Slipping back into the damp, rank sewers felt like coming home. The only light source came from a coin-sized hole that served as a leverage point in the manhole cover above. Peter oriented himself according to his last sense of direction before going underground as he allowed his eyes to adjust. The sewers were complex, and he would undoubtedly get lost, but he could check again when he saw another manhole.
As his eyes finished adjusting, his vision stopped flashing with white patches. The slight purple glow emanating from the strange hieroglyphic runes on the side of the Bedorven was easy to see, in the semi-darkness of the tunnels.
Using the butt of his spear, he felt his way down the dark tunnel. He managed to calm his racing heart as he continued deeper into the sanitation system. He knew a manhole could open any moment, and ghouls could flood the sewers and trap him. At least he’d know how to fight back this time. As minutes ticked by, he grew more convinced that he was out of the worst of it.
As he felt his way away from the fighting and toward freedom, he had a budding hope that he might find Iris, down here in the sewers, in the place they had always used for escape.
He continued, not bringing himself to depend on that hope but not banishing it altogether.
Niels Van Dijk shot a ghoul in the face, blowing off chunks of dry flesh and bone. The ghoul fell back a step but turned to face him again, not caring that half of its face was missing. A horde of ghouls pressed them from all sides and helplessly outnumbered the Nine Fingers. He should have done what the old-man-kid did and escaped through the buildings, but he’d never been any good at hide-and-seek. He certainly would have been cornered.
Van Dijk flipped out the old shell and fed in a new one. Slagter Primes had a lot of kick; they were more like hand cannons than pistols, but were only accurate at a short range.
He flipped the barrel up, locked it into place, and aimed. His back hit the wagon, and he started in surprise. He had been unknowingly backing away from the front.
“Van Dijk!” Captain Tobias Visser barked as he blocked a short sword with his officer's sword. He sheared the attacking arm off with the falchion in his offhand. “Get in here!”
Van Dijk jumped at the order, and he grabbed his spear. With a long, slender blade, it would hopefully keep him far enough away to kill a ghoul or two without putting himself in too much danger.
The remaining Nine Fingers had made a defensive circle around the wagon and fought desperately, losing inch after precious inch. ghouls pressed them relentlessly with dead, uncaring eyes.
Van Dijk tried to step forward and join the ranks of the ever-shrinking defensive circle, but his hands shook. He couldn’t will his feet onwards.
Morris, Benedict, and Skye, the king’s cell mercenaries, jumped onto the wagon and started taking shots with Slagters. Of course, they weren’t willing to fight out front. Typical.
The members of the king’s cell expertly fired and reloaded quickly. The three of them dropped eight ghouls in what felt like seconds—whiffs of black-purple smoke filtered off the fallen ghoul’s shoulders.
Van Dijk grew angry with himself. He condemned mercenaries for their cowardice, but he shrunk back to the wagon, unable to move.
He screamed as he tried to push himself into the front line, but those fighting were tightly packed at the shoulders. That came as a guilty relief to Van Dijk as he stuck his pistol over the shoulder of a fighting soldier who was trying to keep ghouls at bay with a bayonet affixed to the end of his rifle.
Van Dijk shot the ghoul in the chest, and it dropped.
Yes! He had done it — he had killed his first ghoul. There was no purple smoke, which struck him as odd, but he wasn’t complaining. The ghoul Van Dijk had shot picked itself up and killed the soldier in front, opening a spot for Van Dijk. He holstered his pistol and held his spear forward with trembling hands. He meant to step into the empty place; he really did, but something sickening inside him lurched, and he fell back.
Ghouls poured into the opening, and Van Dijk ran back to the wagon.
The three bandits on the wagon shot the ghouls, who slipped in proficiently, one after the other. But they got in too fast.
In the distance, the flashing green light stopped. Van Dijk saw the small figure of Julian Gerrets dodging and fighting frantically for his life, seemingly without his strange enhancements. Two valets and a maid lay dead in the street, and the liches fought with renewed confidence, now outnumbering the domestics.
Van Dijk stabbed an oncoming ghoul in the shoulder, but it didn’t even go in very deep.
The ghoul pushed it aside easily. Three black-shafted crossbow bolts were already sticking in its chest, none of which found their mark.
A Slagter shrieked from the hired guns behind him, and the mummified corpse's chest caved in, dropping at Van Dijk’s feet.
“Live fire!” Chief Director Stegeman cried as he hurled two firebomb canisters with lit flare fuses over the heads of the clashing lines in the hope of clearing a path for the wagon.
Each explosive shook the ground, throwing ghouls away from the blast and engulfing several in flames.
A ghoul tumbled past Van Dijk and fell. Van Dijk quickly pounced, stabbing in the back several times before he noticed the slug wound that had already killed it.
“Make way! We’re going to run them down!” Director Stegeman barked as he grabbed the horses' reins and urged them into a sprint.
The horses plowed through a few ghouls and galloped down the cobblestone road.
Van Dijk gripped the wooden shaft of his spear tightly. He felt the friction burn his hands.
“Captain, an opening!” he cried, relieved to see Captain Visser still fending for himself.
Isabella ran past Van Dijk and grabbed him by the wrist. “Run, Niels!”
Van Dijk took a step after the wagon but stopped. He couldn’t leave without the others. He would hate himself forever.
The ram-headed lich tossed down another clay pot, which shattered on the ground. Purple light snaked away from the broken pieces of clay, seeking out motionless Nine Fingers corpses and forcing its way into their dead bodies.
Van Dijk watched in disturbed horror as his fallen comrades began to twitch, writhe, and stand.
They snarled and threw themselves forward, trying to worm through the tightly packed ghouls in front.
“Fe-fre ghouls!” Isabella categorized.
Feral fresh ghouls, Van Dijk deciphered.
Captain Visser cursed. “Everyone scatter!”
The front line dissolved as the few remaining survivors disengaged and sprinted away. Anyone who was hurt was cut down quickly.
Seeing the others run, Van Dijk allowed himself to bolt after the wagon.
Van Dijk tried to drown the exhausted screams of his slower companions as they were run through by the sentinel ghouls or eaten by their former friends.
Ahead, a pair of ghouls threw spears at the horses drawing the wagon, and the animals went down with a horrible scream. Wood splintered and snapped, throwing thousands of small purple glowing rectangular chips all across the street.
Director Stegeman limped out of the wreckage but was severely hurt. Two ghouls ran to him with short swords drawn.
Stegeman lit a fuse on one last bomb before they cut him down. The bomb dropped to their feet and exploded and set off the other firebombs on the wagon. Thousands of glowing tiles exploded like shrapnel into the buildings and sky.
The flaming wagon blocked the street and caught the buildings on either side on fire.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Van Dijk turned down a different street and ran for his life. He didn’t see the street name, nor was he familiar with Stalpia; he just ran, leaving his directions to chance.
The other trailing survivors followed Van Dijk as if he knew where he was going. Still, he took aimless twists and turns until he ran into a small open square. It looked rather like it had been some sort of outdoor cafe court. Old and decayed dining centers surrounded it.
“Van Dijk! Find a way out?” Isabella screamed as she turned and leveled an impressive crossbow towards their pursuers.
Captain Visser followed closely behind, with Morris and his crew. The hired guns must have wisely abandoned the wagon before its destruction.
A few others filed in before a man shot into the area with rabid eyes and foam in the mouth. Van Dijk knew him; his name was Private Verhaeghe. He had played cards with Verhaeghe once. Most people only played Van Dijk once; after they lost horribly, they caught on that something was fishy.
Now, Private Verhaeghe clawed at Isabella, snapping his teeth in a feral rage. A fatal slash on his neck marked his means of death.
Isabella screamed and raised her weapon, but a pistol shot from Skye dropped the feral corpse.
The youngest hired gun winked at her before flipping a new shell into his Slagter.
Van Dijk frantically peered through the broken shop windows, looking for the fastest way through. A symphony of gun gas behind announced the arrival of the pursuing undead, but Van Dijk couldn’t afford to look.
He found it — a wooden gate that closed an alley between shops. He stepped down one of the stone steps and threw himself into the splintered door. It shattered as it opened, and he found himself face-to-face with a mummified ghoul.
He cried out and leaped back as it snatched the air, trying to grab him. Van Dijk missed his footing on the step and fell backward, roughly scraping his hand and elbow on the stone.
The ghoul stepped forward, occupied the doorway, and drew its weapon. Great. He had let them in from behind, so now everyone's deaths would be on his hands.
The ghoul hesitated as it looked down at him, or maybe it was time slowing as he endured his final moments.
Van Dijk blinked tears as he fumbled for his fallen spear. He wouldn’t go out without a fight.
The tip of a cutlass stabbed through the ghoul’s chest, and it collapsed soundlessly.
Commandant Sebastian Van Graif stood in the doorway. His sword was stained with dark specks of undead blood.
“Commandant!” Van Dijk cried, his tears of sorrow turning to tears of joy.
The Commandant leaped over the fallen private and raised his sword. “Let’s give our boys a breather!” the grizzled old war leader cried.
A battle cry sounded as twenty men poured through the door with gas arms and crossbows, Director Van Den Hoek leading them. The support team had arrived.
Perhaps most reassuring to Van Dijk was Owen, who followed the support team out. He pulled Van Dijk to his feet and thrust his fallen spear into his hands.
“The others?” Owen asked.
Van Dijk motioned to Captain Visser and Isabella, who were gasping for air, drenched in sweat, and splattered with a mix of red and black blood. The exhausted pair fell back as Support showed up to spell them out of the combat.
“Go!” Owen said as he shouldered his rifle. With practiced grace, he felled the now hollow-eyed Director Habets, who was trying to eat his former comrades.
Van Dijk turned to leave but stopped to notice Commandant Van Graif. In a flurry of aggressive grace, he dropped ghoul after ghoul as they flooded the cafe court. He was gaining ground. Two would rush him, and he would cut down and disable three. He avoided strikes and kept his blade in constant motion. Even Morris, Benedict, and Skye stopped a moment to gawk.
Van Graif threw off his coat and continued his attack, roaring at the undead as he severed limbs and pierced hearts. Already, there were almost half a dozen at his feet.
Captain Visser grabbed Van Dijk by the collar with rage-filled eyes. The captain stood tired, sweating, and bloodied. Van Dijk had scraped hands and dust on his coat. They were an illustrative comparison of the front and the back of the battle.
“We will have words if we get out of this,” the captain snarled before pulling the private after him.
The captain’s tone and words stung Van Dijk like a stray bullet. Gone were the anxious feelings of despair. Instead, Van Dijk found his emotions in his throat as his captain dragged him away. He had failed his team. He tried to stand but found himself devoid of courage. He wanted to stand with humanity, but instead, he left it behind as he ran like a coward.
“Captain, I'm sorry!” he cried.
“Shut up, private,” the captain snapped, still dragging the faltering man.
“I’m sorry.” He said mostly to himself, trusting the captain's guidance as his blurry eyes ran
Peter stopped. He should have reached a storm drain by now. He shifted uncomfortably, worried he could be stuck in the city's drainage system. There were a lot of rats there. That was to be expected; it was a sewer. Peter saw them all the time. But here in the dark, he grimaced. There were too many of them.
He stopped under a utility maintenance hole distinguished by the small hole designed to fit a pry bar with faint light shining from the streets above. Peter started up the ladder built into the side and listened momentarily before pushing the maintenance hole cover up and sliding it over. Peter peeked into the streets of southern Stalpia and into the dull faces of a few curious crops.
“Get away!” Peter hissed at them, and they nonchalantly compiled, shuffling away disinterestedly.
Peter grunted in exertion as he slid the heavy plate out of its socket and hoisted himself up, pulling his spear up after him.
After sliding the cover in place, he looked around to get his bearings. He read a few road signs and realized he was in southern Stalpia. If he continued, he would have ended up in Stalpia’s sister suburb, Horvath. He had mistaken one of his turns and drifted south, instead of west, towards Shay.
He stepped out into the more open streets and saw occasional sentinel ghouls, now staring ahead as if in a coma until something caught their interest. He seemed far enough away from the fighting that they didn’t consider him an enemy.
Peter started to head east but out on the open streets. He tried to avoid suspicion, but his bloodied and shredded coat made him stand out, so he ducked from street to street, avoiding overseers wherever he could. Peter constantly scanned the roads searching for Rahashelian agents but, more honestly, in search of Iris. He had to be careful around that area. If he recalled correctly, Vincent and his vampiric brood occupied an old mansion in this part of town. They had already seen his face; it wouldn’t bode well for him to run into them again.
Peter passed the old library and stopped. This was Rahashel’s current record vault. All overseers spent time there for training when they were new.
Khnum’s words came to mind. How did you not know that? You wear the Bedorven, right? This should be instinct.
Peter also recalled Doctor Aarts’ rebuke.
The courts are murdering thousands every day. You are the first Court that we — humanity — has ever had to fight back. If you don’t make ghouls, then what chance do we have? The death of all those fighting will be on your hands.
Peter looked at the library again. It was where overseers trained to command ghouls. Maybe Peter could grab some of their source material on his way out. Perhaps it could give them an edge in understanding the enemy. Possibly reveal a weakness or even have insight into how to use the court armlet fully.
Peter felt so confident about going into the library that it seemed unnatural. He saw a book in his mind and heard a faint clicking voice interlaced with breathy whispers.
Peter shook his head. If something influenced him to go to the library, that should be his last place. He had been ordered to escape and get back. The Bedorven was at stake.
From here on out, you’re with the Nine Fingers. You will obey the proper chain of command and help us as expected. The commandant’s stern voice reminded him.
Part of Peter urged him into retreat, but he understood their mission was teetering on the edge of failure.
I mean it. You must follow every order.
Peter’s Bedorven clicked. He looked down at it in surprise; it had never made any noise. It tugged on his arm. It was gently pulling him towards the library.
He watched it in surprise, but it had grown still.
He looked back at the stained glass of the library. He couldn’t allow the soldiers who died to do so in vain. The Nine Fingers were fighting with almost no data on the enemy. He held a special trust in bearing the armlet, and it was time for him to deliver on that dependence.
Peter turned and made his way into the library.
No one moved to stop him, but a few agents eyed him, his shredded clothes, and the sentinel spear he carried. He wouldn’t be the strangest thing they saw, but certainly uncommon.
Peter ventured into the large reading area of the library and stopped short. Rows of dozens of small skeletal ghouls with white headdresses sat with open books at the desk. Peter gasped. The mummified workers were small enough to be children—they probably were at one point.
Their eyes burned with purple light. They ran a bony finger along the words line after line as they read. Yes! They were reading!
On the other half of the room, the same kind of ghoul with blue headdresses scribbled furiously onto new books as their empty eye sockets also burned with purple light.
What is this?
Small stoves warmed the expansive room as smoke shoots led to the outside of the building. Those were new. A reading ghoul snapped his book shut, shuffled over to the stove, and tossed it into the fire.
Peter’s inner scholar recoiled in disgust at the destruction of the material, but it simultaneously sought to understand their strange behavior.
The ghoul who burned the book returned to its desk at the same time a writing one did. Peter realized the writing one had left to put the finished book back on a shelf. They started up again, reading and writing in synchronized pairs.
They’re translating! He realized. It made sense that an invading overlord would burn the local educational material and seek to know the native understanding of politics, science, engineering warfare, and anything else they might know.
Beyond the translation assembly, a figure stood in an open, elevated office space. It had a male human body and the head of an ibis. The ibis-headed lich bent over his book, his scarlet feathers puffing around the neck of his robe and his long, straw-like beak almost touching the pages.
The elder lich carried a thick tome under his arm, and Peter heard a whisper. It was a masculine voice that spoke with strange clicks and breathy gasps. Peter recognized the volume cradled in the lich's arms as the book he had seen in his false memories.
The hair on Peter’s neck stood on edge as he looked at the band on his arm. It pulsed with purple light, which started to shine brighter than a candle, as it urged him on, pushing him to the book that the lich had under his arm. It didn’t compel him by any means, but the Bedorven was focused on the book. Peter could feel it.
“Hey,” an administrator called out as he approached Peter.
Peter didn’t look at the man; he focused on the book. It, too, began to whisper in a strange language of clicks and groans.
“Overseer training isn’t until tomorrow,” the administrator said, but he got too close to Peter, and a leech lashed out and sucked a few years off of him.
The administrator fell back with a cry. “Forgive me! I didn't realize you were a lich!”
The scarlet ibis-headed elder lich looked at the book, confused, as if he could hear the whispering coming from within, which penetrated Peter’s mind from across the assembly of undead translators.
The ibis-headed man looked from the book to Peter and met his eye.
Peter pulled Van Gutter’s hat down over his eyes and stepped forward.