the forces of Anglond. Alexis and Alistaira met within the burnt-out husk of the village chief’s home and tried to act diplomatic towards each other. While the divide between them was deep and wide, this was mostly due to poor communication over some very crucial details.
…
Within the wreck of the town elder’s home the two women had talked for several hours, ultimately leading to the current point. Alexis was finally going to make her ultimatum. Regardless of how this turned out, she would NEVER hand her beloved over to this hussy. She would make her position clear, and if that meant that they would have to fight separately then she would have to deal with the pain of suffering terrible losses. Having to give up her place at Kain’s side was something she could not tolerate, and therefore this newcomer had to be put in her place.
“I will never allow you or anyone else to take my rightful place at my beloved’s side. You will swear here and now upon your life and soul that you will make no attempts to steal my spot as the Empress and bride to Kain. Are we clear?”
Alistaira paused at Alexis’ ultimatum and then something inside of her ‘clicked’.
“Wait. THAT is why you don’t like me? You think I would try and steal your place? I would never dream of doing something so potentially harmful to myself! You and I both know that nothing in the world or outside of it could move you from your spot, and even if I DID try to take your place you would just waste me in a moment and prevent me from reaching Lichdom. Besides, I don’t want that seat or the power and position that comes with it. My focus is on gaining as much knowledge as possible and then passing it down to others. If I took your spot, I would have to spend time doing the duties of rulership, not exploring the depths of magic like I do now.”
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“So, you swear….”
“Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!”
Alexis was smug; she had gotten what she wanted. The foolish little necromancer hadn’t even noticed the Curse that had been used! If this little witch dared to go back on her word, well, even the dead can die permanently…
“Good. Now that that is settled, let us work together. I will lead, you will follow.”
Alistaira sighed and shrugged, “Whatever you say, blubber-chest…”
Alexis smirked and leaned back in the charred chair she sat in. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it, ‘washboard’?”
The two of them stared at each other for a while before both of them began to smile.
Alistaira and Alexis got up and shook hands. Several hours of talking had led to this point and now that the final gap between them was bridged they now only needed to formulate a plan to deal with the foes who were now surely closing in.
“Let us deliver a glorious victory to our Emperor and empire.”
“I wouldn’t want to do anything less for the one who saved me from a pointless death.”
…
Piotr’s ship finally made it to the docks in London. The ship was devoid of crew save for himself, as after they had all frozen to death, he had chucked them overboard and used Ice Magic constructs to do the rowing and to manipulate the sail and rudder. The ship, which was now covered in frost and pieces of ice, ran aground on the beaches next to the fisherman’s wharf and nearly shattered to pieces as the wooden boat was rendered incredibly brittle due to the intense cold generated by the ‘Living Ice Age’.
Piotr stepped onto the beach and was met by King John Lacklond I of Anglond himself. The Russian never did respect royalty, mostly due to the Tsar of his homeland having been responsible for sending his father and brothers to die in the Great War. He had joined up with the Bolsheviks to get revenge on the damnable bourgeoisie who took most of his family from him and left his mother a destitute widow. He had personally killed several of the nobles in Russia himself, and even though he was in another world he still had no love for the parasites who gorged themselves unjustly on the hard labor of the proletariat.
His meeting with the King was brief, as all he needed to know was where his foe was. As soon as he had learned that his enemy was in the town of Wessex, he sped off with the speed only a Hero could posess towards the place where the living were about to face off against the undead. With his massive two-handed great sword attached to his back, he bolted down the roads to the town of Wessex with a kind of speed that was uncharacteristic of the man who normally would have lazily walked from place to place, spreading a chill deeper than even that of the worst Siberian winter along with him.
No, this was his true speed, normally reserved for extreme emergencies. This was the speed of a man who desired to fight a final battle and to finally die. He was in a hurry, as every moment that passed was a moment he was not with his family. The empty promise that he was given when he first arrived in this world still made him red with rage, both at those who promised to send him home and himself for believing the lies of the bourgeoisie who had given him such a baseless hope.
He would die this week, either due to his foes or due to his own hand. He WOULD go home, one way or another. Nothing would stop him from taking this final path, and no one could deny him his trip back home.