The night air was dead silent as Darian stepped through the portal. The others had all gone through before him, and they stood like statues beside the trunk of a felled oak tree. Two Dryads stood not far from them, watching the forest with keen eyes. They must be the scouts Raphael mentioned. They all turned as Darian approached.

Their mission in concept was simple. They were to infiltrate the Lich Cult’s fortress via a back entrance. Once inside, they would seek out the Aspirant of Fire within. If he was an enemy, Darian was to kill him. Otherwise, by choice or force, he was to be taken to the sanctuary. Where I will turn him into a vampire. Once again Darian questioned the morality of his actions. But if he did not defeat Aspirants, the others would kill him. And now that the Gods were involved, he needed strong allies. Part of him still doubted Raphael’s plan, but he would follow along for now.

“I’ve never heard a night so silent,” Lucia mumbled, Almeda at her side. “It as if nothing lives. Even the wind is absent from this place.”

“It’s an omen,” Jorg said, his eyes taken by a warrior’s resolve. “But we must press on.”

Alistair exchanged words with the scouts, and then the group set off for the fortress.

“This tunnel you mentioned, are you sure it hasn’t collapsed?” Darian asked the pale faced necromancer. He’d recovered some from his imprisonment, but his cheeks were still sunken, and a sickly edge still claimed his features.

“The Old Empire built their fortresses to last, and this included their secret escape tunnels.” He smirked. “Just be glad one of my rather drunk colleagues showed it to me. Otherwise, we’d have to take our chances going through the front gate.”

There came a booming crash in the distance, and for a second the night sky erupted with light.

“What was that?” Darian asked, noting that Yazliar was grinning.

“Zander,” Almeda answered. “The assault has begun.”

***

Oliver coughed, his ears ringing and his head pounding like he’d taken an exe to the skull.

“What happened?” he called, his voice lost behind the rumble of stone and the shout of frantic orders.

He leaned onto his elbow and pushed up, his eyes peering through the dusty haze as the camp below sprung into life. The undead and dwarves were swarming the battlements, but an entire section of the wall was missing. Blown away as if a giant’s fist had crushed it. On his feet, Oliver stared at the gaping hole.

How? He turned and noticed the satyr man was still standing in the field. But the ground before him was torn apart, the earth parted all the way to the wall. Then, with horror rising in his chest, Oliver watched as the satyr prepared another punch.

***

Zander focused on his fist and activated [Lion’s Roar], [Ultimate Strike], and [Sunder]. The combination would guarantee his next attack would both be a projectile and be terribly powerful. He could only use the combination one more time, but his enemies wouldn’t know that. And with three holes blasted in the fortress’ walls, he figured they’d be keen to come out and face him. If any are brave enough.

He squinted at the fortress. The forces of the Lich Cult and dwarves could maybe whittle him down eventually, but Zander figured he could slaughter most of them by himself. None but the Lich lord himself could pose a threat to him. But this was to be Darian’s test. Though I am to ensure his success.

Inhaling, Zander launched his next attack.

***

Oliver dove behind a wagon just as the wall exploded. He kept his head down, but he could hear the stone collide with flesh and bone. Screams were cut short, and within moments chaos had swallowed the world.

Jumping to his feet, he observed the carnage, his heart thumping in his throat. Many of the tents had been flattened, and torn bodies littered the ground. The undead, who felt no fear, soldiered on. They marched in lockstep for the gate, others heading for what was left of the wall. But with two holes in it, the integrity was starting to fail. As he was watching, more than one section crumbled on its own.

“To arms!” came the voice of Trallis, one of the dwarven commanders.

The old grey headed dwarf was stood atop a stack of crates, bellowing orders at his men, his golden hammer in hand. He waved it about like a child does a stick, no one heeding his words. But Oliver couldn’t blame them. He’d be running if his legs hadn’t turned into water.

Then came a third, monstrous boom. The gate shuttered, then exploded in a flash of golden light. Wood, stone, and bodies came flying through the air like arrows. They struck man and monster, a Bone Knight crumbling as a hunk of rock caved its chest in. Worst was Trallis, whose head was blown clean off by a wayward timber from the gate.

Someone slammed into him, and Oliver fell. Tasting the cold, wet earth, he looked up to see several of the dwarves fleeing for the inner fortress. He was keen to follow them, but what good could extra walls do? That thing outside would kill them all.

I have to escape! Oliver pulled himself upright, his whole body shaking from fear. But he knew the old fortress had an escape tunnel. Though I don’t know if the tunnel is stable enough to take, and I have no idea where it goes.

“More approaching!” someone cried from near the wall.

“Form ranks!” another useless voice called.

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“Screw this,” Oliver said, turning for the fortress.

He would take his chances with the tunnel.

***

The scouts led them through the forest for over an hour, silent all the while. Everyone was running, Jorg’s armor clinking in the dark. He and Darian felt no fatigue, but the others were robust. Even the massive orc was bounding through the forest with surprising speed and grace. But Alistair was still diminished from his prior imprisonment. Almeda kept casting a stamina restoring spell on him to keep him going, but his breathing was ragged. Eventually Darian spotted the fortress ahead—a great mass of stone that stuck up from the mountainside.

The closer they got to the distant fortress, the more Darian’s heart raced. Not from fear, but from excitement. His time within the sanctuary had been nice. Having a true break from conflict had been welcome, but his body yearned for battle. In his old life, getting out of bed had been a struggle all its own. He’d always assumed he would enjoy a life without conflict. Searching for such a life was the very reason he set off from Fria’s village. But if bloodshed was going to find him, he would welcome it with open arms.

They passed through a clearing, a rock face staring at them from the other side. The cliff was oddly shaped, cutting across a wide topped hill that looked like a miniature plateau.

“The tunnel comes out here,” Alistair said, wiping the sweat from his brow, his hands gripping his bent knees.

Yazliar stepped forward cautiously, his massive blade ready to obliterate any potential enemies.

Lucia and the dryad scouts spread out and formed a perimeter, but Darian was certain the area was clear.

“And you are certain?” Almeda asked.

“As one can be.” Alistair approached the cliff.

“Lallet,” Darian called. The little fairy had been following behind them the whole time, watching so silently Darian had almost forgotten she was with them.

“Tell Raphael we are nearing the fortress.”

Lallet closed her eyes, and Darian figured she must be communicating with her sister. Though he wondered what good such a thing would even do. Raphael was far away, and any help he sent would probably arrive too late.

“Where is the door?” Yazliar asked, his voice edged by impatience.

“Perhaps the flesh shaper lies?” Lucia said, her fingers tight against her bowstring.

Alistair simply sighed and kept running his hands along the cliff face.

“Allow me to assist.” Almeda stepped behind the necromancer and sunk her hands into the frosted soil.

“What is she doing?” Jorg wondered aloud.

“Searching with roots,” she quietly answered. “Seeing if I can feel a door or tunnel beyond this cliff.”

They stood in silence and waited, the only sound coming from the gentle buzz of Lallet’s wings.

“There is something there.” Almeda closed her eyes.

The rock wall shook, parting in the center as a gate appeared before them. It opened slowly, tearing through the cliff wall and sending chunks of rock to scatter the ground.

“Nice work,” Alistair said, stepping back.

“I did nothing.” Almeda stood, her body rigid. “Someone else opened the door.”

***

The dwarf’s sword bounced off Zander’s arm. Smiling at the little man’s confusion, he tore his head off with a swift backhand. Then he kicked, crushing a Death Knight’s leg. His satyr warriors finished it off as he pressed forward, his fists ripping through bodies with each punch.

His skills [Impenetrable Bastion] and [Vanquish the Meek] would render anyone lower than level thirty effectively useless against him. Their strikes would harmlessly slide off his skin, hitting him like a gentle breeze. Which meant that for the next ten minutes, the rabble before him was helpless. And when the skills wore off, he would simply activate them again.

Really, why did Raphael not allow me to crush these vermin on my own? He’d known the God of Seasons for over a hundred years, yet his decisions still confused the old satyr. Ah well, soon our work here will be done.

More and more undead were pouring from the fort, with dwarves bolstering their numbers. Yet their magic and might meant nothing in the face of such power. Even if one of them managed to land a direct blow, it would be like the bite of an ant.

The things you make me do, Lord Raphael.

***

Oliver stumbled up the steps toward the inner fortress. As he reached the peak, he glanced back.

The area in front of the fort was filled with bodies. Most belonged to the undead, with swathes of zombies and skeletons decorating the ground. But many belonged to the mercenaries, and their blood painted the snow red.

“Fools,” Oliver whispered, his breath misting.

He turned for the door when the stone in his pocket began to burn.

Then, from a nearby swirling mass of solid darkness, the demon Azlar appeared.

“What is happening?” He asked, the black tattoos across his red face swirling.

Oliver wanted nothing more than to run, but Azlar held Oliver’s soul.

“The fortress is under attack.” He gestured at the wrecked outer wall.

“Lord Atarax will not be pleased by this.” The tattoos settled as dark circles around the demon’s amber eyes. “But who attacks? The Justicars?”

“No! Some mad goatman and his fellow barn animals. It’s him who punched all those holes into the wall.”

Azlar’s face went slack. “Satyrs? Here? Are you sure?”

“See for yourself,” Oliver said. “I plan on getting out of here.”

“Fine,” the demon said, a wicked smile exposing his pointed teeth. “Your time here was nearing an end as it is. But we will be speaking again, once this is over.”

Oliver wanted to respond with a scathing retort. After all, the demons didn’t inform him they had plans with the lich cult. They’ve always been playing me, putting me wherever they please. Like a toy. The black stone in his pocket burned. It was probably how the demon teleported to him so casually. Perhaps I will lose it in the escape? He grinned, noting the demon had his eyes fixed on another.

***

Zander’s palm struck the Bone Golem in the ribs, and the beast’s body shattered into dust. A dozen more of them, and perhaps they could manage to scratch me.

“Commander!” one of his men called. “What is that?”

The sky above the fortress’ inner wall blazed bright crimson, and a figure took to the air, moving so swiftly only Zander could see it.

“Move!” he called, but he knew it was too late.

He activated his skills [Enlightened Defense] and [Elemental Bastion] before ducking low. The world erupted into flame, and all the men around him, allies and enemies, were reduced to ash in an instant. Then a figure came hurtling down from the heavens, his demonic wings leaving a jet of flame behind him.