“Move.” Christoph motioned for his personal guards to follow him. They curved up along the small hill they’d hidden behind, leaving the horses tied up to the tree line out of view, and began turning toward the southern gate. It was still a long walk that required them to move through an open flatland where even grass offered very little cover.

“Are we to exterminate the entire village?” Calzion asked as he stared toward the walls. It sounded cold and anxious.

“What if I said, ‘yes?’” Christoph kept a steady march toward the gate. Even if someone saw him, he wasn’t worried about the arrows or spears. This didn’t come from confidence in himself or his abilities. This came from the undead apathy. Whatever will come, will come. I’ll just take as many with me as I can. It first seemed like a resolve to die, but he recalled the monsters within The Spire. No, I’ll take as many as I can before they flee. I’m not dying here. Not now.

This sudden shift in his thinking, the conflict between the living and the dead, drew out the unhallowed aura of the lich. It wasn’t the fear-inspiring skill it had been before. No, this aura was one of confidence—of absolute resolve.

Gitma and Calzion both followed their master. They thought, if only for a moment, how dangerous it was to walk right up to the gates. It was only a moment. Doubt was quickly expelled from their minds as the black aura surrounded their master. They had been prepared to die for him should the time come, but now they were ready to fight for him—to survive with him. There was nothing, in their minds, that could stop them. The King of the Undead led the way, and they would follow him through every layer of Hell.

How lucky they were that barbarians hadn’t taken to the towers. There had been a discussion amongst their people, or rather their remaining leaders, that any standing in the towers might break the illusion that everything was perfectly normal. Someone that looked even slightly different may pull watchful eyes from their otherwise willful ignorance.

One had explained how stealing clothes might allow them to fake it.

The next explained this away, “These pasty skins work neither field nor forest. Tanned skin alone is enough to a careful man.”

So, the three monsters covered the distance without distress. There were those ready to act on the other side of the wall, should something occur, but our trio couldn’t see or hear them. Smell was another matter entirely. Gitma could smell a considerable population behind the wood. It was the dirty and unmistakable scent of traveling humans. Liquid ran from beneath the mask that covered her face as the scent of the filthy persons couldn’t mask the delicious aroma of meat. There was plenty of it behind that wall, and she was ready to remove any in her master’s way so they could partake in the bounty.

Calzion placed his hands at his side. Each blade was in its place. He felt along every handle to ensure he’d be prepared when the time came.

A disguised dragonkin, a half-elf, and some unknown monster moved toward the gates with their hoods drawn. Each held the undying resolve to end the invaders within—though each had their reasons.

DSH. DSH. DSH.

Christoph’s hand reached out and knocked against the gate. He held back his anger because it wouldn’t do him any good to have to tear the walls down. He’d let them open the gate. He’d make sure they were his enemy—those that had stolen his family.

Then he would kill them.

He’d use the training of his human life, the power of his dragonkin body, and the uncaring nature of being undead to exact his revenge. It was what he felt needed to be done. He needed this more than anything in that moment.

“Open up, town of Carmoss!” He called out over the high walls. His voice carried on the wind, but there was no immediate answer. He rose his hand again and rattled the slabs of wood that had been erected and fastened together to form the gate. “Can anyone hear me?!”

There was movement. He could hear footsteps across the dirt. It was faint, but they were definitely moving. Two were approaching the gate. He could hear one drawing some sort of weapon—the way metal scraped lightly against leather caught his attention. Another soft tap of wood on wood, followed by a stretched sound like stripping off a pelt, told him an arrow had been readied.

Christoph looked from the side of his vision to his companions on either side. His eyes were wide in his human disguise as if to say, Ready yourselves. None of the enemy survive.

There was a hushed moment as those within the walls tried to sneak closer and take the newcomers by surprise. Those outside the walls stood at the ready for whatever might open up. Which side would move first? Which would take the first shot, or stab, or even the first thrown fist?

Could there not be negotiations? Couldn’t they work through these times with words?

Absolutely not. Christoph heard the figure with the metallic weapon step against the wall. From between the boards that made the solid gate, a scent of sweat and flesh seeped through. The dragonkin flared his nostrils and took in the smell of his first victim.

Click. There was a sound like wood and metal suddenly being separated. A few more mechanisms were unlatched or unlocked. Then, a smaller section of the gate opened—a hidden door within a larger door.

“Wha’?” The man that opened only a crack in the smaller gate peeked through with one eye. Christoph could see dirt around his eyes, a bit of shaggy black hair falling from his head, and the look of someone that was expecting trouble. This unknown man examined Christoph with a narrowed stare, but he did shoot quick glances at the two others.

“Please, open up. I have business with the officials of this town.” Christoph had no idea who the leaders were. This was a bigger town. Do they have a chief? Unsure, he rolled through the lie with a confident tone.

“Who are ya?” The man’s voice was trembling a bit as if he were straining to speak. Christoph narrowed his eyes at the peculiar fluctuations that his keener ears could now perceive.

“I misheard. Could you repeat that?” Look for a sign. If he wasn’t involved, he doesn’t need to die. Christoph leaned closer to the door, to which the man cautiously inched the door closer to closing.

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It became suddenly difficult to restrain the undead personality—to not sentence the man to death without proof.

“Ah asked,” the word came out stressed like ass-kud, “who are ya?” The man didn’t have a stutter. It was the voice of someone trying to fit in—trying to mimic.

“We’re from the capital.” Christoph moved closer to the door.

The man’s eyes opened wide as the human visage approached. Then, they narrowed again in acceptance of the challenge. Flinging open the door, the man revealed himself to be wearing clothes similar to the warriors Christoph had faced in the sea of grass. Furs and leather rose up around his shoulders but didn’t cover his entire torso. His hair was matted to one side which lifted all together as he swung his axe at the newcomer.

Christoph continued to walk forward. The man’s movements were sudden and might have caught some off-guard, but they seemed sluggish and easily read to the dragonkin. His limbs tingled as if he were moving through water, but it was because the heat of this moment ignited his mind. The rest of the world resisted him, yet he moved as a force of nature to close the gap and counter the attack.

When the axe came down at an angle, the man yelled out in what had been meant for a vicious war cry. However, a hand reached out and halted the axe. No flesh was carved. No blood was spilled. The blade shook in the palm of the boy that began to step through the opening.

Christoph examined the blade as he took another step. He’d seen it coming and felt it was beneath him—it looked as if it wouldn’t have had the velocity to even cut through his gear and into the skin. So, he’d put up a hand and pinched it as if plucking an insect from the air.

Opening himself due to disbelief, the man tugged as best he could on the axe. It twisted a bit in the cloaked boy’s hands, but it wouldn’t release from his grip. With each step the newcomer took, the barbarian man took another back in hopes of keeping his distance.

The second person waiting to strike within the walls had aimed their arrow. It was just as Christoph had heard. Raising the bow and exhaling, the arrow loosed. Seeing this occur, Christoph yanked on the axe. With sudden force, the surprised barbarian leapt forward—refusing to drop his weapon. Though he thought the intention was to disarm him, the real reason became painfully clear.

“Dah!” An arrow sunk into the meat of his right shoulder. The melee range man had been pulled between the archer and his target. Seeing this, the man with the quiver growled through clenched teeth and reached for another arrow.

Christoph had now stepped over the bottom log that made the frame of the gate and entered the town of Carmoss. His attacker had collapsed on the ground, gasping for air. It would seem the arrow had struck a lung which was now filling with blood. The man coughed and struggled to drag himself away from the encroaching death.

Ignoring him, Christoph lifted the axe and took hold of the handle with his free claw. He examined the archer who was now drawing the string for a second shot from about ten meters away. His arm would have to swing back and then forward to release the axe. Taking this speed into account, it would seem at least one arrow would be shot.

Then the archer groaned out, “Guh!” A handle stuck up from the man’s throat on the left side. He stumbled backwards and fell to the ground with blood trying to escape the neck; only an initial spurt preceded the trickling crimson. Writhing on the ground, the man attempted to put pressure to the wound or cease the pain—neither would help. He’d fall to silence in moments.

Christoph looked over his shoulder through the doorway where Calzion stood with one hand outstretched. One of his daggers was removed from its scabbard and now implanted into the dying man’s neck. Two barbarians bled into the streets nearest the gate, yet no alarm seemed to have been raised.

Nodding to the half-elf, Christoph kept his voice low, “Take only those I miss.” At first, Calzion believed himself to be reprimanded, but his master continued. “Thank you.”

Overwhelmed with pride, the two guards to The King of the Undead looked even more prepared. Into the fray, the two stepped through the threshold to follow their master.

Christoph had already begun to move—still carrying the iron axe that once belonged to a dead man. Calzion retrieved his projectile dagger and caught up with Gitma—the monster that sniffed at the air and quietly motioned to her master which way the scents were coming from.

The door on the gate had opened up to one of the towers of the town standing to the left and a storehouse out ahead of it; about another fifteen meters after the slain archer. From here, there was a wide street that could handle two or three carriages easily enough that pedestrians could still wander freely. Across the street, there were another series of buildings constructed within a few feet of the wall where no gate or extra doors would be blocked.

Dirt kicked up slightly at a light breeze, but the street itself was completely lifeless. It would seem no one had heard their entrance even with the two men’s pained deaths. They’d remained somewhat hushed as lungs or throats restricted their voices.

This is going well. Christoph grinned as he walked upright; completely unconcerned with any watching eyes or patrolling enemies. This confidence was valid, yet it was an unattractive intensity.

Standing in the center of the road through town, Christoph breathed in deeply… though he didn’t need to. It was going to be a moment to remember. It was what he waited for.

“Calzion.” Christoph growled the name with a grin—still disguised as a taller version of his human self. “Lock the gate behind us and then move around the buildings to lock the other one. Make sure no one can escape.” He then glanced over at Gitma. “How many are there?”

Gitma’s eyes sped from side to side and then around in circles; never going the same direction. “My Lord, there are forty-seven remaining that I can smell.” She took an exaggerated whiff, but her face’s nostrils never moved.

“Good. Then I can begin.” He stepped down into the street and listened to the various noises of the town. Nothing was obnoxiously loud or disruptive, but there were definitely people in the buildings near him. He could hear them laugh, hear them yell, and hear the various sounds of people living life.

He intended to rob them of this. They’d done the same to his family… to his village. Or rather, they’d done worse. He knew what these sorts of attacks meant for the children, for the women… by the gods… his mother. What she might have gone through.

Those disguised claws clenched tightly. Wood began to splinter slightly in the one gripped hand. Standing still in the center of the road, he looked out over the buildings and listened… taking in all that existed here before it all disappeared.

Once Calzion had signaled the gates were blocked and locked, Christoph saw him wave across the town—about fifteen buildings down. Two ways out. Homes and some smaller structures were to the east behind the main strip. Everyone would have to funnel through this one road.

A shiver went through Christoph. His two guards took their positions, one near each gate. This was the moment he’d been thinking of for every second since he’d seen his home destroyed—since he heard the Chief’s tale of woe. A fear, immense and sudden, overtook even the undead mind.

This fear stilled his body as he tried to settle himself. The storm would come in just moments, and he tried to prepare. A soft breeze blew up the loose dirt of the road and howled by his ears. This fear gripped him.

It was not a fear of their numbers. Nor their weapons. Nor their skills. Not even a fear that they might overtake him.

It was a fear that one might escape.

“Come, invaders! Come and meet your ends!”