Alaric tapped his staff on the ground. He really needed to stop doing that. His men would eventually catch on to his nervous tick, and he had enough issues with them already. Especially Sarrel. I’ll have to talk to Julius about him. He tapped his staff on the ground again. His antics have brought me nothing but trouble. The Lich cult had once been powerful, their members comprised of the best necromancers in Lonelen. But then the Justiciar’s and their holy war with the demons had started. Everything occult had to be purged after that, and that included them. The rabble of ungifted men before him were a testament to the times. Not even a single one could raise the dead. But maybe with time, one could develop the skill. Until then, he was stuck with them.

He tapped his staff on the ground.

And what a fine mess we’ve found ourselves in. Valmier was most likely dead, buried under rubble or blown to bits judging by the massive hole in the wall. Alaric still had his doubts the man before him could have done it. Valmier was powerful, stronger than Alaric himself, despite his years of training. But there is a strange aura to this man. Alaric glanced at the battered figure on the ground. His body was covered in cuts and bruises, his chain shirt torn and smeared with blood. One side of his face was seared off, but yet he still writhed under Klein’s boot. What am I to do with you? He reached up and scratched at his face, his mask of bone seeming to grow tighter the longer he waited.

Durin was still working on the locked door, his acid enhanced axe battering the hinges. Wouldn’t be long until it burst open. I just hope there’s no screaming. He couldn’t handle screams anymore, not since the Justicars burnt down his home. Even thinking about it sent a chill to his bones, and he tugged on his mask, the scarred flesh beneath burning from a memory.

“I will only ask one more time,” the man on the ground said. “Let us go.”

This one is persistent. “We can’t do that.” Even if Alaric wanted nothing more than to return home emptyhanded, he had his orders. Valmier and Alaric’s master had plans, and those plans were in jeopardy now. Valmier was their intermediary and without him the Lich cult had no one to deliver their messages to Grave Lord Victoria.

“My master will want to question you.” Alaric didn’t know why he was bothering to explain himself. But maybe part of him pitied the strange man. He had that despaired, fearful look in his eyes. Like a cornered animal. And Alaric had seen enough Justicars to know this man wasn’t one of them. But he’d killed Valmier, and that unfortunately made him an enemy.

The door crashed to the stone, Durin raising a palm at the person on the other side. “Drop that vial!”

There was a man on the other side, though Alaric had a hard time making him out. There was also a crumpled shape on the ground beside him, their fur armor stained red. It appears these are this man’s allies. He looked to the wounded man. Perhaps he can convince his friends to stand down. But something was wrong with him.

His head twisted to the side, his nostrils flaring. He was looking through the open doorway, his eyes wide. He sniffed the air, his body twitching.

“What’s gotten into him?” Klein said, pressing his boot down harder. “Settle down.”

“Drop that vial or I’ll melt your bones!”

“Stop squirming,” Sarrel said, drawing his knife.

The man on the ground writhed, something like a growl coming from him.

“Drop it!”

“Stop moving or I’ll get to carving.” Sarrel squatted, grabbing the white-haired man’s face.

“Someone give me a hand,” Klein asked, head swiveling.

Alaric tapped his staff on the ground.

“Finally understood?” Sarrel pressed the flat of his knife to the wounded man’s cheek. He stopped squirming, his face shifting from horror to anger, then back again.

Alaric stepped forward. “Sarrel, I told you I would not—”

The man on the ground jerked up and Sarrel screamed.

He spat, blood running down his chin, two of Sarrel’s fingers bouncing along the ground.

“You bastard!” Sarrel raised his knife.

From the shadows came swarms of oily, black shapes. They flew through the air, engulfing Alaric’s men one after another. They cried out, the small shapes biting into them, blood seeping from dozens of tiny wounds.

Are those bats? Alaric cast [Energy Shield] on himself, the black shapes disappearing as they slammed into the shell of blue. Klein yelled as the man beneath him twisted his head to face him, black bats appearing from behind him. They swarmed over him, and the man beneath his boot shot to his feet, his muscles tensed, his nose twitching as he sniffed.

He looked at Alaric, and the necromancer stepped back.

His crimson eyes narrowed to harsh slits. He snarled, his face all hard edges, animalistic fervor in his jerking limbs. Then he opened his mouth, his teeth glistening red as two fangs emerged. Alaric raised his palm and cast [Fire Bolt]. The ball of fire shot forward and struck the man's shoulder, turning his armor black and searing his face. But the beast pressed on, and so Alaric took another back step and dropped into a defensive stance, his staff charging with negative energy.

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The swarms vanished, and Sarrel lunged with his knife. But the fanged man was too fast, he stepped to the side and then grabbed Sarrel by his leather vest. Sarrel’s scream split the air the next second, cut silent as fangs tore into his throat. He jerked, body spasming as the beast pulled free, Sarrel’s neck spurting blood. And the man's burnt faced healed right before Alaric's eyes, the damage his spell had done vanishing.

“Klein!” Gadrin cried as the creature let Sarrel’s body drop.

Klein raised his axe and backed away, but it was on him too fast. Its left palm pressed into his stomach, purple energy flowing from Klein and into the creature’s body. Klein grimaced and swung his axe, the creature jumping back just in time. Then Durin was on it, a splash of acid catching the creature on the arm. It cried out, veins on its neck surging as it snarled.

Just a moment longer. Alaric’s staff was nearly done charging, they just needed to hold out for a little longer.

Another splash of acid flew toward the beast, but its shield of blood caught the spell. It dove under an axe swing, then pressed its right hand into Durin’s stomach. He screamed as acid from the man’s hand melted right through his armor and began eating at his flesh. But fangs found his throat the next second and his cries turned into hushed gurgles.

“Klein, Gadrin, to me!” Alaric shouted, his staff finally ready.

He’d underestimated the creature, and now two of his men were dead. But this will end it. “Gadrin, slow it when it gets close. I’ll do the rest.”

The beast snarled as it released Durin. The big man’s body hit the ground, his face ashen, drained of all life. The creature’s chest glistened red as it turned, eyes still narrowed in animalistic hunger, its wounds mending.

Alaric tapped his staff on the ground.

It charged, faster than he anticipated. But Gadrin still managed to cast [Minor Slow] on it, stifling its advance. Alaric thrust the tip of his staff forward, the third tier negative energy spell [Void Bolt] exploding forth. It collided with the creature’s chest, tendrils of negative energy spiraling out, the room flashing deep purple.

But the beast kept coming.

It had no effect? Alaric raised his arm, a ball of flame hurtling out in a desperate attempt to halt the monster. But a disk of blood appeared, blood seeping from around Sarrel’s corpse to fuel it. The shield blocked Alaric’s spell, then the beast was on them.

Klein stepped in with his axe, the swing fearful and off balance. The creature simply took a half step back before rushing in, its hands transforming into furred claws that raked across Klein’s stomach, splitting him open. Gadrin chopped down with his short sword, but it thudded against the monster’s chainmail, the blow too weak. And before Alaric could cast another spell, the beast had its fangs dug into Gadrin’s throat.

Alaric stumbled back as Gadrin’s sword fell to meet the bone scattered ground. Klein slid down the wall beside him, his hands trying to stop his guts from spilling out. Alaric sucked in a breath, his mask suffocating him.

And then he ran.

The sounds of ripping flesh came from the room above, Alaric’s heart pounding in his ears as he ran down the stairs. He gripped the pendant under his robe, the necromantic power within pulsing. The corpse they were to deliver would make a powerful undead, and with the power in his pendant, Alaric could raise it. Doing so would go against his orders, but it was a last resort. He had to do something or that beast would kill them all.

He pushed through an arched doorway and stepped outside, the stars above bright, lighting his path. Down a flight of stairs, he made it to the courtyard before the gate. The coffin and the men he left to guard it would be just around the corner. But then he smelled the smoke, and his heart dropped into his stomach.

The coffin was burning, his men’s bodies scattered about it, arrows jutting from a few of their corpses. Alaric took a step, bone snapping under his boot. What happened here? The undead and the living lay silent on the ground, their bodies crushed and burned by arcane flame. But Alaric had seen this before. Justicars. He looked about frantically, noticing the door leading to the center of the fort was open, the black armor of a defeated Death Knight nearby.

Then he noticed the sky. It should have been darker, muted by the Nether Gates presence. But it was clear, silver clouds lit by the stars clearly visible. Someone has destroyed it. A whistling split the air, and Alaric spun.

The arrow hit him on the shoulder, the armor beneath his robes blunting the strike. But he stumbled, just barely able to keep from falling over. Then from the shadows came a short man in the armor of a paladin, his mace glowing with holy light. A young archer stood not far behind him, another arrow already nocked.

Alaric grit his teeth, cast [Veil of Mist], and ran the other direction.

***

Fria opened her eyes. “Where…” she looked about. The room was dimly lit, sparse candles flickering here and there. Books, vials and containers littered the walls, dusty shelves bursting with various plants giving the room an earthy scent. But something else mingled with it, something pungent that sent her stomach twisting. She raised her head, but her midsection burned, the flesh pulling as if it was too tight.

Then she remembered the battle.

“Don’t move so quickly, you’ll ruin my stitching.” A short man squatted beside her, his hands covered in a dozen different smudged colors.

“Who are you?” She sat up, biting back the pain.

“A prisoner until not long ago. Can you walk? We must leave this place.” He looked over his shoulder to the yawning doorway, bright starlight flooding in from a massive hole in the fort’s wall.

“What happened?” She remembered fighting, her unique skill hitting Valmier. Then nothing. “Where is Darian?”

The short man rubbed his hands together nervously. “I don’t know.”

She leaned to the side and peered around him. The room beyond was decorated red. The bodies of several men lay on the ground, entrails and blood splattered over a horde of bones.

“Help me to my feet,” she asked. The man hooked her under the arm and together they limped into the room.

She stared at the bodies, their faces twisted in agony and horror. “Did Darian do this?” A memory came to her, fleeting and blurry, of his face hovering close to hers, his fangs out.

“Your friend slaughtered them,” the man said, his face growing pale. “Then he ran into the night. But he didn’t look well.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Like he was conflicted, almost fighting himself. He came to the room and just stood in the door staring at you, then he took to the stairs and disappeared.”

“We have to find him,” she said, grunting as a new wave of pain cut into her.

“First we need to find somewhere safe.” He gave her a worried onceover. “You’re lucky to be alive. I wouldn’t push it.”

But she couldn’t leave him out there. “I’ll rest first, but as soon as I recover, I’m going to look for him.” She looked into the sky beyond, the sun teasing the horizon, worry and doubt creeping into her heart.