“How far are they?” I asked invoking the calmness of the sea on a moonless night, suppressing the surge of urgency from oozing through my tone.
“The winds favoured us and blew in our direction carrying their scent,” said Zurin straining his neck in the direction of Ar’Krak,” but distance is hard to infer. Maybe half days walk.”
“Only undead?” asked Ar’Krak, the demeanour of his massive form, composed despite his brutal appearance.
“The stench of the dead overwhelms that of the living.” Zurin shrugged.
“Pardon me Zurin, but since that time in Arlond, I had the distinct feeling that your sniffing abilities allowed you to estimate an approximate number of the enemies?” My words were drowned by the clamour of armours as the shieldmaidens swiftly liberated from the soothing embrace of sleep and scuttled around me.
“I got a whiff of Death Knights and hence did not dare to approach closer for a better sniff.” Zurin pursed his lips tightly, not yielding himself to the ignominy of a cowardly retreat.
“Prudent move. You made the right choice by returning,” responded Ar’Krak approvingly his deep sunken intelligent eyes, piercing the darkness, bore at a distance.
“Why?” asked a curious Cosette.
“Because Death Knights are always accompanied by wraiths and they sense life or rather the heat from the living,” I explained. “Being incorporeal, their astral attacks are difficult to defend against unless properly prepared.”
“Given the condition, the attack is the best form of defence.” The aura of brightness behind Talus’s eyes socket blinked an innocent blue despite the violent nature of his proposal.
Wordlessly, I watched him fill my share of curiosity. Talus might have come to possess knowledge, the ability to analyse and the intelligence to make decisions but the question of his sense of morality was undefined. On what scale does he balance good and bad? Or perhaps, pushing the notion to an even primitive level, does he distinguish between twin notions of comfort and threat?
“Imagine being undead and dying twice,” Inga uttered with curiosity and glee in equal measure. “Some sod must have led a sorry life.”
Ignoring Inga’s not-so-bright comments, I gave the order -- to proceed toward the thin untouchable line separating doom and glory.
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At first, the shrieking tore through our eardrums, rattling our very bones. The horror of the deviousness carried by the wind, blood-chilling, would have made seasoned veteran soldiers of a thousand battles abandon their posts. Yet, neither the druids nor the shieldmaiden wavered.
Nearby, Theko relieved his wide shoulders from the burden of the heavy jar. Carefully letting the druid take the burden from him, he then, slowly twisted his shoulders; the joints of his bones creaked like a sturdy oak. His eyes twinkled in the dark like finely polished obsidian even though an unfathomable veneer veiled his face.
Zurin, never the coward and neither a proud warrior, having realised the extent of the role his abilities permitted him to play, slowly stumbled back. With eyes gently shut and nostrils flared to draw in every scent; the stench of foul rotten decay, the petrichor of dried blood and the sweat of the living, all amalgamated to be decipherable only to his keen olfactory nerves.
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Unheeding to the slow permeating chill invading through and the supernatural layer of hoarfrost leaching over the blackened grounds, the three druids untied the knots holding the mouth of the jar. The fine layer of fabric fell. The cracking sound of crepitation gradually rose in response. And the Conjunct Born, those who are one and yet many, freed from their isolation swarmed.
In the distance, formless figures covered in tattered robes, cloaked in transient sable mist, floated. Attracted by the natural heat from our body, the tangible manifestation of the incorporeal wraiths, converged with a singular purpose towards us.
Clenching my hands tightly around the handle of Adjuration, letting the familiar calm envelop me, almost akin to the sensual touch of Lyria, I gave the order. “Ar’Krak and Zurin lead the Conjuct Born towards the food reserves.”
“Why would undead carry food?” The insatiable curiosity of Cosette triumphed the impending sense of formless terror floating towards us.
“Undead are the worst vanguards. Urganza would have been overrun by now, were the undead capable of securing grounds. The Cambion Warlord would need more than just Undead for advance guards.”
Shoulder to shoulder, with their tower shield firmly clasped and unwavering resolution guarding their feet, the shieldmaiden took the famed position worthy of their name. All, except Cosette with her loaded repeating Crossbow and Inga with her bare knuckles and a feral wicked grin -- almost.
“Infect the living with the plague and get out,” Ar’Krak repeated his orders one last time as a final confirmation.
“Talus and I will hold their attention and Theko will serve as the runner. Inform him when your mission is completed and should we both fail,” I took a moment's pause, a still silence despite the earth-shattering shrieks of the Wraiths settled in our midst. “Ride like the wind for High-Crag Hold has fallen. Baernis and Arlene should be at Fort Halcyon. That should be the next rallying point.”
“We give those bastards a stand-off there?” asked Inga.
“Consolidate your forces in Fort Halcyon and ride to Valteburg. Everything else beyond Fort Halcyon would be razed. Even Ellisinore and Sarenthill would not be spared. Raelion would organise resistance to delay but eventually, his Viridian Dawn Rangers cannot retake. Use the time to save as many lives as possible.”
An expression as gloomy as the darkness surrounding us settled on all their faces.
“The only salvation lies with the sea elf armada and should they choose to join, Valteburg is the only port large enough for the Armada to land. So move beyond Valteburg should we fail.”
Stifling the dread knotting inside, the shieldmaidens allowed a terminally vulnerable moment to pass before summoning their undaunted valour.
“Talus, let us move.”
Hearing my words, the ephemeral manacles of control holding fell, and Talus, with the lethal precision of a starving lion and guided by the unfaltering resolution from his directives, stalked towards the wraiths.
Switching into battle mode, in a fleetingly immeasurable moment, Talus charged at the foremost wraith and bore down on it in a relentless assault of pure and methodical butchery.
Their unearthly aura, famed for draining life from the living, failed before his alloyed frame. Their incorporeal movement, to pass through flesh and bones leaving only husks behind, fared no better than a defanged ophidian against his cogs and springs. The dark vermillion glow of their eyes met the radiant deep saffron, like the rising sun at dawn, behind his helmet; announcing the deadlocked impasse of their fight.
Quickening, I consumed the distance with feline celerity. Talus, immune as he might be to their ghostly attacks, is not constructed of the singular metal capable of turning the tide; silver. In the pitch darkness of the night, the dearth of sunlight made the only other means to combat wraiths improbable.
"Mother," uttered Talus in a voice as calm as his stance, "I would urge you to stay back."
Adjuration roared, releasing cerulean blue lighting to snake along its seven limbs, it's radiant blue only paled by the glow in Talus's extended metal hands. The magnificence of a thousand suns gathered to form the glow in his hands. Searingly bright and opulently admiring.
And so the slaughter commenced.