Marché’s frown contorted, as if trying to express an emotion that didn’t entirely exist. Eventually, he settled on frustrated hope - a defiant glare that flaunted his arrogance as if it was something to be proud of.
“Help her, yes.” He repeated, “That’s what I said.”
“Don’t waste my time with petty heroics.” Lieze snapped, “You understand the ways of the Order. I don’t need to explain to you that an ally who becomes troublesome relinquishes their right to aid. Rescuing Alma is a risk - Alistair knows this well, and that is why he’s showing her off like some kind of trophy.”
“You’re going to let her die?” Marché paused, “In a conflict where we need every ally we can get our hands on, you’re really going to sit back and abandon one of the only people you can trust?”
“Yes.” She blinked, “This is too crucial and too complex of a juncture to be distracting ourselves from, especially with matters of emotion.”
There was no need to berate Marché for his insubordination. Lieze knew that deep down, he understood the sacrifices that needed to be made in order to ensure victory. Giving him a lesson in suppressing decisions made from a place of passion would create less problems for her in the long-term. To accentuate her point, she held out the arm which had been replaced by the Blackbriar’s touch.
“This flesh which was once mine is now the property of the Gods.” Her voice became a whisper beneath the current of the crowd, “I do not cry out for what was lost, for my body is but a cage to contain the infinite and oceanic soul within. To be free of it is a miracle. Anyone who does not understand that - necromancer or no - is unworthy of the true path.”
Marché’s brow furrowed, “And what about Drayya?”
“Hm?” The girl in question poked her head between them at the mention of her name, “Why am I suddenly being included in this?”
“If it was you up there, would Lieze not risk the sanctity of our mission to rescue you?” He asked, “The two of you have known one-another since you were children. Is that not worth anything?”
“You wish to name her a hypocrite?” Drayya folded her arms, “You’ll be disappointed by the answer you receive. I’m sure she wouldn’t hesitate in the slightest to end my life if it would further her goals. Isn’t that right, Lieze?”
Expecting an immediate answer, Drayya found herself perplexed as Lieze avoided her gaze.
“...Don’t tell me-” Stricken with exasperation, she brought a hand up to massage her temple, “...Hah. What a palaver this is.”
“You see?” Marché didn’t hesitate to exploit the silence, “She claims to have suppressed her emotions, but would have happily jeopardised our plans if you were the one in trouble.”
“Yes, yes. She’s a real piece of work. A real hypocrite.” Drayya replied, “What does that change? She will not save Alma to please you. In fact, I very much doubt you would even save her if you had the authority to decide.”
“It’s not just about that…” Loosening his frustration with a sigh, Marché returned his attention to the fountain, “I just wish… we could help her. But we can’t.”
“No. Such is the revelation that tingles at the back of every hero’s skull.” Lieze said, “Not everyone can be saved. Yet another layer of suffering to this cruel fate of life we’ve fooled ourselves into worshipping.”
Though it pained Marché to admit, Lieze was correct. It was not a question of whether Alma could or could not be saved. The three of them were not suited to open combat, and complicating the strategy they already had in place risked an entire day of preparation. He clung to that reason with desperate ferocity, knowing full-well that trying to imitate Lieze’s pragmatism would only drive him to madness.
“-This lamb of the Lord has been led astray by the foul enchanters of the Order.” Alistair’s impassioned speech continued, “This is the corruption that Ricta tolerated - the very same corruption which led to the capture of our fair cities. But no longer will this sickness be permitted! When a tumour is discovered, it must be excised quickly and thoroughly!”
Another silhouette stepped out from the foggy rain - an elegant woman who dazzled the crowd with her motherly smile and pious attitude.
“Furainé…” Lieze muttered, “As expected, she and Alistair are close allies…”
“We’ve quite the turnout today, haven’t we?” Drayya said, “If we’re especially lucky, we might end up killing two birds with one stone.”
“It would please me greatly if the attack was a matter of seconds away.” She replied, “At least that way, everyone would be content. But I know better than to expect the easiest outcome.”
Something flashed against the shrouded sunlight in Furainé’s grasp - a long and crooked misericorde made of solid gold. Lieze was reminded of the knives she wielded as a child to dissect and study the fresh organs of the recently dead. Still in the priests’ grasp, Alma’s stringy hair parted as she raised her head to survey the crowd. Hopelessness and panic danced in the false life of her gaze, coming to rest squarely upon Lieze.
The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
No scream erupted from her hoarse throat, and neither did she mutter a curse under her breath for being abandoned to death. Rather, something eerily close to comfort painted her expression. Was she prepared to die? Or was she hiding her pain in a last effort to impress Lieze? In either case, she was resigned to her fate.
Furainé stepped forward and lifted her head by the chin - a surprisingly soothing caress that defied the woman’s murderous intentions. Even still, Alma’s eyes continued to bore into Lieze’s skull - a pair of fiery, resilient gems. Then, in one fluid and practised motion, Furainé’s blade slid across the girl’s throat without a sound.
Cheers exploded from the uncertain crowd. As ever, the medicine they craved was bloodshed. Change did not matter for as long as that desire could be satiated. Alma spent the last agonising moments of her life - and what little of her will remained - maintaining her attention on Lieze, who understood at the precise moment of her departure that the girl’s final emotion was hatred.
It didn’t bother her in the slightest. For one who had so eagerly followed her every whim up to that point, Alma knew perfectly well the risk she was taking by joining the cult. Not that Lieze ever gave her a choice to begin with, of course. With simple blackmail, she had bought Alma’s allegiance without a hint of resistance.
“Damn it…” Marché knew better than to waste her time with continued rebellions, “Of all the people… she was the one who deserved this fate the least.”
There wasn’t time left for him to offer remembrance. A choir of screams caught the trio’s attention moments later, dragging their attention towards the sight of Gravewalkers emerging from a nearby alleyway through the gaps in the crowd.
A series of hollow clatterings broke the panic as Alistair’s tin soldiers springed to life, sprinting down from the elevated fountain while brandishing their spears. Lieze stuck her hand into the Bag of Holding dangling from her waist, retrieving with some minor effort the rapier she had stolen from Ricta before lifting the weapon to her chest and sinking it between the ribs of the nearest civilian. Nearby, Drayya and Marché performed similar acts of murder with blades of their own.
Lieze’s MP - 1,019 / 1,055
Keeping her victim upright with a firm grasp, Lieze channelled her necromancy into the fresh corpse, instantly transforming it into a Gravewalker. A spray of blood followed her blade as she dislodged it from the thrall before turning her attention to yet another commoner. Panic was rich in the crowd, and as such, it was difficult to notice the presence of a murderer - especially one that struck with such speed.
Lieze’s MP - 983 / 1,055
Lieze’s MP - 947 / 1,055
Lieze’s MP - 911 / 1,055
By the time her deeds had been noticed, she, Drayya, and Marché had already amassed a weak but reliable force of Gravewalkers. All around her, fingers were pointing. Horrified, pitiful squeals pierced her eardrums. But there was yet more work to be done - more opportunities to exploit before the full weight of Alistair’s men returned their attention to the crowd.
With amateurish flair, Lieze struck down the most confident of her accusers who threw themselves at her with defiant and heroic - but unrealistic - intentions.
Lieze’s MP - 875 / 1,055
Lieze’s MP - 839 / 1,055
Lieze’s MP - 803 / 1,055
All the while, Marché’s followers were pouring in alongside the legions of undead prowling from the alleyways, having stowed themselves away within the city’s sewers. With clumsy movements, they made use of vials, flasks and ampoules filled with blood to support their groups with [Blood Magic] as they contended with the guards.
Alistair - and Furainé beside him - seemed unperturbed by the chaos. Two spear-wielding knights of the Green Dragon remained statuesque at each of their flanks - desensitised to the presence of undead, or perhaps expectant of their arrival. Lieze didn’t allow the technicalities of the mission to distract her from the true goal - summoning a squirming mass of blood from her Bag of Holding to form into a [Blood Spike] aimed straight towards the ancient monarch.
Lieze’s MP - 753 / 1,055
As expected, the attack didn’t meet its mark, instead splattering against the dome of a magical field which had been present since before Lieze and her comrades revealed themselves. Furainé was the spell’s author, maintaining the shield without so much as a flex of concentration on her face. A long second of silence passed between them, their gazes colliding amidst the storm of Gravewalkers mingling with terrified citizens.
Alistair’s wrinkled expression was impossible to discern, but Lieze could easily pick up on his hidden pride. Her appearance had been exactly what he was banking on. Alma hadn’t even received the privilege of acting as bait, but a sacrifice to stoke the fire of irrationality in Lieze’s heart. The two of them were too far apart to exchange words, but all that needed to be said, had already been said.
From the cardinal exits of the square spilled hundreds of thralls, encircling and skirmishing with the good king’s personal guard. Once the bundle of panicked citizens trapped within began to enclose, however, Alistair lifted a single, robed arm into the air, sending a quiet but authoritative signal.
Lieze recoiled as the enormous bolt of an arbalest sank into the cobblestone road inches from her feet A chorus of restrained snaps filled the square like fireworks, heralding a hail of missiles which indiscriminately impaled both friend and foe in a single, organised volley. Soldiers positioned on nearby rooftops stood to reveal their silhouettes darkening against the hidden sun, touting oversized crossbows in both hands.
As Lieze expected, she had wandered right into Alistair’s trap. There was no authenticity to his promises of ‘togetherness’ and ‘festivity’, only a seething threat disguised with the blood of the innocent. He had no need to defend himself in any genuine capacity, for he knew that heading a direct assault on his person would only seal Lieze’s fate.
“Lieze!” From between a formation of Gravewalkers, Drayya emerged, haggard and pale, “If we don’t fancy getting impaled, we need to move right away!”
“I agree. But this won’t be a retreat.” She answered, “We only need to break line of sight with the arbalests to avoid being volleyed. Tell Marché and the others to move towards the west while continuing to engage the guards. We need to attract as much attention as possible.”
Having finished their practised reloads, the arbalests in question rained death down upon the square yet again. Lieze and Drayya ducked behind an encirclement of Gravewalkers as the bolts felled civilians, guards and thralls all at once, before allowing a few precious seconds of peace once more.
“Right… yes. Alright.” Nodding, Drayya turned her gaze towards the ongoing battle, “That’s the plan. Just be sure to call a retreat before we lose anyone!”
“Don’t worry.” Lieze smirked, “So far, everything is unfolding exactly as I predicted.”