Ben’s breath came in short, rapid bursts. His muscles tensed like coiled springs, poised for the imminent attack. Sybil and Sam flanked him, nostrils flared and wide-eyed. I probably look as scared, he thought. Maybe more. Meanwhile, Bloodmask’s minions continued to close in, mindless zombies bound to his will. He scanned his surroundings, and there was truly no means of escape.

The nearest undead lunged forward when a guttural roar shattered the tension. Bloodmask fell to his knees in the distance, clutching his chest. The zombies faltered and stuttered.

“Why did they stop?” Ben asked. His voice betrayed a faint glimmer of hope.

Sam, shell-shocked by the whole situation, stammered a reply as best he could. “I-I think it’s the second ampoule. He’s losing control. Cursespells are always a risky game; you don’t know when one will b-backfire.”

As if to confirm his words, the zombies turned around, their hollow eyes now fixed on their master. They crept toward him—a slow gait at first, then a clumsy jog, a quick run, a wild sprint. The synchronized movements of the puppets were long gone, replaced by a chaotic jumble of appendages.

Sybil seized the opportunity. “If that’s the case, we need to find Orangier and get out of here. Now.”

There was no need for her companions to be told twice. The trio made a bend in the corner of the street and fled, leaving the Necromancer to his technical difficulties. The neighborhood passed in a blur as they raced toward the site of the duel.

Ben knew they had arrived when he saw the remnants of arcane combat that littered the open plaza. Ruined buildings, scorch marks on the ground, and scattered debris were randomly interspersed all around them, providing clear evidence of fierce fighting.

“Orangier!” Sybil called out, her voice a lone echo in the desolate square. No response came, except for the distant sounds of turmoil engulfing the festival.

“Spread out and search,” Ben said. “He has to be here somewhere.”

They fanned out and combed through the rubble, but there was no sign of the butler. Searching frantically, their hearts sank with each passing moment. Ben refused to entertain the thought of his teacher’s demise. The heavy silence enveloped them, broken only by the laborious rhythm of their breaths and the distant echoes of chaos.

“Orangier!” Ben bellowed in desperation. He couldn’t afford to lose anyone from Sweeney Manor, not after finally having found his place in the world.

Just as despair threatened to overwhelm him, an urgent shout from Sam pierced the air. “He’s here! Give me a hand, quick!”

Relief flooded Ben as he made his way toward his voice, dodging the remnants of the fierce battle. Sam kneeled beside a pile of debris, feverishly clearing broken stone and splintered wood. Sybil arrived moments later, and together they worked to lift a heavy beam off Orangier’s motionless form.

With a last effort, they freed him and carefully leaned him against a nearby wall. Orangier appeared battered, bruised, and barely conscious. His pale face and shallow breaths spoke of his struggle. As he blinked awake, his gaze met theirs with a mixture of exhaustion and reproach. He reprimanded them hoarsely. “You three… I told you to seek a safe shelter.”

“We’re safest with you,” Ben replied earnestly. He managed a reassuring grin despite the dire circumstances.

Suddenly, Bloodmask caught up with them, abruptly halting the heartfelt reunion. His zombie army surrounded him, apparently back under his control. Ben hesitated, unsure whether Bloodmask’s agitation signaled a positive or negative turn of events. A cornered animal is at its most dangerous.

“You thought—ACTUALLY THOUGHT YOU COULD ESCAPE ME?” Bloodmask’s distorted voice dripped with malice as the zombies closed in once more, their eyes ablaze with malevolent intent.

Ben stepped forward. This time, he was the one shielding Orangier. His furrowed brow showed resolve. “We’re not done yet.” His voice was steady, despite the looming threat. “Syb, how different can these be from Sweeney’s homunculi?”

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Sybil immediately understood, and he matched his determination with a side smile. “I see no Trap Runes engraved on them.”

“Mutiny’s finally under control, eh?” Ben called out to Bloodmask. His eyes moved from one end of the plaza to the other. Now that they had safely secured Orangier, their endgame remained the same: to buy time until Wilhelm’s arrival. He taunted further, “That concoction of yours sure packs a punch. Watch out for a hangover.”

Bloodmask clicked his tongue, annoyed. “A minor digression. This sorcery does not belong to me, but to my master. If you struggle against me, imagine what he’s capable of!” He raised both arms, and his minions marched toward them. “Talk all you want. Words will not save you.”

Ben arched an eyebrow. So, he’s not the Necromancer then? The plot thickened with each ensuing revelation. He was right about something, though. Words would not be of much avail right now. Jaw clenched in grit, he brandished the wyrdknife and put his free hand over its blade.

You’re not a dagger, but a scimitar. The shabby weapon in his hand elongated into a deadly curved sword, sharp on its outer edge and wider toward its pointed end. The first Solomonari they had encountered had used two of these, but one would suffice for Ben.

“Sam, you take care of Orangier,” Ben directed. “We’ll handle this for now. Help is on the way.”

“What help?” Sam demanded incredulously, but Ben didn’t have time to answer. He and Sybil moved forward to intercept the advancing horde of zombies.

chapter_img_06 [https://imgur.com/zly9tk9.jpg]

Sam sighed resignedly and hurried to Orangier’s side. With gentle hands, he helped the battered butler to his feet and guided him toward the relative safety of a nearby building. Orangier muttered apologies for their reckless behavior, but Sam dismissed them with an embarrassed shake of his head. Meanwhile, outside, the fighting had already started.

Ben saw the morning star heading his way from the periphery of his vision and dove. The spiked club swung over his head, the strength of its momentum brushing his hair with a gust of air. He hadn’t seen the zombie yet, but he had him pinpointed from the direction of the attack; he spun the scimitar backward into a diagonal slash.

Clang! His steel met the shaft of the morning star as the zombie instinctively parried. The possessed host was a warlock, after all. Ben pressed the palm of his free hand to the inward edge of the sword and dragged the surrounding magic into a single point. “Void, Repel Push.”

An invisible force wave smashed the spiked end of the zombie’s weapon against the warlock’s helmet, momentarily incapacitating him and hurling him away. Ben huffed and puffed, his shoulders heaving with each breath he took. No matter how many times they brought them down, it was but a matter of minutes before they rejoined the fray. He scanned the battle around him for Sybil as a pair of zombies approached him.

Sybil was on a devastating roll. Arms coiled in Wave Whip; she engaged in a graceful, precise dance with the zombies. One water tentacle wrapped around their limbs, then yanked them off balance or disarmed them. The other one cracked like thunder, a flog that lashed out at anyone who dared get close with brutal efficiency.

A zombie sneaked behind her, but she sensed the threat just in time. Without turning, she thrust one leg backward and slammed it to the ground. “Quake, Titanic Stomp!”

Vertical fissures tore through the earth, and a stalagmite erupted from therein. It struck the undead squarely in the stomach and sent it flying. More zombies joined it to overwhelm her. Sybil allowed Wave Whip to dissipate, and the water fell to the ground with a weak splash. She swiftly cast her attention to the following highspell. “Flit, Wind Walk.”

She jumped as high as she could, and a sphere of air coalesced beneath her feet, propelling her away from the zombies to relative safety. Next to her, Ben had his hands full with the onslaught of two stubborn zombies.

They gave Ben no quarter, and occupied with the defense, he hadn’t been able to catch enough reprieve to cast an armspell. He waved his scimitar left, right, left—the wobbling from his parries jarred at his wrists. Shoulder muscles burning from exertion, he fought on through instinct and training.

Ben drew in one zombie with a risky feint, baiting it into overextending the reach of its morning star. He sidestepped the swing as it fell short and countered with an upward slash to the hand, prying the weapon off its grip—along with a couple of fingers. The zombie staggered back as it flailed its hand in confusion.

He seized the momentary advantage and channeled magic into him. “Quicken.” Time seemed to slow as adrenaline coursed through him. He lunged toward the second zombie faster than a bullet, scimitar gleaming.

Just as he posed to deliver a fatal blow, a troubling thought pierced his concentration. What of the warlocks once the possession is undone? Can they be saved? Doubt flickered in his eyes, and he veered off his intended mark. Instead, he delivered a lightning-fast knee to its stomach. The forceful impact drove the zombie to its knees as it wheezed unintelligible utterances.

As the fallen zombie struggled to regain its footing, Ben turned his attention to the broader battle and cursed. For every zombie they downed, twice the number eventually replaced them. There was no end in sight. He sought Bloodmask among the chaos, but couldn’t find him. Bloodmask was unequivocally waiting for them to be worn down from the ceaseless fighting. The question was: where?

Sybil joined Ben as their enemies regrouped, their relentless advance about to close in on them once more. They stood side-to-side; their weapons posed for the next wave. Ben wiped the sweat from his brow, feeling the full weight of the situation bearing down on him.

“Any ideas?” Sybil asked, her voice also tinged with fatigue.

Ben shook his head. “Not this time. Your teacher’s sure taking his time, though.”

“Always does,” Sybil replied wearily. “At this rate, he’ll make his grand entrance once we’re half-dead.”

“We’ll be half-fighting, then.” Ben quipped with an assuredness he was not feeling, trying to muster a bit of humor despite their circumstances. His fingers tightened around the pommel of the scimitar. “I’ll watch your back, and you watch mine. If we see an opening; we herd them away so that Sam and Orangier can flee, at the least.” Ben tilted his head to the side and met her gaze. “Things get bad enough, I’ll buy you some time so that you can join them.”

Sybil opened her mouth to argue, but stopped herself. She knew there was no convincing Ben, and there was no time for that, either. Still, she felt grateful for him. She realized he had grown a lot in the past few months. “It won’t come to that—I’ll make sure of it.”

The undead horde let out a blood-curdling roar, an amorphous mass as it closed the distance that separated them with predatory speed. The young Grigori braced themselves for combat.