“Baccharum…” Marché’s voice broke the morning silence, “Why are you aiding us?”
“Hm?” A sly, parched response emerged from the ominous sphere of darkness lingering just a few feet away, “What’s this all about? You never seemed concerned about it before.”
The light was bearing down on them both, and upon the rotting scalps of more than a thousand Gravewalkers shambling out from the gates. Marché knew he would be stuffing some fragrant herbs up his nose once the heat began to crawl up and the stench became unbearable. “Well…” he began, “The last time we spoke before the attack commenced, it wasn’t on the best of terms. You didn’t seem at all pleased with the idea of furthering our crusade, but you ended up coming to save us regardless. Why the sudden change of heart?”
“Don’t go thinking it was out of the goodness of my own heart, now.” The Elf replied, “In Tonberg, Lieze proved rather persuasive in securing an alliance with me. She knew that, when all was said and done, I wouldn’t have anywhere else to go.”
Marché cocked his head, “The Dwarves took you in, didn’t they?”
“If you haven’t noticed-” He paused, “-the Dwarves are no more. And if I fancied myself a traitor during Lieze’s assault, she would have killed me like the rest. Taking your side was the only option. I could have left the two of you for dead in those mines when Mime was hunting you down, but what would I have accomplished? Lieze’s victory would have been assured whether you were alive or not.”
Roland poked his head around the side of the wagon, “Basically, Marché - he’s a coward. Dying in service of the struggle against our Order isn’t quite heroic enough a fate for our Elven friend.”
“Heroism… don’t make me laugh.” Baccharum scoffed, “I’m not fussed about who’s in charge as long as they aren’t interested in killing me. If that means taking the side of necromancers, then so be it.”
“-We’re going to be killing everyone regardless of their allegiances. You do know that, don’t you?” Marché asked, “Lieze, Drayya, Roland, myself - all of the Deathguards. We don’t seek the passing of life so that we’re left with a desolate world to rule. Death is the sacred end we all desire.”
“All I know is that Lieze wishes to usher in the return of a God or some other abomination who doesn’t have the best relationship with its peers.” Baccharum said, “I suppose her intention is the extinction of all life, not only that which flourishes upon this tiny, insignificant rock of ours. Quite the lofty goal for a mere mortal.”
Roland wore an expression halfway between amused and cautious as he opened his mouth to reply, “-And you don’t have a problem with that? You’re not going to join your kin in their final effort to rid this world of the Order once and for all?”
“As much as I’d love to saunter up to the Tot’shep and declare my undying allegiance, my status as an exile would see me executed before I could get anywhere near the Black City.”
“Tot… what?” Roland rubbed a hand against his chin.
“Tot. ‘Top’ or - more appropriately - ‘head’, and ‘Shep’ or ‘Shaman’, though I’ve also heard it translated as ‘Shepherd’ in the human tongue.” Baccharum explained, “Leaders have a bad habit of dying very suddenly in Akzhem, so I can’t say for certain who the Head Shaman is at the moment. In fact, I can’t claim to be a reliable source on anything regarding the Elv, really. It’s been quite a while since I was exiled.”
“Lieze isn’t going to be happy about that…” Marché surrendered himself to a yawn and used one finger to dig the sleep out from his eyes.
“Tired, Marché?” Roland asked, “And on the day of our leave, too? I went to bed last night nice and early like a good boy.”
“So did I.” He replied, “I slept like a log for 15 straight hours, but I feel like I would sleep for 15 more if I tried resting my eyes. Lüngen and I were up for days working with the Melting Jug.”
Both he and Roland were touting newly-acquired staves. It was evident from their elegant and meticulous construction that they were a cut above the average foci. More than 2,000 magical items had been fed to the Melting Jug over the course of Marché’s research to devise mana reservoirs for the Deathguards. With only his fingers, he could feel a weighty source of mana contained within the black crystal atop his staff.
“Feels like I could cast spells forever with this thing.” Roland marvelled at his own focus, “You did well, Marché. Maybe Lieze will let you catch up on some lost sleep in the back of the wagons once we get moving?”
“Here’s hoping… but considering what she’s like, I’m not going to bother getting my hopes up.” Marché blinked, resisting the urge to keep his eyelids shuttered, “Speaking of…”
Pooling out from the tide of rotten flesh was the young mistress herself with Drayya and Lüngen in tow. From her vantage point, Lieze observed the rectangular formations of Gravewalkers, Horrors, and Flesh Elementals gathering on the plains. Her current force - a swelling army of about 11,000 thralls - would most likely be the largest she would ever command.
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Over the last 10 days, she had worked tirelessly with the aid of her [Fleshwarper] abilities to elevate every middling thrall into the realm of absolute power. Every last one of her Briarknights had been gifted with [Greater Intelligence], plus upgrades to their speed and strength to maximise their individual effectiveness. Witnessing the pallid faces of her former enemies marching into position like trained soldiers spoke of just how formidable her necromancy had become.
Heightened Potential Progress - 30,250 / 50,000
Stray secret quests accumulated over the course of those 10 days - mostly to do with milestones regarding [Necromantic Alchemy] - had set Lieze well on her way towards placing a capstone on her innate abilities. With just a bit of initiative, she could probably accrue the remaining experience from a visit to another Sage’s tower.
“Lüngen.” She spoke as the thought entered her mind, “How far is that tower off the beaten path?”
“We’ll need to stick to the coast if you fancy another trip to a Sage’s abode.” With some difficulty, the doddering old necromancer had sourced a change of clothes from within the mountains fitted to his girth, “It’s on a tiny islet not far from where the Great Oaks begin to blot out the light. It was the last to be ransacked by soldiers from Tonberg owing to its secluded location, so perhaps you’ll find a few artefacts littered about that they didn’t have the space to take back?”
“We’ll see. I’m more interested in making contact with the Sages than I am in some dusty artefacts.” Lieze replied, “With that out of the way, there’s nothing else to consider - unless either of you happened to forget something?”
“Don’t be ridiculous! There’s nothing I could’ve possibly…” Drayya dismissed the notion with a wave of her hand, only for a sudden realisation to capture her in a moment of desperation, “...The grill baskets! I forgot to load some into the wagons yesterday!”
“Too late now. We already have all the pots and pans we need.” She walked ahead.
“But - grilled fish, Lieze! I can’t go back to boiling everything after tasting the delectable char you get from roasting something over hot coals! You can’t force me! Did we even bring any charcoal!? Lieze!”
Below, Roland watched the exchange with tiresome eyes, “What are those two arguing about now…?”
“Don’t let them hear you say that.” Marché replied, “I’m going around to the back. Give me a shout when we’re setting off.”
Roland hopped up on the wagon’s rear and pulled back a flap. Strokes of dried paint were spread haphazardly over the countless barrels within - ‘Meat’, ‘Water’, ‘Salt’ - and a slew of jagged exclamation marks declaring ‘!BLAST POWDER!’ tucked away right at the back.
Hooked to the wagon’s reins was something that may very well have resembled a horse at some point. Its buck teeth reflected the morning light from melted lips, exhaling a foetid mixture of fumes curdling within its stomach that Roland was trying his best not to inhale.
“Are you not satisfied with our steeds, Roland?” Lieze posed that question once she descended the hill, “You look like a boy afraid that someone’s dog might bite him if he isn’t careful.”
“Lieze…” Roland began, “Have you ever seen a horse before?”
She stopped just short of an affirmation, allowing her eyes to glaze over the creature’s form. Indeed, its spine was so crooked that it was constantly bending over, its legs appeared to be on backwards, its hooves were composed of silvery tendons, and its head was split in two down the centre, exposing the tumour-riddled skull beneath while its cloudy pupils spanned the east and west simultaneously. She peered towards the beast’s statistics, seeking any confirmation that it was, indeed, a horse.
Malformed Steed
Level 8 Undead
HP - 209 / 209 MP - 0 / 0 BODY - 8 MIND - 0 SOUL - 0
“...I’ll admit that it’s not the most convincing imitation.” She nodded, “-But it serves every purpose that a horse is known to serve, so why shouldn’t we call it a horse?”
“I’ve seen many a thrall in my time, Lieze, but these might be the very first I’ve ever felt sorry for.” Roland yanked his gaze away from the abomination, “Everything’s ready, before you ask. We’ve been preparing the wagons since the day after Alberich fell.”
“Do we have enough food? Enough water?” She pressed.
“To reach the Black Forest? Absolutely.” Roland slapped a hand against the wagon’s wooden frame, “To traverse it? Who can say? Baccharum hasn’t proved as useful as I hoped he would when it comes to surviving a trek into Akzhem.”
Lieze cast a displeased glance in the Elf’s direction, who was already in the process of shrugging his shoulders, “You must know the bare minimum, at least. I doubt you’ve forgotten that much.”
“Believe me when I tell you that starvation and dehydration will be the least of our worries.” Baccharum replied, “Akzhem isn’t a wasteland. It's as verdant as verdant can be - perhaps a little too verdant, if you catch my cold.”
“How far will the wagons take us?” She asked.
“A few kilometres in? Maybe less? The roots will eventually become impassable, and we’ll have to proceed on foot from there.” He replied, “That’s where the size of your army is going to become a problem. It’ll take us weeks to get anywhere.”
“We can always make adjustments if we need to.” Lieze seated herself on the wagon and took hold of the reins, “I wouldn’t be much of a necromancer if I couldn’t create thralls to fit the situation.”
“I suppose I can’t argue with that.” Baccharum shrugged, “It’ll be a month before we reach the Black Forest anyway. Plenty of time to tweak our forces if the need arises.”
Drayya clambered up to the wagon’s uncomfortable bench next to Lieze and flashed a quick smile her way, “Shall we get a move on?”
“We shall.” Lieze turned her head, “Lüngen. Keep an eye on the middle of the caravan, will you? I don’t want us losing cohesion.”
“And just when I thought I’d have a quiet moment to enjoy a smoke…” Stuffing a pipe back into his pocket, the old man followed in Marché’s wake.
“Roland.” Lieze called.
He nodded and placed both hands around his mouth, “Oi! You lot! We’re setting off! Get your affairs in order!”