The hooded Archbishop stood next to a large oakwood chair sculpted in dragon imagery. As he entered the room, Fran thought that the monk must be incredibly stressed out. He’d be sitting otherwise, trying to project a sense of control and authority.
“Your Holiness,” said Seros.
The Arbishop signaled at them to join him by the table at the center of the room, a table long enough to serve dinner for 20 people. The room was large enough for a hundred. Fran and his friends had descended so many stairs to get to this gloomy place that they couldn’t even tell if they were still overground. Probably not. The room lacked windows and the only light came from diffuse rectangular lamps hanging from the ceiling. The setting brought Fran back to his fragmented memories of the operating room where he lied while the monks healed him. He breathed deeply, trying to leave those memories behind. He had a lot to live for, and it all required focusing on the future.
“Is this an accurate map of Azgadal?” asked Fran, pointing at the large leather map on the table. Crude lines crossed the open scroll everywhere. It looked drawn by a child and describing it as medieval would have been a generous compliment.
“It’s the best available,” said the monk. “We never paid attention to geography.”
It bothered Fran that the man still hid his face under a deep hood, but he wondered if maybe that was for the best. What rituals did these monsters conduct? How would you look after years as a blood monk?
“No attention to maps. What about city defense?” asked Fran.
“That was never one of our duties,” continued the monk. “The captain of the guard will be arriving soon, but my subalterns inform me that he’s got 110 men under his command. Enough to keep order, but that’s all.”
“I guess that’s to be expected," replied Fran. "The guard is just a police force that breaks fights between drunk adventurers and quarreling merchants. That’s won’t do against thousands of orcs. The wooden palisade is basically useless too. It doesn’t even have an allure.”
“A what?”
“A wall-walk,” continued Fran. “The guards cannot climb to the top of the palisade and shoot arrows from a higher position.”
The monk moved his hands frantically. The tension was too much for him.
“We thought ourselves protected by a force more powerful than the Phoenix Legion," he said. "But now that the hour of need has arrived, our Lord Protector refuses to intervene. He told me you’ll be leading the defense effort and demanded that I don’t bother him under any circumstances, not even if the city falls. I’m beyond confused. We’ve been loyal to the great Azgal and paid him generous tribute. May I ask what’s your relation to the Lord Protector?”
“We don’t have the time,” Fran replied. “But rest assured that I’m as unhappy about Azgal’s passivity as you are. Without his help, saving the city from the orcs and their barbarian allies will be almost impossible.”
“Barbarians?” asked the monk.
“A mercenary band hides in the marsh across the lake,” replied Seros the lionman.
“Blood of a sorcerer!” shouted the monk. He seemed about to fall on his knees and weep. “I can’t believe the Lord Protector will forsake us. But maybe you, his envoys, can work the miracle. He must have picked you for a reason. May I ask you your names? Yours is Dhenn, the Lord Protector told me.”
“My name is Seros.”
“I’m Sancho.”
“Tsang-Cho?” The monk was intrigued. “You’re the first Imperial necromancer I ever heard of. People with your proclivities aren’t welcome in your home country, are they?”
“I feel welcome everywhere,” replied Sancho to the monk’s confusion. His skull’s white teeth grinned in the room’s red light.
The door opened and two more people joined the conversation. The first one was a dwarf with white hair, a stern face, and the old scars of a veteran mercenary. Next to him walked a creature that made Fran want to recoil in fear. It was the reptilian humanoid whose ‘consecration’ they’d interrupted back at the old temple. His armor was still pure black with white ores running through it, but it didn’t look oily anymore. Whatever unguent had covered it for the ceremony was gone. Blood, it must have been blood.
“I command you to speak freely in front of these men,” said the archbishop to the newcomers. “This man is called Dhenn and has been selected by Lord Azgal to lead the defense of our city.”
“I hope he can clarify the situation because what I’m hearing doesn’t make sense,” replied the dwarf. “Your Holiness knows I run the guard tighter than an Imperial battalion. The city’s under control, people can trade, go for a drink, and sleep safely in their homes. But I’m not running an army and Your Holiness knows it well. An orc horde will kill every guard and then the rest of the city. Azgal must intervene.”
“He won’t and that’s the end of the story,” said Fran. “We can’t waste more time discussing that.”
“Who are you?”
“Dhenn and Lord Azgal made me responsible for the defense of his city. I expect your full collaboration. Here you can see my friends Seros and Sancho. Every guard will obey their orders like they’re mine and so will you. What’s your name and your friend’s?”
The dwarf bowed his head.
“Hugül is my name. I come from a village nearby where I expected to retire from my work as a mercenary, but His Holiness convinced me to run the city guard for them. I’m beginning to wonder if it was a good idea.”
“And your friend?”
“Blacktongue is my name,” said the creature, mechanically bowing his head, like a knight wearing armor with poor flexibility. His voice was a burst of violence waiting to be unleashed.
A silence spread across the room.
“I’ll ask,” said Sancho eventually. “Please take no offense at my question, but what manner of creature are you?”
“A human being.” The reply came hesitant.
“That’s an armor?” asked Fran.
The creature nodded.
“I’ll put it to good use during the battle. That, and the Bloodsword His Holiness prepared for me. Sir, I humbly request that you grant me the honor of defending the south gate from the orcs. I will prove myself worthy of the generosity of His Holiness and our Lord Protector.”
“You’d be the only one standing between the city and an orc horde. Thousands of orcs,” said Seros.
“Good. I’m in a killing mood, and my blade thrives on dead enemies,” replied the armored warrior. His bloodshot eyes were all that was visible through his dragon helmet. Fran regarded the man with suspicion.
“Can you really stop the orcs or are you just wasting my time? And don’t tell me to allow you to prove yourself. I don’t care about giving you the opportunity, because if you fail, this city might fall.”
“It won’t fall if I defend it, my Lord Dhenn. My heart beats for battle.”
“What are my guards supposed to do?” asked the dwarf.
Fran pointed at everyone to join him by the large map of Azgadal.
“Most will defend the south gate. Make sure they place large heavy carts next to the entry. Discreetly. We’ll move them to block the gate once the orcs start their assault and not a minute before. You’ll supplement the guard by hiring every mercenary in the city with money from the monks, but again only at the last minute. The battle must remain a secret or the population will panic. You’ll also hire telepaths or magicians to can help us communicate during the battle. And you’ll set an area near the Inner Quarter for all magicians and clerics with healing powers.”
Stolen story; please report.
“Healing?” asked the archbishop. “Who would they be healing?”
“The wounded!” said Fran. It didn’t make an impact. The monk was visible exasperated at the idea of caring for the wounded.
Fran spent the next hour explaining his strategy for the battle. Hugül turned out to be as capable a leader as he was experienced. He nodded at every instruction and Fran didn’t need to repeat a single thing. The dwarf might have liked Fran’s strategy more or less, but he was clearly used to receiving orders and putting them into action. Exactly what the city needed.
The dwarf pointed his hairy index finger at the docks in the map.
“What about the port? How many men should I leave there to fight off this decoy attack?”
“I’ll know tomorrow, Hugül. I suspect the barbarians might be more important than Azgal thinks. Sancho and I will be making a reconnaissance trip to the marshes tonight. I wish we had more time. The dragon tells me that the orcs are almost ready. They’ll probably attack at the break of dawn two days for now. Remember this: Act fast, be discreet, and together we’ll save the people of Azgadal.”
----------------------------------------
The moon shone too brightly on Dhenn’s black-painted boat for him to feel comfortable. Fran was covered in dark robes and so was Sancho, his only companion on the recon trip to the marsh. Getting the necromancer dressed right had been a challenge. The shining blue lines of energy running through his body kept on shining through until they put a tunic and three thick capes over him. One layer, then another, then off to find more clothes for the shining necromancer. Sancho had laughed like a madman until Seros and Fran couldn’t resist his contagious joy anymore and broke into laughter too. Fran welcomed the moment of comic relief. He knew it would be the last one for a while.
Fran rowed slowly as the boat entered the Northern edge of the marshes. He’d picked that approach because it was the most distant area from the city. Ships coming from the North went straight into the Azgadali docks across the marsh. They never turned West toward the uninhabited wild marshes. Why would they?
The ruse seemed to be paying off. The boat sailed into the marsh without incident. When Sancho and Fran reached a solid area, they continued on foot. They walked slowly, especially Fran, who checked the ground before taking each step. Sancho had more experience in this kind of terrain.
“The ground on this marsh feels more solid than at mine. Easier to walk over. But it still reminds me of my poor zombies. I wonder if they miss me. Do you know whether zombies miss their necromancers?”
Soon they heard gruff male voices in the distance and the moon-lit darkness gave way to sparse fires and the silhouettes of men drinking and eating in circles. Sancho and Fran avoided them carefully. They found more groups as they advanced. One, two, five, ten. Dozens of them. Fran felt his heart sink.
“There’s easily two hundred men here,” said Sancho. “Your friend the dragon miscalculated.”
Fran nodded and pointed to the group just a few meters away. A handful of long-haired Asian men in well-kept Imperial armor. They were cleaning their weapons methodically by the fireplace. Fran thought they had the look of professional military men, not go-with-your-gut barbarians always ready for a good drink and a good fight.
Another man approached their fire and asked them for something. One of them, whose long green hair reached almost to his waist, shook his head firmly. The others didn’t even move. So that was their leader.
“What about you, friends? Do you have any drinks to share with a fellow adventurer? The stronger the better. I’ve been building boats for four days. My hands need to take a break from hammers and hold a good glass of wine instead.”
A shiver run through Fran's spine. That man was talking to him and Sancho! He could see them despite the night, the mist and their dark clothes.
The stranger took a few steps toward Fran.
“What do we do?” whispered Sancho.
“Run the moment I say so,” replied Fran. “Meanwhile, act natural.”
The stranger became visible. A blue-eyed Kliogan man wearing the clothes of a highwayman who’d seen better days.
“Can you hear me, friends? Oh, it's you! The man who can jump a table! What was your name again?”
Fran’s mind raced trying to decide what to do. This man must recognize him from his evening of fun and games in The Wayward Son back in Kliogos.
“We weren't introduced on that day, but I remember your skill,” he said. “You were with that explorer, Ulrume, was it? Adamos is my name. I haven't seen you around, but there's so many of us. Have you been building boats too? I'm sick of it. I can’t wait get to get my hands on that dragon’s treasure.”
Fran forced himself to smile and stepped forward to shake the man’s hand.
“I’m Dhenn, and this is my friend Sancho," he said, immediately regretting the lack of fake identities. "Your memory is excellent, Adamos. I must admit I can’t remember you from The Wayward Son.”
“But I do,” said the stranger. He turned to the mercenaries. “Hey guys, come over and say hello. An imperial necromancer is among us! Tsang-Cho, right? Am I pronouncing it right? These good men are from your country.”
The leader of the Imperial mercenaries, or renegades, or whatever they were, stood up and gave Sancho an inquisitive hard look. The mercenary's mind struggled to process the information his eyes were sending to his brain. He was bewildered to meet a necromancer from the Empire, two concepts that just didn't go together, and his voice emerged as a barely audible trickle of sound.
“Which prefecture are you from, Tsang-Cho?”
Sancho approached the man and looked directly into his eyes.
“Speaking of the land of my youth is too painful, sir.”
The mercenary leader nodded thoughtfully. He regarded them like he was trying to memorize the faces of these new strangers. That’s when it hit Fran: These guys weren’t mercenaries. They must be imperial spies, sent to infiltrate the raid on Azgadal. Did that mean the Empire was behind the attack, or were they just monitoring it? Either way, Fran knew that he needed to avoid the attention of these taciturn warriors.
“Adamos, where are you and your friends staying tonight? Anywhere fun?”
“I was looking for alcohol, but no one has any left. I need some! Can you believe we’ve been cutting these crappy marsh trees for almost a week now? Boats, boats, and more boats but no one thought about beer and wine. The logistics of this raid leave a lot to be desired.”
“That’s hardly a surprise when you deal with orcs,” replied Fran.
Everyone welcomed the opportunity to smile at the quip. One of the Asian soldiers glanced at Sancho and asked the question that must have burning inside him since the necromancer showed up.
“Are you, how shall I put it, an assistant to the Tormentor?”
The group’s leader shot the man a quick glance of disapproval but said nothing.
“I respect the Tormentor, but I assist no one. We are equals,” replied Sancho. Fran was impressed. Was the man a great improviser and a talented actor? Perhaps the lack of facial features helped. It makes reading lies difficult.
Sancho’s words changed the mood immediately. The Asian men stood still, intimidated and uncomfortable by the presence of this man who called the Tormentor his equal.
“We are thankful for the opportunity,” said their leader with an absolute lack of sincerity. “Please thank the Tormentor from us if you have the chance. He holds a war council not a hundred paces from our fire. We’d love to meet him in person. Such a ruthless necromancer is almost unheard of.”
Fran was now sure these men were spies. They wanted something from the Tormentor. Information, probably, or perhaps gaining his trust to manipulate him to the Empire’s benefit.
“I’ll go meet the Tormentor now,” said Sancho. “Dhenn, you’ll have to leave your fun for later.”
Dhenn nodded like he was obeying orders from a superior and bid farewell to Adamos and the group. They walked on, avoiding the fires of the mercenaries until they finally reached a large tent. Smaller ones lied scattered everywhere, but this one was three meters tall, made of the finest purple fabric, and big enough for two dozen men. The front was open and there were no guards. Fran was a bit surprised by the lack of security, but the mercenaries by the fires were all relaxing rested without a worry in their hearts besides the cold, wet marsh where they hid. An uncomfortable resting place, but also the perfect hideout.
Sancho and Fran crouched to minimize the probability of meeting the gaze of someone in the tent. Finally, the people inside the tent became visible. Not an orc in sight. Just big, hard men in armor, standing in a respectful semi-circle around the leader, the famed Tormentor. He was a human too, but with the gauntest face that Fran had ever seen. Unlike in Sancho’s case, flesh covered his bones, but he looked like he’d been dead for a hundred years and didn’t enjoy a minute of it. He spoke with authority, and his voice hovered like a scary echo from beyond the grave. The men next to him feared his presence almost as much as they loved the money they expected to make by associating with this unnatural creature.
“Tomorrow you must build as many boats as possible, for we’ll attack the morning after.”
“There’s more than enough,” said a burly man in leather armor.
“I say otherwise,” replied the necromancer, not in a threatening manner, but, simply, decisively. “We have dozens of boats, but we'll need a hundred. The number of corpses resting in this marsh is greater than expected and your boats must have room for all of them.”
“We’ll build the boats, Aggar the Tormentor,” said another man.
“Assign two men to each boat. It will be enough as long as they’re strong enough to row a boat with ten of my slaves. I know your little superstitions, but tell them there's nothing to fear from the zombies: magic will revive the worthless dead as my obedient slaves. Have your men row them to the docks and I’ll unleash a thousand restless souls on Azgadal. The Orcish cannon fodder will distract the dragon’s attention, and by the time his flame turns to my zombies, your men will be deep in the dragon’s cave. But remember: Coin is for fools. Grab all the magic items you can instead: The magic swords and crowns and rings and scrolls and pins and spears and shields, books, bottles and boxes. Take everything.”
The men nodded obediently. Their eyes shone with the golden flame of greed, but behind lurked a great fear of this man who commanded that which should be dead.
“Yes, great Aggar. We’ll take advantage of the confusion and exit the city in small groups. Then, we’ll regroup up North in two days and split the treasure. We thank you for your leadership and wisdom, Tormentor.”
Fran felt the iron grip of a bony hand on his forearm.
“That son of a bitch doesn’t respect the dead,” said Sancho. “He’s going to revive them to use them like they’re objects. He’ll be violating their souls.”
“Lower your voice, Sancho!”
“Sorry, Dhenn. Let’s please go now. We know their plan and I’m not sure I can control myself anymore. What a fucking piece of shit. He’s the worthless one!”
Fran dragged away the necromancer as quickly as he could. They returned to their boat without incident and rowed back to the city under the stars. Sancho spent the whole journey listing the ways in which he’d kill Aggar the Tormentor. Fran kept quiet the whole trip back. Saving thousands of lives had become his responsibility, and the prospects of victory had just gone from very unlikely to absolutely impossible.