22th of Firstleaf, third month of 984

Samil retracted her sword from the now defunct body as she turned to check on what was left of the surrounding trench. Screams of fury and pain twisting her perceptions, she focused on what she needed to see. The trench had been overtaken. Their army had been unable to resist the charge of the false Queen’s elite and had engaged in an insurmountable and chaotic melee. The sounds of yet another knight charging at her made her turn to the new threat to see an arrow burrow into its left eye, felling them.

‘Should I give the order to retreat?...No, we would face complete annihilation… Reinforce with the countess’ troops?...Too far away…..Stand our ground and wait for reinforcements?...’ Her mind overheating, doubt overtook her. She had neither the training nor the natural charisma to command an army. Even more, she was too shaken to reach a solution and stick to it, the weight of failure casted a too impassable obstacle.

Another knight cut into her panicked contemplations and forced her instincts to kick in. Sidestep an overhead strike. Feint a stab. Kick the shield to the side. Plunge the sword into their chest. Do not look at their eyes. Hold it in. ‘Slowly advance towards the main force?...’ Her eyes turning to the far west, the countess’ position was as good as theirs.

“Retreat to your kind. We will take it from here.” Eve’s cold words were akin to the light of salvation, taking the burden of responsibility and duty from her hands. As they echoed in her ears, Eve’s figure descended onto two knights, who were winning against one of the barony’s soldiers, and tore out their throats, not even flinching after tanking two stabs, not bothering to dislodge the swords.

As if that had been their warhorn, dozens of undead sprung from the trees and in a shower of steel and cold indifference. The honourable melee of knights against lightly trained farmers turned into an impromptu ambush, leaving the last three hundred men in a sudden respite, safe from their enemies. A new wave of curses emanating from the traitors, the line was pushed forward.

Feeling all the exhaustion she had accumulated, she clutched her left shoulder and nodded. “...Do you have a plan…” Asked between ragged breaths.

The sound of cavalry, far away, only reached undead and elven ears. Eve said, in a monotone, “Yes I do. I won’t repeat myself again. Retreat, now.” and swiftly dashed forward.

….

Johan flew over the plains, leading its fellow siblings into a liberating charge. Unbothered by the smoke and ashes that had taken upon themselves to cover all of the battlefield, it readied its pyke. While charging into a forest was madness, the enemy army was big enough to have reservists waiting to reinforce the battle outside of the forest. ‘How many of my fellows will die by my orders.’ Dark thoughts had been stalking it over the last days. How much did they have to break for them to be granted the same respect others got by mere birthright? It didn’t know. ‘Even so. I take solace in advancing. I can take pride in knowing I am doing the right thing, for saving another’s life is always a good thing….And my siblings follow me just the same. Full of doubts, full of questions. We are, we feel alive just the same. The same as them.’

Its hand bones creaking due to the strain of the force it was holding the pyke, it kicked the undead horse to make it go faster. The long run turning into a reckless run, they impacted like lightning. The enemy’s feeble try to form a spear wall completely dwarfed by their low morale, they cut through like a keel cuts the sea.

The pyke bending and breaking, Johan unsheathed its sword. His horse falling and crushing into the ground, it got up and fought the same, while its siblings passed by or stood their ground. A mace breaking his left arm, it retorted in kind, its sword beheading the attacker. Nonetheless, two hundred could not best what was left of the men at arms of the duchess. And, while the damage had piled enormously, it had proved to not be enough, for they haven’t broken lines.

Seeing a sword closing in, Johan sighed, tired beyond what an undead should be able to feel, knowing it had carried all of its brothers and sisters to true death. Still, it fought on, not daring to let its death be quick. Parrying the new sword, it raised its leg and kicked the offended backwards. A real warhorn resounded now, not that it gave it any attention. Evading and stabbing, shielding others and being shield. Its small rebelion a beacon of discipline and trust, the undead managed to reform a semblance of formation while resisting the onslaught. Their numbers reduced to two thirds and quickly descending, they heard another suicidal charge.

Johan looked to the south and saw the human army charging out of the forest together with the Sisters. On the head, a human woman and Eve marked the path.

The cavalry attack had stopped the trickling reinforcements that had maintained the offensive in the forest, leaving gaps in the formation that their allies had managed to exploit and pierce. Even more, Samil, had ordered a charge into the enemy and not a retreat, forcing the forces of Kraus to follow, as they dared not to forsake their saviours.

A small rain of arrows further decreasing the pressure the cavalrymen were facing, Johan tightened their formation and bowed to hold out until its siblings were broken out.

The enemy army, with a good portion still inside the forest, who had dissolved into parties, some pushed forward, others started looting and the last tried to follow their “fleeing” enemies, found itself pierced. A skilled force causing chaos in their middle was bad enough, even more after taking in the casualties they had caused. But another attacker was more than their low morale could hold against and a small but continuous tickle of deserters started.

The southern side of the army soon found itself against a ragtag group of fighters with nothing to lose and, while having had time to brace for the impact, the blood sorceries of Eve crushed the little formation they had managed, both metal and flesh offering little protection against a real sea of blood. The undead slipped into their damage ranks not unlike deranged spirits, causing their formation to bloom dozens of gaps and even more chaos, which the more orthodox human soldiers used to their advantage, bending and breaking their lines until they reached Johan’s regiment.

The High Commander of the false Queen continued to scream orders, most of them unheard amongst the chaos, making himself a perfect target for the last elven archers of the loyalists. Not half a dozen orders later, he faced the last of his words as an enchanted arrow found its forehead.

Completely demoralised, now that the last high commanders had either died or turned tail and run away, for they knew they would get executed, and, lacking any form of leadership, an army six thousand strong before, now reduced to two and a half, broke down. The men started to retreat in what manner they could or surrendered to the loyalist forces.

………….

Trilus rested while overseeing their push. They had left behind their second wall of fire and he could see the end of the enemy levies. With little to no damage, if disregarding the tiredness, his forces had done wonders. Fighting a panicked mob of peasants had helped too.

“Our corps is out of fuel, Marquess.” Informed Marc, the leader of the Fenix Corps. “Should we join the frontlines?

“Refrain from further action. Refuel if you are able to. If not, retreat.” A curt nod and hasty steps were his only answer.

Lightfeet butted in. “The southern flank remains strong in their defence. The northern one has managed to rout the iron men.” Buffed.

“They have won?” He had not expected that in the slightest. Guilt fading away to astonishment and delight, he let out a content sigh. “Nevermind that, scout. Anything more?”

“No sights of enemy mages yet.”

“If that is all, return to your duties.”

Letting out a small yelp, she rushed to her position.

Once alone, his gaze inevitably returned to the charred corpses around him. Youngsters, fathers, elders. Shaking his head in disgust as much as to try to keep the regret away, he forced himself to look at the frontline.

His spear wall was advancing as methodically as one could, crushing all resistance and attempts to crush it. Against enemy soldiers with little to no equipment nor training, their only danger was tripping on the bodies and falling down, a thing their armoured boots protected well enough. And, while flaming support had been depleted, arrows and bolts were still flying over their heads and into the enemy.

‘No glory to find here.’ He knew only his army could hope to fight so many enemies at once and win, even if he had not expected such a difference in performance. Still, doubts gnarled at his back. If it had been his in the flanks, the northern flank would have faced way less dead. He dreaded to know the exact number.

Nevertheless, he remained at the head of their advance as minutes turned to hours and enemies turned into retreating civilians.

……..

Lantraz grabbed his twenty spear of the day and pulled it towards itself. The disciplined mercenary just let it go and backed, his position soon substituted by another. A shield wall against another one, not even arrows nor magic reached the enemy, for both were shielded against by the other’s mages. Thanking Zun himself for his decision of sending the cavalry away, it continued to fight an attrition battle.

Its mace finding a target, it broke a pauldron and a shoulder. ‘Tough armour.’ The targeted soldier backed away in perfect coordination with the flow of their formation and was quickly replaced. Not knowing if to feel happy or frustrated, Lantraz kept on fighting.

Meanwhile, Kal and its entourage of fellow mages were hard at work managing the unholy task of shielding their whole army. With dozens of spell circles that occupied five hundred square metres, they had to manage the flow of mana that they could harness from the surroundings into specific points of the shield, those that were being hit harder. Rewording, reinforcing and even deleting feeding formulae was a must, as well as tweaking the main circles to funnel their new mana or to tone down the consumption. The task was even harder thanks to the almost random patrons of attacks from the mercenaries, giving them little time to react.

Kal stood in the centre, reading the trajectory of the enemy spell and bolts. “Area 15 needs.” An undead mage rushed to the point. “Area 5 less.” Another moved. “Reinforce 6 and 8.” ‘Why did they separate the mages?’ That was a question that danced around as fiery explosions shook the barrier, up in the sky. Fifty mages together were way better than two smaller groups. Not only were they able to make bigger spells but they would make them way quicker.

Greenish light shone through Kal eyes as it focussed on an injured rider as it arrived at the back of the mercenary army. A few minutes later, the enemy army started to disengage.

“Let them retreat!” Screamed Lantraz in the undead language. “Reform our lines and shields up! It could be a trap!”

Wariness turned into confusion as the undead army looked on as the mercenaries turned tail in an orderly manner and started to bail from where they had come. To the east.

………….

Noct walked, or was dragged along, supported by Andras as they left the enemy headquarters. A quick telepathy spell was enough to bring out the Marquess cavalry to their position and secure the head of the snake. His steps left blackened spots on the green plains as he sucked the life out of the flora as he had nothing left to give to the fight. His wounds had closed, yes, but only the energy he was draining was keeping him alive as the regeneration spell pushed to recover his blood levels to something survivable.

Slow of mind and body, he did not notice how Andras walked much slower than usual. Only the next words of Andras, too heavy for normalcy, stopped Noct from falling asleep.

“Like old times right, lord Noct?”

A smile coming to Noct, “Always late, you say?” The joke lacked strength, as it had almost been too late, “Yes, like old times.” After a few seconds, Noct added. “You never knew when to give up on me. You didn’t learn it today either. Thank you.”

Those last words made Andras stop. His most pressing preoccupation about the safety of his lord had been resolved but the most dangerous was starting to rush towards him. Shaking his head, he resumed the march.

Noct’s next words were a dagger. “Like “yellow mount”, huh.”

“Like yellow mount.”

“Feels like it too.”

“Overusing your mana doesn’t seem like a good passtime.” A sad chuckle left his lips.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

“Neither do your wounds.” Retorted Noct, having noticed the pained grimace in Andras’ face.

Now that made Andras laugh, “You have no right to tell me that, my Lord.” The merry atmosphere was a nice distraction for Noct. For Andras, it was torture. He had already reached a conclusion on what he had to do. He was only stalling for…, that he did not know. Maybe he just wanted to dwell in this illusion of a better time. ‘I did enough. The Gods know I did enough. I cannot, I won’t give up the only thing she left me.’

But hope dies as easy as it grows. Urgency came back to Noct as blood flow returned to his brain. He started to plot to save Andras from the Inquisition. His hand forming an astoundingly complex spheric spell circle, he started. “Now, I need to ask o…”

“Lord Noct.” Cut him Andras. His worry had scalded him and he couldn’t let him continue. “You know I came here ready to die along…alongside you, right?” His voice cracked up as those words slipped out.

Too focused on finishing the magic formation, Noct only half heard him. “That’s of no con….” Despite his too energetic tone, Andras continued despite himself.

“I am sorry.” The voice of armour boots reaching his ears made him shorten his apology.

Before Noct’s mind could process the confusing apology, something hit him in the back and threw him into the ground, almost destroying the spell he had been casting and knocking his sword, which he had been using as a cane, far away. Following that, a boot almost crushed his spine as it fixed him to the ground. Noct, fearing for Andras’ life as his first thought had been Ilkom returning, turned his head to the right, only to see a shining white sword dangerously close to his neck. His gaze followed what he couldn’t, and reached Andras' unforgiving face. That look stabbed him in the chest. He saw confusion turn into a betrayed look, only to end in understanding.

Noct tried to raise up but couldn’t win against the boot, only causing it to step on him even harder. His reopened shoulder wound adding red to the growing barrenness of the ground he had fallen on, his mind finally catched up. Focusing on the spell, the spheric magic started to crack and bend and he sended a last message. “Retreat to the outskirts of Bonfire.” Once the last telepathic word crossed his mind, the magic spell crashed and broke.

The voice of Andras announced their new company.

“Marquiss Trilus. I have detained the necromancer.” Cold indifference was the only thing left in it.

Noct looked up to the newcomers and the sight of Samil revealed the reason. ‘So this is why….What a bad joke. I train my sister to kill me and she saves my life. I train the daughter of Andras to save hers and she kills me today…. Not that I will take offence to it, Andras has all the right.’ As his necromancer privileges waved and dispersed, he was attacked by yet another betrayal. Obsession and pure need rushed to his mind, crashing against his mental shields. ‘E..Eve, what have you…’

“High Commander Andras?” Asked, confused, Trilus. “Isn’t he your….”

Kraus answered with rehearsed words, “He is nothing. He betrayed his country and Empress by dabbling in forbidden arts.” His poker face remained still, only a small tick at the word ‘betrayed’. A quick movement of his hand told his second in command to grab Maliz.

“Wha…” Before she could speak she had been restrained by her own knights.

“He brainwashed our Lady and….”

“Yes, yes, yes.” Interrupted Marc with a dismissive wave of his hand, too focused on the captured necromancer to even remember their faces anymore or to see the growing displeasure on Kraus’ ticks. “The Inquisition thanks you for your testimonies and commends you for helping in the bettering of the country. Disarm him.”

His two guards rushed towards Noct and, after pushing Andras out of the way, started to undress him. Battered armour was brutally cut down as they wasted no time on unstrapping it. The clothes underneath were torn until Noct was completely naked.

“The fingers too. He is a mage after all.”

Both the guards unsheathed yellow daggers and joyfully started to main. The daggers shone bright yellow and, after dispelling all spells that Noct had casted on himself, they chopped the thumbs. Noct started to howl as the pain of his battered body came rushing at once, his pain preventing spells having been dispelled. Soon he fell unconscious, only to wake up and repeat the circle as they continued.

The smell of cooked meat started to spread, twisting the dagger in Andras’ chest as he walked to his daughter’s side, as the daggers cauterised the wounds as they cut. Once the index finger was separated from Noct's body, the concealment spell on the ring was cancelled. Redoubling their efforts, a kick to his head ended their jobs as Noct’s hands laid as stumps.

Samil stopped her angry scream and grabbed her sword before her fathers hand grabbed her by the shoulder. Her father looked away, guilt and relief fighting for control. Maliz redoubled her efforts to break free. Kraus looked on with the grim determination of seeing the consequences of his words to the end, thanking Noct for his sacrifice in his mind; and Marc walked towards him and, unsheathing his own dagger, stabbed it into Noct’s wounded shoulder.

As if in a parasitic infection, from the dagger sprouted dozens of veins of light that carved themselves into Noct’s body, some piercing his head.

“Dispel your undeads.” Ordered

Noct’s body moved despite his will and started the same movements he had made with the spell circle that Andras had recently seen. Still, it produced no effect. No phenomenon sprouted from his hands. A smirk bloomed out despite the pain. A smirk of defiance. A smirk of pyrrhic victory.

Losing his temper, as he should not be able to mock him this way, he repeated, “Dispel them!!”

Noct laughed, a strained and pained laugh, “I can’t!” He retorted, in high spirits.

Punching him in the face, he tried again, “To what did you give your authority as their necromancer!!”

In response, Noct spat at him. Backing a few steps, Marc grabbed a handkerchief from one of his guards, calmly whipped the blood and saliva off his face and muttered, “Burn.”

The dagger flared red and fires sprung from its blade, burning Noct’s shoulder from the inside and making him scream until his voice gave away.

“Hunt the undead.” Marc turned, unperturbed, towards Trilus.

“So be it.” Before he could start to give orders, Lightfeet arrived.

“Marquess Trilus.” She started, before growling in disgust at the smell. “The undead are retreating to the west.”

“Now a beast will lie to me? Undead cannot be nor act without a master!”

“My eyes don’t lie. You can hear the rumbling from here.”

“Then, Marquess, reform your army!”

“If they are already retreating at full speed I won’t be able to catch them. My army had orders to ignore them until proven otherwise.” Apologised, Trilus. The mere act of reforming their resting ranks would take at least a quarter of an hour.

Marc cursed out loud, “The Empress will hear about your failure.” and returned his gaze towards Noct. “Stop.”

The dagger stopped shining red and the fires lied down. Once cleared, only a blackened husk remained where the shoulder used to be. Burnt bones in the immediate area around the dagger and burnt flesh in the upper arm and side chest.

Marc ignored the horrified murmurs of the less pious and commanded, “Order them back here.”

“I…can’t.” A whistle more than a voice, he was still forced to answer, not being granted the respite of dying.

‘Is my spell failing? No, that's not it. It does work as intended. Is he telling the truth? Are all of those undead capable of surviving without a necromancer? They did seem too quick for common undead. Maybe that vampire my informants saw? No matter.’

“Where are they going?”

Now Noct refused to answer, his forehead starting to be bathed in sweat from both the pain and the effort of not answering.

“To. Where. Are. They. Going.”

“We….st.”

“More specific.”

“West…of here…”

“Burn.” Screams resounded again. “Stop, To where, specifically.”

“East…from the…Islands,”

Marc almost screamed ‘Burn’, still, his dagger was working overtime keeping Noct alive and he could not risk it.

“So be it.” Turning to one of Maliz’s knights, who had paled, “Bring some rags.” The knight hailed and rushed to his duty.

Marc turned again and kicked Noct to the ground and stomped on his head, knocking him out. Making a hand gesture, the right guard grabbed Noct by the arms and started to drag Noct to their main campment.

“Marquess Trilus, I command you to escort my company to the Capital.”

“As you command.” Answered in a monotone, used to the Inquisition’s ways.

……………….

“Half of our sisters.”

Lantraz sighed, “I asked for all of our fallen, Eve.” Its steps hastening up, as worry and guilt started to bite him for their siblings lost, he marched towards their Lord.

Shrugging, it added, “I didn’t count the mortal ones.” It happily matched the pace, wanting to meet Noct already. Climbing a tiny elevation of the terrain, its eyes located its master as he was struck down by the man it hadn’t killed when it had the chance.

Fury raged in her eyes but, before its legs propulsed her into hunt mode, it lost vision.

Eve started to scream in her mind. It had stopped feeling anything, its mind completely oblivious to the outside world. It could not even sense its beloved creator. Its mind kicked and punched its new invisible prison but it changed nothing. Only complete darkness and silence remained. ‘No, no, no! Let me out! I promise I will be good!! Please, no more, no more!!....I am sorry, I am sorry!!’ Entering a panic, no one heard its distress. Soon enough, a compulsion overruled what Eve was.

Eve and Lantraz turned around, in the direction of Bonfire, and started to walk, quickly changing into a jog. All of their siblings had done the same.

The cause of this strange phenomenon was the spell of bringing undead life, a highly complex magic formation as expected from a magic that corrupted the very essence of life. Thanks to this very characteristic, its ease of casting was further hindered by the dozens of failsafes it must have. Controlling a rebellious soul is hard and, the more it grew and the older it got, the harder it would be to control.

The core of the spell was the formula granting complete control over the actions of an undead. The problem with this was the need to micromanage every creation, for they wouldn’t do anything if no orders came by. This evolved with a small adaptation to the core of the spell, leaving a small autonomy to each unit. In greater undead, this left the creations to their own devices and, usually, caused the evocator to meet an unfortunate end by unnatural causes, for, when one slept, one could not give orders.

The usual orders of ‘Do not harm me.’ were also tricky to give, for they left a lot of grey areas thanks to the absoluteness of the core spell. Wilder or willer undead could also overpower or ignore the compulsion if pressed hard enough. Friendly fire was a perfect way to act on it. Most necromancers meet their end in this very step. Only when Vel, a vampire lord, personalised its own spell did it gain its popularity among necromancers and higher undead. The idea of elaborating a magic immunity mechanism had been toyed before, the extreme complexity of the concept caused no end to the headaches of the heretic community. The answer that Vel found was on the basis of the spell. By tuning the mana signatures of the creations with the very spell, and by structuring a permanent circuit that acted as a ‘controller’, Vel found that the summoner would be immune to the magic and basic characteristics of their undead and that these could never entertain the notion of harming their lord, for it couldn’t nor would it cross their minds.

That revolutionised the art of necromancy as they knew it in the first era, allowing the rise of the Old Empire and its continental dominance before falling to Zunist forces in a civil war. Of course, if this circuit was broken or tampered with this control would be lost. The lowly undead would be dispelled, as their souls lost their shackles and tried to break free, destroying their body in the process, the wild undead would return to its human hunting status and the high undead would gain independence, with all the dangers it carried.

Minutes gave way to hours, and Eve partially returned. Fearing the banishment of its personality but not willing to surrender, it tried to remember the lessons of Noct in compulsion magic. ‘“The more a person desires something, the less effect the magic will have, for it will automatically tune in with their desires. It is, after all, a desiring altering force. On the other hand, if someone hates what you are trying to make them do, it will start a battle between your ability and their force of will. Of course, it will be less effective and….”’

‘I should retreat. I should retreat.’ Eve created a litany, trying to draw in itself the compulsion, willing to believe it was its own desire. It was way harder than it thought, for the order went against everything she wanted to do as an individual, but it started to partially work, weakening the walls and allowing her to tamper with her own body. Light started to seep into her eyes, not enough to distinguish forms, only a blurry of colours. ‘It is the correct strategic decision. We would all die otherwise. It was what my Lord ordered.’ Sound and disordered static started to rattle her mind, ‘Lantraz doesn’t deserve to die for what he is.’ The order having almost assimilated into it, its mind made a 180º turn and crushed the artificial string of thought that was entering it. A lone burst of mana with no reinforcement and no spell behind it, it quickly fell and dispersed.

Suddenly regaining its body, Eve fell to the ground, overwhelmed by the sudden increase in sensorial input. Rushing to its feet, it turned and almost started to rush towards its master before intelligence came back to Lantraz’s eyes and its hand grabbed Eve’s.

“Where do you thin…”

“Leave me be!” Panic and fury were the only things that had space in its mind. It started to pull its hand back, not minding the tearing skin.

Lantraz’s eyes shined stronger and continued to grab it, “He has sacrificed himself for us. Do not make light of his ideals.”

“I care not for ideals, fanatic!! I care not for what he thinks nor what he intended!! I want him to live!!” The growl was enough to scare nearby birds.

“We have not the forces nor will I allow you to recklessly charge into an army that would decimate us!” Will came to Lantraz’s gaze and Eve cursed.

“I do not care for their lives!”

Now anger came to Lantraz, “Your sisters have been halved! You have not enough forces to help you in your idiotic crusade!”

“I will sacrifice the other half then!”

Lantraz stopped trying to reason with Even and focused on putting her down. When it started to win their battle of strength, Kal manifested before them.

New hope appearing in Eve’s face, it begged, “Kal, explain to L…” While it talked, Kal’s right hand started to form a magic circle and, once it finished, Eve found itself stuttering, “W..why?” and it fell unconscious.

“He is no Lord of us.” Declared Kal. A look half betrayed and half sad.

………………