The pallid, swollen face of a Gravewalker was mutilated beyond recognition as an armoured gauntlet crushed its features into a bloody pulp. The thrall fell into a heap on the ground, where its body was sent flying down the length of the tunnel by a well-placed boot to the abdomen.
“My own city - infested with walking corpses!” Alberich’s voice was rich with fury, “How did this ‘undead curse’ start in the first place!? We profiled every refugee escaping from the south! Do you mean to tell me we’ve been harbouring necromancers this whole time!?”
“I saw two of them the other day.” Mime wiped down the blood and pus from his armour, “They were the same men who defended Baccharum Silas during that trial. I can only imagine they played a part in seeding this curse.”
“You saw two!?” Alberich’s eyes became saucers, “Why didn’t you tell me!?”
“-Because I knew you would have them executed right away.” Mime answered, “Those men developed a rapport with the public for defending an Elf - those who cared about our relationship with Akzhem, anyway. There would have been riots if they were suddenly killed without any evidence to support their true identities.”
“Hm… mm…” Alberich shook his jaw from side to side as he mulled over his brother’s words, “These blessed eyes of ours are more of a curse than anything else. What’s the point of identifying an enemy at a glance if you can’t convince anyone of it?”
“Revealing the power of the Scions carries too much risk.” Mime replied, “-But we don’t have the time to be discussing this at the moment, do we? The Order will be infesting our city within the next hour - we need to stage a counterattack before our chances of victory are vanquished.”
Alberich nodded, “I’ll trust you with placing our remaining troops in advantageous positions!” he folded his arms, “As for myself, I must return to the fortress and stock up on potions! Those necromancers will be convinced that they have the advantage when it comes to close-quarters combat, but we’ll show them a thing or two about how unforgiving these mountains can be!”
Bringing a hand up to grab the head of Mime’s mace, Alberich clenched his eyes and suffused the weapon with a divine enchantment.
Alberich’s MP - 177 / 2,030
“That will last you a few hours.” His tone became grave, “It should go without saying, but don’t bite off more than you can chew. Lead those necromancers on a wild goose chase, separate them, and kill them one-by-one. If you play your cards right, those marsh-dwelling cultists won’t know what hit them.”
Alberich’s armour left only his rugged face uncovered, which served to exaggerate every grimace and wrinkle. Mime was the only one who could perceive the genuine concern lingering behind his prideful shell. As if conscious of appearing weak, the tiny king turned on his heels and marched off in the direction of the Royal Delve.
“Don’t you dare die, Mime!” His expression was imperceptible, his words fierce - but Mime could tell that it was more of a request than a demand. A crack in Alberich’s impenetrable attitude was all Mime needed to understand the gravity of the situation, and what was at stake if he couldn’t lead his countrymen to glory.
----------------------------------------
With no need to maintain their fabricated identities, Marché and Roland walked among the plague-ridden corpses with impunity, gathering up as many as they pleased while eking out a slice of territory within the mountains. Major evacuation routes and strategic chokeholds had been collapsed by the efforts of the Deathguards, who stoked fires to tempt soldiers into misusing the disguised barrels of blast powder.
With a residential chamber occupied, Marché dipped into a local ravished armoury to search for anything he could put to use in the upcoming battles. Necromancers loathed the use of swords and shields, but he had a mind to outfit himself with at least the bare minimum in case of an emergency. Roland took a spear - which were really more like javelins when sized for Dwarves - and a few shrapnel bombs for himself.
Marché peeked out from the rough alcove to check for any intruders in the residential hive. “There’s no need for us to overextend.” He said, “Once Lieze moves her army in, we’ll be able to regroup with her and plan our next move from there.”
Roland stuffed the javelins into his pack. The lengths of metal poking out from the hem clinked together as he slung the strap over his shoulder, “So what’s the plan, then? Just wait until she appears?”
“-And hope a Dwarven battalion doesn’t come marching this way.” Marché replied, “We could handle a small group, but I don’t fancy our chances against anything larger than that. These Gravewalker aren’t exactly top-of-the-line…”
“Wait!” Roland extended an arm to bar Marché from wandering out into the open, “Do you hear that?”
At first, he didn’t. But the chorus of metal toes crashing against the ground trickled into Marché’s ears just a few seconds later. From a distant passageway leading further into the mountain, he could spot the shadows of Dwarven warriors cast against the wall, approaching their position with purposeful steps.
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“Shit…” Marché cursed, “How close are the Deathguards?”
“Who can say?” Roland answered, “Grab some of those shrapnel bombs. We’re not getting out of this without a fight. As soon as they turn the corner, we’ll pelt them with explosives!”
His plan picked up speed as their time grew short. Marché had no time to argue or detract, and so nodded his head along to the idea. He scrounged together a handful of the tiny, iron spheres and joined Roland as he sprinted out into the open.
The moans of countless Gravewalkers must have tipped the Dwarves off. They came to a stop just out of sight, huddling and murmuring amongst themselves, giving Marché just enough time to work his thralls into a more cohesive formation. Seconds later, the Dwarves loosed a singular battle cry and charged into the chamber, axes glinting in the firelight.
As they crossed the thin archway leading out of the corridor, Roland tossed a shrapnel bomb into one of the sconces flanking the entranceway. A brilliant storm of fire and jagged metal sent the first of the warriors flying, giving the Gravewalkers crucial time to plug the entrance and prevent any enemies from flooding the chamber.
Marché stepped forward and used his sword to slit the throat of a thrall lingering at the rear. Its soft, bloated flesh tore like paper beneath the weight of the blade, causing an unholy mixture of blood and pus to pour from the wound. Dropping his shield to the floor, Marché used his free hand to form the ichor into as big of a [Blood Spike] as he could manage.
Marché’s MP - 52 / 402
Flecks of skin and pus spun from the spear’s length as he sent it flying towards the disoriented Dwarves, its tip sinking straight through armour and rending the flesh of whoever it struck. Roland tossed the remainder of his shrapnel bombs into the corridor, shoving through the horde of Gravewalkers to retrieve the torch burning in the remaining sconce. He yanked himself away from the chaos just in time to avoid the wicked axe blade of an overconfident Dwarf, who quickly found himself overwhelmed by the Gravewalkers’ hungry maws.
Roland threw the torch ahead, which landed at the iron-toed foot of a perplexed Dwarf. As it began to roll down the slight incline, however, he noticed the cluster of shrapnel bombs lingering between him and his allies. He was barely allowed the time to scream before the passage was engulfed in a torrent of shrapnel, studding the Dwarves with countless fragments of razor-sharp metal.
Marché was rallying. Despite being outnumbered, he and Roland were fending off an entire platoon of hardened Dwarven soldiers. The group seemed about ready to cut their losses and retreat, until a roaring voice bellowed from the back of the line, “Enough!”
A heavenly sound - like the latter half of a church bell’s chime - ruptured the air. Marché took a step back as the Gravewalkers plugging the passageway recoiled from a golden light. In all of his days, he had never once seen a thrall display anything close to fear, but he, too, could feel the intrinsic ‘superiority’ of that holy warmth in the depth of his soul. As if coated with oil, the Gravewalkers’ skin caught fire, their bodies overcome by sapphire flames.
From the inferno emerged a Dwarf clad head to toe in obsidian plates, his face obscured by an inhuman cage from which his blue eyes shone. The mace in his grip was concentrated with divine magic, forcing the wave of Gravewalkers back independent of Marché’s commands.
“Oh shit…” Roland placed some distance between himself and the Dwarf, “Marché!”
The curly-haired novice didn’t have any time to consider his actions. With a pang of anxiety, he drew the blade of his sword across the palm of his hand, causing fresh blood to seep down from between his fingers. The cut was deeper than he intended, but it was all the more useful for his [Blood Magic].
Marché’s MP - 0 / 402
Concentrating to form a spike, he felt something in his mind fizzle out as the crimson javelin flew towards Mime. He didn’t attempt to dodge the spell, allowing the spike to sink into his abdomen with impunity. Roland, having assembled more or less the same idea, formed his own [Blood Spike] from the gritty refuse pooling upon the chamber floor.
Roland’s MP - 1,419 / 1,819
His projectile also found its mark, punching a hole into Mime’s shoulder as fragments of his heavy armour were bored away by the piercing impact. Marché was less concerned about his wasteful use of mana than he was about the Dwarf’s offensive nonchalance regarding the duo’s attack.
“...Hmph.” He drew an onyx-covered palm over the blood leaking from his abdomen, “I was expecting more of a fight from the necromancers responsible for humanity’s fall from grace.”
Roland sprinted over to Marché and grabbed him by the shoulder, “Okay, we put on a good show, but I think it’s about time we left! Don’t you!?”
There was another passageway at the far end of the chamber. Marché knew they could have retreated at any moment, but he had no idea of where the path would lead - and whether or not it would land them right at a dead end.
-But what other option did they have? Mime’s holy mace would cleave through their thralls like butter, and once the Dwarves had surrounded them, Marché had the impression that they wouldn’t honour a surrender with mere imprisonment. Escape was their only chance at survival, no matter how ambiguous it was.
“Damn it…” He cursed, turning his head to Roland, “...Let’s go.”
The two of them turned tail and sprinted off, ordering a handful of stray Gravewalkers to accompany them on their retreat while the rest remained to delay Mime and his soldiers. They lunged forward with arms outstretched, prepared to sink their teeth into the royal sibling’s armour. One swing of his mace dispelled any notion of defeat, searing undead wherever it landed. Soon, the chamber was filled with the stench of burning flesh and a miasma of putrid gas.
As Mime stowed his mace, a soldier ran up to him with a concerned expression, “Sir! You’re wounded!” He declared half-honestly, as if terrified that bringing attention to it would only make the problem worse.
“Calm yourself, soldier.” Mime replied, “This is nothing more than a flesh wound.”
Closing his eyes to enter a trance of meditation, the soldier gaped in awe as his commander’s wounds began to knit with uncanny speed. In a matter of seconds, the punctures in his abdomen and shoulder were mended.
“Now…” Mime began, “...Let’s get to combing these fleas from our scalps.”