The creation of the Deadlands had a lot of fallout, and in the days immediately following the spell, there were a lot of very rapid changes. While the academics were trying to discover what had happened, the areas around it were in chaos. The twin cities had been not only the axis of trade but also the stabilizing force in the nearby areas.

Fear was everywhere. Would the calamity repeat itself, or would the strange new dead area spread? Of course, chaos and fear are also opportunities for a certain kind of people, and those people acted in the days that followed.

While Lords, Ladies, and Warlords set about cutting up areas of land for themselves, these bad actors fed the fear and worry of the people, using it to turn the crowds to their own will.

While armies moved on the plains, and knives flashed in the dark amongst the Nobles, the Fortress City of the Plains was mostly ignored. To take such an incredible edifice was simply beyond the power of the local nobles.

What is more, the city was dealing with its own problems.

The ruling noble family had a black sheep problem. His name was Taylor, and he was every cliche about the perils of nobility rolled into a single individual. Spoiled, entitled, violent, drunk, and lazy. Not intelligent by any means, he did have a cunning and manipulative mind, which he put to work in the days that followed. As the third son of the regent, he was never in line to inherit. But in the confusion that followed the spell, he used his contacts in bars and alehouses all over the Fortress town to make his move. His drunken speeches narrowed their focus on the inability of his family to keep Fortress City safe in these difficult times.

He proclaimed his vision of a city undermined from within on bar stools and later in public squares. And the threat? Anyone not from the plains.

His Noble parents had long ago opened the city to trade with other areas, and new people came with that trade. It was natural that some of them had stayed. The city offered many things that they would not easily find in their home territories.

The most recent had been refugees from the fighting that broke out in the areas around the deadlands. It was not exactly a flood, but it had put pressure on the ability of the city to sustain itself.

People found themselves suddenly hearing strange accents and seeing different cultures, and as is so often the case, feared these people. Competition for jobs increased, and food became scarce. Desperate, starving people did desperate things to keep their families alive.

When the Regent moved to institute a system to give basic foodstuffs to the refugees, Taylor riled the crowds against it. Without that system, the starving became more desperate, and violence increased. Taylor again riled the crowds.

They paraded him as the answer to the problem he had, in fact, made worse.

Fanning the flames of hate and prejudice naturally led to violence against the refugees.

Taylor’s followers rioted through the streets, beating and killing anyone who got in their way. His frequent mentions of his family's failures led the rioters to his own brother’s house. The family was murdered in their own beds.

By morning the smoke rising over the city revealed the blood-stained streets had a new ruler.

Taylor.

Before he could even figure out where his parents and eldest brother had vanished to, the second riot started. Hate and prejudice, once unleashed, do not simply return to the dark. They strut and roar. And so his followers began a purge. They decided not just the Refugees should die but all who had not actively participated in the killings.

The problem with targeting a group of people you know nothing about, as Taylor did, is that you are attacking someone when you don’t know how they will react or what they are capable of doing.

One young man from a hill tribe in the neighboring kingdom had never wanted to leave his home, even as it burned. His family had insisted, and as a good son, he obeyed. He and his people had watched, along with the other refugees, as they were blamed for all the City’s problems by a preening pretty boy with no idea who they were.

When he sat on the steps of their shabby house in the city's poorest area and looked over his family's bodies, stripped and killed before being dumped in the gutters, he decided he had been good for long enough.

His people had been good for long enough.

Standing, he roared the ancient cry his people had turned away from generations ago. Despite settling into a lifestyle of subsistence farming, the hill people had once been the most feared Raiders in the known world. It was such a crucial part of their people that the class was still gained at birth by each one. It was simply dormant.

The Raider’s Cry echoed through the city, and his people answered as new power flowed in their veins. The power and skills of the Raider are not earned things; they are inherited. A part of their blood, of their bones.

In the moments after the first cry, the boy’s people changed. They grew taller, stronger, and faster. All over the city, the rioters who had been having a great time overpowering and killing everyone in their way suddenly found themselves fighting Berzerker raiders, and blood once more flowed.

This much was told by the last one to flee Fortress City. What happened after is unknown.

What is known is that the nearest Baron decided to take advantage of the situation and attack the Fortress a few days later.

He returned with stories of rampaging undead, unholy horrors, and a wall broken that should have remained solid.

==================

Fortress City looked like one, Bert thought as the Waystation rolled towards it. The City itself sat atop the largest hill in the area, forcing anyone attacking it to move up a steep slope to even get to the walls.

And they looked like good walls. Where the City of the Sun had gone for the tall and imposing look, these looked brutally functional. They were thick grey stones with almost no decoration. Murder holes ran at regular intervals about a meter below the top of the wall, and towers and crenelations covered the top of each wall densely.

The gates they could see were narrow and tall, with large gatehouses that enclosed each one. Three men stood shoulder to shoulder could hold those gates. It was a design that would be a nightmare for trade but perfect for defense.

Beyond the walls, he saw the slate roofs of stone buildings before a second wall rose, identical to the first. And then a third ringed the Keep itself. The keep was, again, undecorated and fiercely practical. No large windows or showy towers that could be knocked off. If someone was going to take the words ‘fuck off’ and make them a city… this would be that city.

“Well, this isn’t going to be fun.” He said grimly.

“Maybe they're friendly?” Bell offered.

“Nothing that lives in that could possibly be friendly,” Bert said. “Just living there must turn you into a bastard.”

“I’ve got a bad-” Bert reached out and placed his hand over Bud’s mouth.

“No, no! Don’t say it!” Bert said.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this?” Bell offered sweetly.

Bert’s shoulders slumped.

“This is going to be bad.” He said.

They set up the Waystation a reasonable distance from the Fortress. It was simpler to set up the camp on the flat ground before the hill started, even if it did give them a bit of a walk.

He took some time to make sure the trench around the camp was extra deep, with unclimbable walls. He also narrowed the Gates, taking inspiration from the Fortress itself. While everyone got set up with tents and took much-needed showers, Bert concentrated on preparing for their scouting of the city.

There was a large, obvious break in the walls, and Bert wasn’t going anywhere near it. To him, it looked too inviting and open. If it were him or Bell, it would be full of traps.

Their scouting from the Control Tower had revealed a much smaller break, barely a wide crack, in the walls near the breach, and he wasn’t going to touch that either.

His first stop was the gate.

“We are really going just to walk up and knock on the gate?” Bud asked again.

“That’s the plan,” Bert confirmed as they passed, one at a time, through the narrow gate out of the camp. He had Bud, the Bud Patrol, Eckhart, Bruno, May, Brenda, and a Multi-Bell with him.

“Why?” May asked. “You expect them to answer?”

“Could be,” Bert nodded. “What if there are people in there? We don’t want to appear to be attacking them.”

“It’s undead!” Bruno said. “Everyone knows this.”

“So?” Bud asked archly.

“Well, forgive me, Waystationer Bud, they eat people.” Bruno shrugged.

“Doesn’t mean they can’t be friendly,” The Multi-Bell giggled. “Trust me.”

That got a few worried looks.

Bert laughed. “Look, if they are mindless undead… then nothing happens.” He patted Bruno reassuringly on the lower back; it was as far up as he could reach. “And if not, we can talk without starting a fight first.”

There were a lot of dubious looks as they made their way up the cracked road to the nearest gate. Bert gestured to the others to stand clear, just in case.

He reached out and slammed his shield into the gate three times.

Silence reigned for a moment as the echoes died away.

The tall stone gate slowly toppled inwards, smashing on the road beyond with a loud crash.

As the dust slowly began to clear, a loud moaning and shuffling noise was heard from within.

Bert backed away, raising his shield as the others took up positions further from the gate.

The first figure stepped out of the dust, its clothes tattered and stained where they hung from the withered flesh. Bone showed through in several places as it turned pale, milky eyes on Bert.

“Sorry about that!” Bert said brightly, “Any chance you guys are friendly?”

The Zombie stared at him and lurched forward, mouth opening in a horrific gaping snarl.

Bud’s arrow slammed into the eye socket, bursting out the back of the head with a spray of bone and rotten, black blood.

The shuffling sounds sped up, drawing nearer, and Bert dropped into the tides.

“So much for the welcoming party!” He snarled as more shuffling corpses moved out of the darkness and dust.

He pushed the first surge tide of mana into his shield and out in a burst of mana, sending the closest zombies flying backward in bits. As the tide turned to ebb, Bert pulled the mana into his Prosthetic arm, charging the bolts in his crossbow form with heat and chill runes. He unleashed a volley at head height and watched the fire spread amongst the flailing mass of undead in front of him.

Bud’s arrows flew around him as he danced back and forth, slamming his shield into one undead as he fired with his other hand,

Bolts of force flew from the Multi-Bell as she called out warnings from above. Bert quickly found himself surrounded as the creatures continued to pour out of the shattered gateway.

Deciding that if this went on much longer, they would lose the gateway completely, Bert pushed his mana into his shield as he leaped back and clear of the undead. As he landed the glowing outline of the shield, fully five times the size of his actual shield appeared. Setting his feet, he rode the ebb tide, pushing it all into the shield as he prepared.

As the Surge tide hit him, he charged forward. His whole power was behind the Shield Charge as he plowed forward, smashing the delicate undead to pieces as they impacted his shield. He kept pushing until the mana tide turned. Setting his feet, he reinforced the shield again with the ebb tide before charging again on the next Surge tide.

The ground beneath his feet became slick with rotten blood and dismembered body parts as he pushed his way forward. He kept going until the edges of the gate once more became visible. He pushed on, forcing his shield against the gap, penning the ravening creatures inside for as long as it lasted.

More and more bodies piled against his shield as he crouched, putting his full weight behind it as his muscles strained.

“I can’t do this forever!” He called.

“Can you get them further back?” the Multi-Bell called down as mana bolts flew from her hands.

“Seriously?” He groaned against the pressure, feeling his feet beginning to slip.

“No, I’m fucking joking!” The Multi-Bell snarled.

“Fine!” Bert snarled back.

Bert cycled the mana tides faster and faster. His mana channels burned as the power flowing through them increased astronomically.

He took a step.

The knotwork on his arms glowed brighter, and he took another.

He took a third and felt like he was on fire.

His mana shield began to vibrate, his shield twisting and fighting against the pressure.

He cycled the tides faster, forcing it into stability again, even as his skin began to smoke.

Bert took another step, roaring in defiance as the pain tried to make him black out.

“Get ready!” the Multi-Bell called.

“For what?” Bert growled, his voice lost beneath the moans of the undead and the roar of the mana tides in his ears.

Fire blossomed in the gatehouse of the Broken Place. A full dozen Multi-Bells hovered above Bert’s mana shield, their wings beating furiously as they shot flame from both hands.

Heat scorched Bert as his skin crackled and split, but he held his spot.

Hell was a real place, and he could see it through slitted eyes. Flames curled around the snarling figures as flesh burned away, eyes burst in the heat, their juices sizzling as they flowed down bones that cracked in the heat.

The gatehouse quickly became an oven as the heat increased.

Bert fell forward as the pressure in front of him eased. His skin sizzled and cooked against the boiling flagstone.

Multi-Bells swarmed him, lifting him from the ground and pulling him back as ice poured from their hands and over his burnt, blackened skin.

Bert distantly noticed the sound of screams as he cleared the tunnel. His mind was awash in a flood of pain as he felt grass under his feet again.

With a huge effort, he cleared his mind just enough to pull the carcass of the Armored Bison from his storage and cast Reclaim Flesh.

Two minutes later, Bert was downing his third glass of ice water. The healing had recovered his flesh, but the sense of burning was yet to fade. The Multi-Bells worked in shifts, keeping him standing in his own cloud of super cool air as he drank. Eckhart was also on hand, sweating as he had cast every spell he had on Bert.

Bud had been keeping guard over the doorway, but it seemed the flood of undead had stopped. He still fired an arrow here and there, but there was no longer any rush toward the doors to worry about.

“So, not friendly then.” Bert chuckled as the heat finally faded from his core.

“Are you insane!” Bruno roared. “You stood there and burned alive!”

“Touchy, aren’t they?” One of the Multi-Bells said with a giggle. “What? You would have preferred the undead to flood out and eat you?”

“Are you really okay?” Louis asked.

“Of course,” Bert winced as he flexed his back a little. There were definitely a few spots that were not completely healed yet. “But I’m not exactly in a hurry to do it again if that’s what you mean.”

“This place can not be taken without an army,” Eckhart shook his head.

“Well, not with that attitude,” Bert grinned. “I think this was actually a good start.”

“How?” May asked curiously.

“Well, we learned a lot,” Bert said as he eyed the still-smoking gateway. “And a good way to clear out an area as well.” He turned to the Multi-Bells, “Can you keep an eye on this exit while I head back and get started? And thanks for the save, by the way.”

“Sure,” One of them shrugged. “Go ahead.”

Bert left the Multi-Bells playing and giggling outside the gateway as he led the others back to the camp. Healing could do a lot of things, but it couldn’t get the smell of your own cooking flesh out of your nose. He needed a strong drink, a meal, and a shower.

“What did you mean by we learned a lot?” Brenda asked as they walked back to the camp.

“We know they will blindly attack,” Bud offered. “And we learned they fall apart pretty easily; also, they are vulnerable to fire.”

“And they don’t seem to climb or fly,” Bert added.

“So, how does that help us?” Eckhart asked.

“We are going to teach this world a new trick,” Bert laughed.

“What’s that?” Bruno called from halfway through the gate.

“It’s a little thing that really caught on in my world… Carpet Bombing.”

“How will carpets help?” Eckhart muttered, but Bert just laughed.