Horn opened his eyes. He swore he would never drink again. The headache was killing him. He saw the stone ceiling above. His brain started unpacking the memories, and they began slowly coming back. Sitting, he started taking in his surroundings. He was on a wooden bench in the middle of the main hall of the keep. There wasn’t anyone around him, but he heard battle noises from outside. He wondered who could be fighting…
Then it hit him. He jumped up, almost falling to his knees as a wave of nausea spread through his body. Slower, he got up, checking the status. He didn’t feel any lingering wounds, but he felt his hand was still recovering from the burns. His health was back to fifty percent, but his mana wasn’t looking good. Almost half of the bar was grayed out, checking his status, he saw: Mana [Regeneration] 37/84 (37/43) [11/h]
Both the total and the regeneration were utterly gutted. That spell took more out of him than he thought was possible. He tried recalling the last moments he was awake, or rather the state of his mana. He remembered the grayed-out bar and was almost sure it was even larger. Maybe it was just a temporary thing? There weren’t any notifications about that. There were quite a few waiting for his attention, but the fight was still on. He wasn’t in any shape to fight, but maybe he could help.
On the wobbly legs, he stepped outside. The courtyard was pure chaos. Groups of his dwarves were scattered all around fighting. Piles of bones clattered the space, but more than a few were still on their feet. The main gateway held, and he saw Goran’s figure in there with a few of his warriors. For a second, he wondered where the enemies came from, only to see a dozen jumping down the walls. A few smashed into pieces, but at least half of them rose to their feet and attacked closest dwarves.
Looking up, he saw the fight on the walls, with throngs of his warriors and crafters trying to push back the attackers, but there were too few of them and too many skeletons climbing the old fortifications. The situation was, though, but his clan seemed to be holding. However, he saw more than a few dwarven bodies on the ground. Mixed between were also corpses of humans and elves he helped to save.
Horn felt weak, and he was sure that he would be more a hindrance than help in a fight. But the situation wasn’t normal. Instead of joining the fray, he took command. He closed to the nearest group of fighters, waited for them to finish off a few undead, then started issuing orders, “You get to the gate to support them. They’re barely holding. You get these warriors out of their asses and onto the western wall. You two, gather the remaining fighters. Get me an adept in here and set up a triage and rest station just inside the keep.”
Some of the warriors saluted by bringing their fists to their hearts, but they all started running. For a few moments, nothing happened, but then there were beginnings of order amidst the chaos.
First, a single group moved to assist him, then another. He sent half of them to help the remaining warriors, while the other half was dispatched to stop the flow of jumpers. A few minutes later, the ones he sent out came back with more warriors. An adept found his way, the dwarf looked worse for the wear, but he jumped on top of setting a triage station. The few remaining tables and benches were moved in, and the worst wounded were brought back inside. Goran’s group blocked the exit of the gateway, utilizing the narrow passage to their advantage. He even sent back a few warriors to rest.
His forces regrouped, the wall was reinforced, and the remaining undead in the courtyard cleared. Horn was proud of his troops. They were good, just needed a bit of leadership. Goran was a bit of a disappointment, he had thought that the captain would take charge, but instead, he held the line by himself. It probably allowed the rest of his warriors to keep the remaining undead in check, but at what cost? Still, it fit what Horn knew of the old warrior. He always led from the front, holding the line, even when he should have taken a step back and managed the forces. Something to think about later on.
As the situation stabilized, he finally had a moment to think. He quickly checked the timer to see,
1 hour, 0 minutes, and 3 seconds
“The finest hour,” Horn chuckled, remembering a speech he learned in history class. He just hoped he wouldn’t have to say it. But as the rule of jinx goes, just as this thought went through his mind, a shout from the walls came. “Chieftain, you have to see this!”
Horn climbed the ladder, and then, he saw them in the distance. Four black thrones appeared in the undead’s army back. Each was carried by four skeletal ogres, similar to one he fought in the previous wave. On top of each sat a figure in black robes. They weren’t hooded, their pointy ears showing their legacy. As they kept closing the distance, the figures stood and began casting. The familiar laughing skull appeared in front of one, another created a ball of darkness between his palms, a dozen skeletons grew in size and began running towards the keep, and the last one just concentrated hard, or so Horn could see from his grimace.
His men on the walls dropped to the ground, avoiding the spells. Just as they got up, something changed in the oncoming horde. Until now, the skeletons just moving towards the keep started to assemble into larger groups, almost forming ranks. What was worse, a large group split from the main force, and each of them was carrying some kind of ranged weapon. As they closed the distance, the dwarves dropped again to the ground. Crawling, Horn shouted, “Focus fire on their casters! Where’s Yellowrock and the mages from the refugees?”
Someone replied, “I saw him leaving with Grom – the builder. The others, I don’t know.”
Cursing, Horn crawled towards the ladder as a hail of arrows flew over his head. He could bet that the concentrating necro took charge of the undead. The battle just entered its final part. Back in the courtyard, he called Goran and sent a few resting dwarves into the keep to find the mages.
“Chieftain?” Goran asked,
“The necromancers finally showed up. They’ve taken control of their army. The attacks will come more organized. Tell me you have some more of these soul crystals?” Horn said,
“I doubt we have many left. I’ll ask the ex-prisoners.” Goran replied, began to turn away, but stopped and asked, “Chieftain, how do you do this?”
“Do what?”
“Always have these ideas, find solutions, not give up,” Goran said quietly, lowering his head.
Surprised, Horn stopped for a moment, thinking, before he said, “You know. I’m not sure anymore. A few days ago, I’d tell you this is only a game for me. So trying anything crazy was worth a shot. But now, the stakes seem so real. There’s just one thing that keeps me flowing, you’re counting on me, so I have to find a solution. If I’d just given up, would there be anyone else to take the lead? Could I look at myself if I just hang the axe? Don’t know, and I’m not intending on finding out.”
Goran nodded and walked away without a word. Horn’s mood plummeted. He didn’t like to think about such things. That’s why he threw himself from one task to another to avoid such discussions. Thinking about the sense of life or whatever else was like opening a pandora box, which never ended well. Irritated at his train of thoughts, he went out looking for Yellowrock.
If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
Inside of the keep was busy. The third of the clan was resting. Catching breath before heading out again to the endless onslaught of the undead. Horn wished that they would hold, but his hopes were diminishing. His final gambit would buy him some time, but not a whole hour.
Climbing the stairs, he was welcomed by the sounds of hammering. Grom’s crew was still at work. That was terrible news. He passed the first floor and found the dwarves chipping at the walls on the second story. Walking out of the stairway, he saw the builder discussing something with the mage. Barging in, he said, “Yellowrock, we need you downstairs. The enemy brought his mages.”
“Umpf! I’m busy here with mister Grom.” The mage replied,
“I don’t have ti-“ Horn began fuming, but he stopped himself. Throwing a fit would only antagonize the old geezer. Taking a breath, he instead said, “Master Yellowrock, I apologize for my crude words. We are in need of your incredible powers, but that’s no excuse to be impolite. I hope you can forgive me.” Each word cost him a lot of nerves, but he managed to sound almost sincere.
“Hmm, apology accepted,” the old dwarf said, again turning towards Grom.
“Master, I don’t want to sound impolite again, but the situation is developing. The undead masters showed up, and only your power is enough to compete with them. I fear that if you don’t intervene now, there won’t be long before the clan is overrun.” Horn said, through clenched teeth, then added in his mind, “If you don’t get your ass moving, I’m throwing you out of the window.”
Either the mage understood the subtext, or the flattery worked, as he replied, “Very well, mister Grom, we’ll talk more later. Duty calls!”
As the mage left, Horn asked the builder, “When will you be finished?”
“I told you this was delicate work. We’re balancing here on the verge of catastrophe. Do you know what these hoomans used as a mortar? My spit is more resilient!”
“Shouldn’t that be a good thing? Making your job easier?” Horn asked,
“Eh, ignorants! Ignorants all around me!” Grom exclaimed, “No, it doesn’t make it easier. Quite the opposite, one wrong move and the whole thing will collapse.”
“Fine, you’re the expert in here. So how much longer?”
“I need an hour or two to finish.”
“An hour?!” Horn shouted, “Not sure if you noticed, but a whole god damn army of undead will be crawling over this place in less than half that time. You have twenty minutes, make it, or get the hell out of here!”
A string of muttered curses came out of the builder, but then he just said, “Buy me as much time as you can. We’ll finish on time or die trying. Just don’t complain if the whole thing comes down on your head.”
“Deal.”
----------------------------------------
Back in the courtyard, the situation started to deteriorate. Again skeletons were jumping down the walls, as the fighters on them had to focus on taking cover then intercepting them. The number of skeletons coming through became worrying but not yet critical. Horn hauled his ass to the gateway, seeing Goran back there.
As he approached, the warrior took a few steps back and said, “Chieftain, we got two more stones. But that’s all.”
Nodding, Horn took the two soul crystals into his pouch, “Where’s Herrak and his gang? We need his mage and healer out here.”
“Didn’t you know? They left as soon as he woke up. He said something about a quest not being finished. They took ropes and went out behind the keep.”
“Moth-“ Horn cursed, “I hope he chokes on it. We’re entering the end game in here. Just hold them as long as you can, and be ready to get out. When the time comes, we’re evacuating through the crypts. And Goran – we leave no one behind, so no stupid heroics this time around!”
“Yes, Chieftain,” The dwarf replied.
“Good, take care,” Horn said, leaving.
----------------------------------------
49 minutes and 11 seconds.
Horn was standing on the wall or rather hiding behind a cracked rampart. The onslaught continued. His warriors were already on their last legs. Fighting for an hour was something one didn’t do regularly. Despite their skills, traits, and high endurance, they were tired, and mistakes were happening. The last count was two dozen down. His healers helped a bit, but they were also running on fumes. Yellowrock and one of the humans who was an air magic adept were battling the necromancers. The enemies were much stronger, and It wasn’t an even fight in the slightest, but at least they kept them wary.
Skeletal archers just showered the courtyard in arrows while the remaining undead kept climbing the walls. They covered almost every piece of them, turning the gray stone into a yellowish bone wall. As he peaked from his cover, he saw three enemy spellcasters closing the distance. The last one, the one responsible for coordinating the army, was left behind. He was covered by a squad of ogre skeletons and a dozen or so other undead but mainly was clear. Of course, he chose the position in the blind spot of Horn’s scorpions, and his impact on the battle was fierce. Horn wished he had a way to eliminate him. It’d make the rest of the fight much easier.
But wishes rarely came true. Looking at the new tide of undead just climbing the walls, he made the decision. He shouted, “Retreat! Abandon the walls, regroup at the keep!”
Surprised looks answered, but then his dwarves began falling back. Sergeants took care of organizing it. The next few minutes would be critical. Holding off skeletons with fewer and fewer men was just a recipe for disaster. At least Horn was feeling a bit better, his theory was correct, and his mana slowly regenerated. The maximum increased by a single point in the past half hour, but that was better than nothing. But he was well enough to throw himself into the fight. The next moments were a blur of hacking and smashing. He was almost sure he managed to do a ‘this is Sparta!’ kick on one of the skellies. The evacuation was going smoothly, but then the bats arrived.
Horn didn’t know where they came from, but he could imagine that the necromancers had something to say about that. But a swarm of small skeletal bats dropped on his dwarves. They weren’t very dangerous by themselves, but getting into hair, eyes, nose they created enough distraction for his ranks to dissolve. The organized retreat on the ladders turned into a rout, with more than a few dwarves just jumping down. The lucky ones didn’t break their legs. Horn was holding one of the ladders to allow his remaining warriors to get down when he saw Yellowrock fell. The dwarf was using a dozen of rocks to punch out a swarm of bats, only to not notice a skeleton creeping from the side. The undead swung hard, destabilizing the old mage and sending him to the ground. Horn could imagine the sickening crunch as the old geezer hit the ground head first. The damn battle was costing him too much – again.
On top of that, Grom probably wasn’t ready yet, and without his preparation, the whole battle was for nothing. Desperation began rising as a clear sound of a horn echoed through the battlefield. He knew that sound. It was the same they used in the goblin valley. He tried to localize the source, and a moment later, he found it.
From the crop of trees half a mile away, a score of boar riders emerged. Their leader was unmistakably Ingrid, finally showing up. But there were too many riders for the remainder to be the dwarves she took with her. Nevertheless, he watched as the group raced towards the undead. A group of them broke off the main host and moved to intercept.
The riders just kept coming twenty against hundreds. Their heads were up, without fear or without a thought. They would get slaughtered, but a hundred yards off, they smoothly broke off. Changing the direction on the fly in a perfect formation. Horn realized what they did. The host of undead covered them from the sight of the necromancers. Horn only saw them due to standing on the wall. The riders pivoted straight onto a lone necromancer controlling the undead. The skeletons were entirely out of position, and only his own guard of ogres could react.
The undead tried to defend, but the charge of half a ton boar wasn’t something easy to deflect, especially with Ingrid leading the charge. She had her trusty pitchfork, or rather the trident Horn saw in the vision. It glowed visibly even at a distance, and as soon as they closed within a dozen yards, lighting erupted from the tip. It struck the closest ogre, burning it to the crisp, but then it jumped to another and another. Five out ten dropped unmoving, creating a hole large enough for most riders to pass through. The regular undead behind didn’t stand a chance, being hacked, smashed, and trampled into true dead. The necromancer tried to raise a shield, but another lighting smashed it to pieces, and a moment later, his head was whisked from his neck. The effect on the army was immediate. The remaining skellies lost their organization. They still moved, but seemingly randomly.
However, Horn couldn’t keep watching as a few undead on the wall began to close to him. He only saw the whole riding squad turning back towards the forest, leading off a chunk of the army behind them. He quickly dispatched the closest enemies and refocused on his troops, “C’mon boys, let's get moving. They bought us a chance! Get your asses down there!”