Her hands were sweating fiercely despite the climate control present in her armor. It felt as light as a feather, didn't restrict her movements, and moderated her body temperature carefully, but Alex couldn't help but feel anxiety under all of this pressure. She, Sigi, Magnus, and Tythas had been left here to wait for an oncoming force. Only them, alone! Her pride had convinced her that if she refused the request she'd be labeled incompetent, so she'd immediately replied in the affirmative to match this force with 'her own'. But the only 'force' behind her were the three aforementioned individuals. “He wants us to fight that?”
Not a question, really, because she already knew the answer. There had to be over ten thousand men bearing down on them, their even strides carrying them at a steady clip through the badlands. By the looks of it, a split force of four thousand spears, two thousand archers, a thousand cavalry, and three thousand irregulars with swords, hammers, or anything else they could swing. The crusade had accepted all comers, and that meant a great many who were not soldiers and had brought only what meager equipment their families could afford. Pots and pans, for some of them, a sad looking lot all told.
Alex was confident in her abilities, but even an archmage would have trouble with five thousand completely undefended men, let alone ten. Maybe... There were no wars so she didn't have a good grasp on how war magic worked, and that was ignoring mana engines, field generator barriers, and so many other counters to magic besides.
“That would indeed be the task at hand,” Tythas' voice carried on the wind, his eyes only showed the whites with no iris or pupil present. He'd been like that for nearly an hour, stock still and silent until now. “Distance of the approaching army?”
“Do I look like a measuring tape to you?”
“I am currently blind, Alexis” He sighed, but he looked ready enough, even if his legs quaked and he'd very clearly wet himself, she couldn't blame him, “Please approximate their distance.”
“I don't know...” She groaned. “Two and a half kilometers?”
“Close.” Sigi grunted with one eye closed and the other fit to a monocular. “2.361 kilometers at their foremost rank.”
“How many ranks?”
“Looks like... 61 abreast, marching... Let's say 164 deep toward the tail, mounted elements to the fore.”
What the hell are they doing? Alex frowned, unable to understand what kind of significance this all had. She was just... There. While they ran through a series of calculations, and twenty seconds later, Tythas affirmed that this was enough information, and abruptly lowered himself to lay both hands gently on the ground. Staring off with his blind, milky eyes, towards the dust cloud surrounding the approaching force.
“Arise.”
The air seemed to still and cool, Tythas hissed, weeping blood in thin ribbons under the force of this truly massive expulsion of mana. If not for the foci artifacts Tyr had given him, he would most certainly have died from such a casting. It was honestly, truly, impressive how far that man had come as an artificer, that seemed his true talent, in creating artifacts, a shame the era he was born in wouldn't allow him to stick with that.
Right now, Tythas had reverted back into an old man, a little more advanced than he'd ever been, under such an emission, but still healthy, save for his burst capillaries and bruised mana channels. He shuddered under the electrifying force, feeling his body pop in response, every iota of him vibrating in tune with that magic that was closest to his core. Something addicting, really.
Ah... He could've wept. It showed him things, things he shouldn't see. The memories and places these long dead had seen, their loved ones and ambitions present in the connection. Projecting and flickering through his mind until he stood alongside a legion of the long dead, choosing those he could for their most appropriate purpose and putting them to use. This great gift of his that none could refuse, in the only place he could do it. Necromancy wasn't malicious, it wasn't evil, it was the single greatest show of love that he'd ever imagined, he knew it and felt it. He whispered to the dead and they whispered back, eating away at their resentment, he offered them a chance to serve towards righteous purpose, before being sent on to the otherplane in a way they'd been denied before. In this way, he felt, he was far more humane as any priest.
Alex wasn't a half-assed puritan like Brennwulf, but she couldn't say that she had an overt fondness of necromancy either. And this time it wasn't chickens and other products of the slaughterhouse, these were humans and others races that she couldn't name based on their alien bone structure. Bones brittle and bleached, these corpses had been here for a long while, many in a state of partial mummification. Swarming out of the clefts and caverns, coming up from the ground to clutch at the boots of the approaching soldiers.
An army of the dead, and almost certainly the greatest show of necromancy this continent had seen in centuries.
Those men were screaming, trying to kick off the skeletal hands that grabbed at their legs, and in that they were mostly successful. At the end of the day, these were at a minimum centuries old corpses. Thousands of undead poured down the cliffs from all directions onto the crusaders, but the papal force organized themselves quickly. Unlike Tyr's targeted host, this one hadn't passed through such a tight knot of corruption in the ground. Hadn't gone so low, and were much healthier for it.
She was aware of the 'plan', a shit plan at that, but Tyr swore it would work, swore on everything to get them to acquiesce, as long as they obeyed. He hadn't told everyone everything – even Alex hadn't known of this poorly thought out summoning ritual. Keeping secrets, always these days...
As the next part of 'the plan', Sigi tore part of the limestone shelf they stood on and stuffed it at the back of Tythas' robes. Taking hold of the stone through her innate connection with the earth, allowing Alex to watch, mystified, as the 'old man' was borne aloft. She knew about this part, just not why, It seemed gratuitous. In any even, she summoned a small cloud of fog from the air that crackled with electricity. A show, obviously, one that would only convince the wholly ignorant.
“That hurts!” Tythas hissed, being shocked usually did, and he was still weeping tears of blood, twitching. By the looks of it, he couldn't move or defend himself in any way.
“...Sorry.”
What the army below saw instead were the over-sized, billowing robes. Mists poured from the hems and cuffs to reveal a ghastly figure floating above the ridge. The sky darkened and crackled with unnatural thunder, and it began to rain in this region of Baccia for the first time in an era, the cracked earth greedily sucking up the moisture. But the thing about the compacted sand and dust in the badlands is that it didn't hold water too well, easily flooding until it became a mud slick morass of quicksand.
“Witness with thine own eyes, mine own magnificence! For I am Al'Khazar, the lich of liches! Master of death, king of all sorcerers!” It wasn't Tythas' voice, but rather Magnus who was shouting into a megaphone that warped and distorted his voice, rolling across the flats with a pealing clamor. Most of the newly summoned undead army had returned to inert bones and dust, granting the audience below the opportunity to watch and listen. “Long have I awaited the plodding footsteps of fleshy things to join my legion! I thank you for waking me from my long slumber, beneath the tombs of gods, amidst this long forsaken battlefield! Ah! The air! It is so sweet! Come now, small mortals, come and join me unto undeath!”
Magnus couldn't get through much more than that, laughing into the microphone, erupting in a startlingly loud cackle. But everyone supposed it was all well enough by the way it sounded. Awful, baleful, ear scratching. Hopefully no greater undead took offense to the act and took it out on their feet while they were sleeping. Liches loved feet, for some reason, this was a known fact.
Alex cringed at the ridiculous drama, but it had the desired effect. The churches and their crusade forces were bound to hate few things more than the undead, no matter what House they hailed from. It wasn't long before their neat formation splintered, the knights and paladins organizing the rabble with their iron shod fists, shouting back through the winds and rain with promises of ' holy vengeance'.
Sprinting forward both on foot or on steeds, the mire beneath them was growing ever softer by the localized hurricane. That's all it was, just rain, but even with the powers granted her, Alex began to flag. Weather magic was taxing, and on a large scale such as this it took its toll on her body. It would have been much more efficient to spray the whole field with water directly rather than summoning this environmental show, the intermittent flash of lightning and the black clouds about the 'lich'.
The force below erupted into chaos, half of them milling about and unsure how to proceed, and not many charged as a single mass. A lich wasn't an enemy that your average inquisition soldier could handle, nor a paladin. Only a hero could stand before a true lich, and it was no guaranteed thing. An elder lich? Primus' would leave their keeps to face such a threat. It didn't help that the sandy ground had become slick from the rains, as mentioned, and the incline that they'd need to climb was as slippery as ice. Mud poured down from the ridge, swamping the paladins eagerly trying to scale the face and claim the kill. Over ten thousand troops scattered, leaving large gaps that were ripe for exploitation.
And they would.
Once again, Magnus' voice came, and a word was repeated. “Arise!”
There was no need for a spell, this was all for show, landmines of the four limbed variety had already been waiting. The uneven lumps of wet earth that interspersed the otherwise flat ground belched forth black armored figures. Their eyes glowing with fel blue lights, like eggs bearing the young of the cursed earth they shrieked in ecstasy and caught the approaching army from behind. Hands grasped cloaks and dragged men down to the ground, the butchery began before the undead had even managed to free more than their upper halves.
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Gaunt figures in the hissing mists, with wicked black blades and rusted armor joined them to tear into the crusade army. There were only five hundred of them, but these were no typical skeletons or zombies common in a regular mass of undead. There were at least ten dullahan equivalent higher variants, and the rest were all unique in their own way, moving and acting like living things rather than the jittery and stiff motions of their lesser kin. Tyr had, as was well known, engaged in pretty much every avenue of forbidden magic one might imagine, and this was but one small part of the fruit.
The undead weren't fast, but well capable of matching knights in swordplay, and bizarrely able to be transported here without marching. Tyr's undead, or unliving, whatever they were – could be transported via a specialized dimensional artifact. Ensuring he could bring an army with him on his person, and the terrifying implications with that fact, to be released whenever he wanted to with absolutely no warning.
Paladins turned to summon their cantrips of faith, bolts of holy fire and the sacred prayers of various Houses whizzing through the air. Calling on their gods to grant what boons they could, the silver host of Inquisition troops glittering and heroic in the face of the dauntless dead. Swords burst into flame and brought to bear against the graveborne monstrosities assaulting them, all impotent when faced with the shield generators buckled to their waists. To a human, those shield generators had a very limited capability for protection. But the surface area of what an undead needed to protect was many times smaller than a man, and it was deadly effective. What spells or hammer blows that could damage the armor they were wearing would be stopped dead by the mana barrier shrouding their fist sized cores. And with the feats of arms these undead were capable of, scores of men fell in the opening exchange. While one side began to flag in their confidence and momentum, the other was just getting started.
It was a massacre, again, the muddy ground bled that day, and the black armored reapers cleaved men in twin with each step.
Tyr had never reached the heights he'd wanted to for himself, but in observance of all that was unfolding, Sigi realized he'd perhaps never considered it an eventuality. Nor had he relied on it, instead seeding a hidden legion, and this was just one of many. Diverse, absolutely obedient, with no concept of what a man might recognize as fear. They had their crusade army, and Tyr had made one for himself long before eyes had turned his way. Always watching, waiting for a thing that wouldn't come for many years later.
There was genius in that.
Terrifying genius.
A ruthless versatility of mind, something she had never seen coming in a million years. To be standing there party to slaughter, thinking her husband clairvoyant and perhaps even 'wife'. If not that, believing him capable of long term strategy whatsoever was more than she'd bargained for. Tyr didn't need them at all, only these... Things he'd made with his own hands, sheathed in the blood of mountains that he'd beaten into form, walking tanks was what they were.
The one called Orlando, alongside several other higher undead, furiously dug through the wet ground, dragging corpses from the massive ancient grave and animating them without command. Breathing life into skeletal remains and propelling them forth by the instinct that all undead shared, their want for more of their kind to rattle and clack about menacingly. Every enemy soldier that fell to the blades was turned, even some of the paladins found their peers turned to draw blades on them, trapped in that hellish and eternal cage of damnation. Their faith not strong enough to offer suitable protection, not so brave anymore, as they screamed and thrashed in the morass.
For all the disgusting aberrancy of all things undead, Alex stared on with wondering and wide eyes. Orlando fought on in single combat against the hammer wielding executor leading this host. Wielding a rusted and shattered greatsword of black metal, the beast of an undead slammed it down into the shield of the inquisitor. Displaying the unrivaled might of the death knight, seemingly pleased to finally have found his match, they fought their utter opposites. All of them had been consummate warriors in life, that's why Tyr had picked them, choosing Orlando and the others as his heralds. They remained loyal in death, rictus grins and the beating drum at their cores enforcing absolute subordinancy to the Most High.
Alex was terrified, frankly, as were all the others, with the exception of one.
“Let's go, baby!” Magnus cried excitedly, throwing the megaphone down and riding the wet slick of the cliff with his feet. Alex made to do the same, hop down, but Sigi stopped her. Pointing down at a mounted inquisitor raising a metal rod toward the sky. It started as a spray of smoking sparks, but the device ignited after a bit of struggle with the mana rich rain, and an orb of carmine brilliance leapt skyward. Exploded with a crisp pop and hiss, high enough that anyone within several dozen kilometers would easily be able to see it.
A flare, they were calling for help.
“That's not good,” Alex mused, thankful for the surprise appearance of Tyr's undead host but wishing she'd had more men.
“Go assist Magnus,” Sigi shouted. “Remember the plan! I will intercept the incoming force with my own and see you on the other side!”
There was no time to waste, Magnus was an impressive fighter both in the physical and in the magical – a supreme duelist. He was swamped though, and without assistance his wards would eventually fall and he'd be cut down – always too reckless. Alex nodded curtly, sprinting down the side of the escarpment to assist him in their plan to assassinate the army leaders, leaving Tythas slumped there in the mud, aggrieved as usual that everyone always seemed to forget him.
“Magnus!” Alex shouted, and he didn't need more elaboration than that. He hit all fours, his infusions popping at his ligaments and filling him with power, punching off with his heavy gauntlets and throwing himself violently skyward, dozens of meters into the air. “Thunderbolt!”
Missing him by mere inches, a pure white bolt of electricity slammed into the mass of bodies. Raw, single element projection. Not enough meta component to damage the undead, but in the muddy ground it was a phenomenally effective spell, flesh would contort under the electricity but bones didn't make for a good conductor. The earth split, throwing up clods of wet sand and men alike, scorched and blistered, tongues of electricity chasing away in every direction.
Anyone with a defensive artifact hit by the reaction would've been fine, albeit a bit stunned. But a shock to their system and delay was more than enough for Orlando to slam the executor into the ground with finality, hoisting his decapitated head into the air, followed by the wails of all his 'men', triumphant. Clawing and breaking their enemy, the enemy – who would name themselves superior judges to their master.
“Sky--!” A force like a charging bull struck her in the side, tossing her off her feet and cutting off the attempt at a spellcasting. There was a lot to deal with in the rapid changes made to her body, forced to confront alien senses all at once that a normal person would've had years to acclimate to. Breath knocked out of her, wheezing, she rolled sideward to avoid a swooping downward blow from a hefty warhammer. Burying her hand in the sand and pushing off, spinning upward, she twirled. Unfortunately, as with all such violent changes, she wasn't used to her own strength and face planted in the mud on the way back down.
“Apostate!” The man who'd charged her roared in dramatic fashion. Alex hadn't expected much from these crusaders, especially not those sent down the middle, but as she looked she felt her blood run cold. She was far from the others, Tythas was incapacitated and she couldn't see Magnus any longer. Standing in front of her was a man bearing the sigil of a vindicator templar. A veteran rank only given to those actively training and potentially qualified to become 'heroes'. And on his other shoulder, the mark of his master. Indura's flame, making him one of Aurelius' personal disciples. “Face me and burn, witch!”
There wasn't much in the way of dialogue, the templar blurred forward with hammer raised and cratered the spot she'd been laying just a moment beforehand. Slamming a backhand into her mana barrier that sent her head spinning, body along with it – tremendous might courtesy of his god given powers.
“Sky Fang!” The javelin settled into being in Alex's hand, violet energy hissing at the rain all around, pushing her infusion to the limit, she threw it with all might at the vindicator. He barely flinched, smashing it aside with his hammer, sliding back a few feet at best.
That was the thing about mages. Once, they were the kings of all, but then men had made artifacts with inborn wards and arrays. Weapons that could handle etheric pressure. Alchemical compounds and affinity enchantments to counter specific elements. Implanted augments. Alex could only reasonably use air magic with any great skill sure to shake a man of his stripe. And he'd just taken one of her strongest spells, redirecting it with nothing but a swing.
“Chain Lightning!” Again she tried, backing away and throwing her fingers forward, a writhing bolt of electricity the thickness of her arm. He walked right through it, the pale fire of Indura burning in his eyes. “Stormlight Salvo!” The sparks came and he laughed at them, kicking up a spray of wet sand in his charge. And before she could prepare another spell, he was on her. The first man she'd ever met that actually wanted to kill her, his hammer raised up and lit by the very same storm she'd summoned. Prised to bury it in her skull.
“I am Tucal Valerius, Inquisition vindicant, disciple of Aurelius, and I am your end!” The vindicator barked, swinging down with all his strength while the woman below sagged under her exhaustion and searched for a way out. The raw power he was capable of generating was insane, snapping the air and forcing a sphere of calm to burst into being under the sleeting rain. No finesse to it, no magic, all righteous violence and those blessings paladins were so well famed for.
“Ironbreaker!” A fist struck the flat of the falling hammer, wreathed in flame and generating a blinding explosion of kinetic flame. The weapon was sent wide and away with enough force to audibly dislocate the inquisitor's shoulder, bringing him to hop backwards with a snarl.
“Two, then,” Tucal hissed, “Two heads that I shall toss into the Sacred Flame.”
“Sorry I'm late,” Magnus apologized, never taking his eye off the enemy and glaring back at him balefully. Chest bared, each arm sheathed from shoulder to fingertip in sturdy guard braces, each artfully carved channel flashing with all the colors of the rainbow. “Let's beat this rat bastard to death, fuck me but that introduction was nothing short of scrotum contracting.”
“Let's,” Alex replied, using his offered hand to rise and take hold of her spear, propping her battered body up. One more taste of the blood couldn't hurt, plucking the vial from her dimensional ring and swallowing it in a bid to speed up her recovery, if nothing else. This was it, the greatest challenge of her life thus far, and retreat was not an option.