Once Lieze had ensured that Alistair was under lock and key beneath the castle, she returned upstairs to see Drayya enjoying a stint of sovereignty upon the throne. A slab of rubble had carved into the chair’s meticulous craftsmanship.

“It’s strange.” She shifted her weight to reach some semblance of comfort, “The castle is ours, but it doesn’t feel like we’ve won.”

“Territory was never our concern to begin with.” Lieze felt a chill descending from the roof, “Once Sokalar is dealt with, we’ll be leaving this husk of a city behind. I won’t be satisfied until this world is devoid of life in all of its forms.”

Drayya hopped from the throne and trotted over. Lieze recognised the look on her face as a fortified expression of worry. The girl looked her up and down as if she was inspecting the corpse of some otherworldly creature. Her arm reached out to take Lieze by the chin, but the attempt was swatted away.

“Ow!” Drayya cupped one hand in another. A trickle of blood escaped from the gap, “Those thorns are lethal!”

“The fool who lays their hand on a porcupine shouldn't act surprised when they find themselves stung.” Lieze replied, “What’s gotten into you?”

“I could just as easily ask the same about you.” Drayya lifted the wound to her mouth and wrapped her lips around it like a child, “Have you seen yourself recently?”

She hadn’t. And she had no desire to.

“If it wasn’t for this power, I’d already be dead.” Lieze answered, “My appearance doesn’t interest me in the least. There’s no reason to form an attachment to my worldly flesh when my destiny is to become an immortal spirit.”

Drayya reached out with her hand again. Lieze was tempted to push her away once more, but it was clear that allowing the girl to do as she pleased for a spell would tide her over for a short while. The slender fingers pinching her chin snaked around the barbs poking from her blackened flesh.

“It’s a shame, is all I’m saying.” Drayya said, “Your skin was so fair before. Now it’s like running my fingers across bark. And your eyes… I’m surprised you can still see.”

“You place too much stock in appearances.” Lieze frowned as her head was manipulated like a doll, “It’s not becoming of a necromancer to spy beauty in these imperfect vessels.”

“Who said beauty? I didn’t say that.” She loosened her grasp, “Get your mind out of the gutter.”

Lieze shuddered as Drayya’s fingers ran through her hair. The girl seemed pleased to discover that it was just as soft as before.

“At least this part of you hasn’t changed.” She said, “Do you remember when we were children? I used to comb your hair every night.”

"I don’t.” Lieze lied.

“That’s the reason why it’s so soft.”

“It isn’t.” She took a step back to place some distance between them, “You yanked my knots like you were trying to pull them out by the roots. It’s a miracle I never went bald.”

“You do remember, then.” Drayya smirked, “You reprobate.”

“There are more important things we need to focus on.” She replied, “It won’t be long now before the Golem is dealt with, then we’ll have Sokalar’s entire army to contend with. It’s imperative that we devise a strategy to defeat him before he strikes.”

Drayya sighed. She had always been that way - talented, but averse to effort no matter which form it took. But she was no longer the dominant authority in their relationship.

“We’re outnumbered, lacking in supplies, and in dire need of a few hours to lick our wounds.” She said, “-So, business as usual, really.”

“Go and fetch Marché.” Lieze nodded her head in antechamber’s direction, “We’ll discuss our options once the three of us are gathered.”

The cultists tasked with keeping Alistair in chains were given free reign over his treatment, no matter how grisly or immoral, under the stipulation that he remain alive for as long as Lieze wished. Drayya savoured the sight of his gangly, emaciated form hobbled into a confined cell while she informed Marché of the situation.

“Well…” Once Drayya returned with him in tow, his examination of the cult’s circumstances were curt and unambiguous, “I wouldn’t say we stand any chance of winning this battle, if you want my honest opinion.”

Lieze was of a differing opinion. She knew that [Mass Control Undead] would be the key to victory. The only wild card worth considering was the problem of her father - ostensibly the most powerful necromancer to ever live. He had proven himself capable of killing Lieze quite unceremoniously if the occasion called for it.

“The Order isn’t aware that I’m still alive.” She said, “We can use that to our advantage. Sokalar will underestimate our capabilities for as long as he believes Drayya is heading the cult.”

“What a vicious thing to say.” The girl in question smiled to hide an expression of pure annoyance, “-But I can’t deny that our offensive capabilities would be somewhat hampered without you.”

“It’s all a matter of timing.” Lieze continued, “I can exert my control over Sokalar’s army for a spell - half an hour, to be precise. If we cannot claim victory in that span of time, then our dream of a murderous crusade across the world will follow us into the sacred afterlife.”

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

It sounded realistic, but even with the might of Sokalar’s army turned to her side, Lieze knew that taking down the Lich would be more complicated than a game of numbers. Her bias towards strategy had been steadily disintegrating over the course of her stay in Tonberg. On too many occasions had she relied on the strength of her thralls to eliminate any need for critical thought.

But could she outwit her father?

----------------------------------------

Lüngen observed the Golem’s fall from the first gatehouse. One half of an entire district was flattened by its descent, invoking tremors so violent that the pipe was knocked straight out from between Lüngen’s teeth.

With more effort than he would have liked, the portly archivist bent down to retrieve the implement, grumbling as specks of tobacco littered the cobbled road. When he stood, a young Deathguard acolyte was standing in front of him, awaiting orders with disciplined silence.

“How many do we have with us?” Lüngen asked.

“120 thralls in total.” The youngster replied, “We’ve been outfitted to support the advance of our Rot Behemoths with Dark Casters, plus a handful of Gravewalkers to act as fodder.”

“Do you know who it is we’re going up against, lad?” Lüngen polished crumbs of dirt from his pipe and worked it between his teeth with a gummy click.

“That would be… Margoh Drayya.” He answered.

“Yes… Margoh Drayya.” Lüngen repeated, “Are you friendly with her?”

The Deathguard wasn’t certain whether or not he was being tested. In truth, Lüngen couldn’t have cared less about the fellow’s answer - he just wanted to see if Drayya’s claims of being rather popular among her peers rang true.

“Uh- friendly?” The acolyte blinked, “No… I wouldn’t say that.”

“What about the others?” He pressed.

“Drayya is… to my knowledge, she doesn’t associate with any of us.” The Deathguard continued, “She and Lieze were in a world of their own back in the Deadlands.”

“I thought that might be the case.” Lüngen swivelled his head to admire the destroyed remnants of Tonberg’s castle, “I trust there won’t be any trouble with her excommunication?”

“No.” He answered immediately, “If Master Sokalar wills it, then it must be done.”

Lüngen pitied the poor girl’s isolation. Her own peers, whom she had spent her entire life living and training alongside, were more than willing to murder her if it meant entering Sokalar’s good graces. Such was the climate of the Order, dominated by fear and ambition. There was some irony to be enjoyed, Lüngen thought, in the idea that its two most promising necromancers ended up carving their own paths instead.

“Keep a keen eye out. Drayya is not known for her subtlety.” He said, “Alistair’s angels have been decimated, so we have no reason to rush.”

“Of course.” The acolyte bowed, “Please allow me to lead the way towards the castle.”

The Deathguards and their thralls winded the ascending pathway leading towards the Sovereign Cities’ last fortress. Beneath them, a haze of smoke rose from the burning, destroyed city. Not even a week ago, many of its citizens had convinced themselves of the nation’s invincibility. Now they were either evacuated, dead, or suffering a terrible fate beneath the heel of necromancy.

Centuries of effort. Lüngen was surprised that he had lived to see the day of the Order’s victory. But Tonberg would not be the end of their crusade, and neither would the Dwarven Mountains nor the black reaches of Akzhem. Sokalar would not cease until every last creature roaming the world was dead. Then, he would turn on his own allies, and eventually, himself.

“There are no thralls here…” One of the Deathguards muttered, “Is this really where Drayya is?”

“Keep your eyes forward.” Another scolded, “You should know by now that those traitors will do anything to catch us off-guard. They skulk in the shadows to hide their pitiful numbers.”

“But… how did they create something like that Flesh Golem?” He asked, “It doesn’t make sense…”

His wondering was graciously short, for his life would end not one second later. Lüngen himself didn’t have nearly enough time to react to the gargantuan silhouette plummeting from the skies. An unlucky Deathguard was flattened by the paws of a hideous creature, becoming little more than a smear of Puréed meat.

It was the very same Manticore Lüngen and Sokalar had spotted escaping from the crumbling castle during the Flesh Golem’s advent. The swarm of thralls surrounding its body made to latch onto its rotting flesh with their diseased gums, only to be swatted away by great heaves of the beast’s arms. Its power was extraordinary - Lüngen had never witnessed something quite like it.

He ducked behind the group’s Dark Casters while the Rot Behemoths attempted fruitlessly to contest the Manticore’s strength. It was only when he stood back to get a good look at it that a mop of pristine, snow-white hair was visible against its bristly ginger fur.

“...Lieze!?” He blinked to dispel the apparent illusion, but there she was, perched on the creature’s back. The girl’s head came craning around to meet his exclamation with equal surprise.

“Lüngen.” She said, “I didn’t think we’d-”

Her words were cut short by a javelin of roiling blood careening through the air. The spike struck her in the shoulder, carrying enough weight behind it to send her flying from the Manticore’s back. Lieze landed with a thud in plain sight of the group’s thralls.

“She’s still alive!?” One of the Deathguards pointed towards a Gravewalker, “Kill her! Master Sokalar will reward us for her corpse!”

Thralls were incapable of resisting their masters’ commands, which made it all the more surprising when the Gravewalker offered nothing but a blank stare in response to his commands.

“...What are you doing!?” The Deathguard swung his head between Lieze and the Gravewalker, “Kill her!”

A burgeoning and unwelcome dread fell like a lead weight into the young acolyte’s stomach when the Gravewalker’s hungering attention was directed towards him instead of his quarry. He faced another - similarly a Gravewalker - and ordered it to defend him, only to receive similar insubordination in turn.

“Why aren’t they listening to me!?” He exclaimed, “I am your master!”

A heavy, fat-fingered hand fell upon his scalp from behind, causing the young man to freeze in abject horror. He recognised the voice that came a few seconds later, but not the graveness of its tone.

“Forgive me.” Lüngen said, “I cannot allow you to harm her.”