The battle raged on. It was a chaotic symphony of clashing steel, crackling magic, and inhumane clamors. Ben and Sybil moved through the fray with desperate energy, barely keeping the zombies at bay. His scimitar slashed and parried, aiming to disarm rather than maim. Each successful strike bought them a few precious seconds. But how long will this last?
Sybil rotated through her grimoire, each highspell she cast visibly weaker than the last. She struggled to maintain her control over Wave Whip, but made it work—a water tentacle wrapped around the wrist of a zombie and pulled it chin-first to the cobblestone. “Sorry!”
Ben noticed she had switched her strategy from offensive to defensive, and he didn’t blame her. His own arms felt like they would give up under him; not only that, but he had never maintained the wyrdknife form shifted for so long. Ben now knew that a small but gradual trickle of magic was needed to sustain the relicspell, and he could feel its burden on his stamina.
Despite their best efforts, the zombies had them back on their heels. Ben and Sybil just couldn’t handle the sheer number of zombies. They gave ground, inch by inch, as the zombies rebuked every thrust and jab. A foul smell emanated from the small group of undead.
Ben spun away from a swing aimed straight at his temple, his scimitar deflecting the blow with a meager display of strength. He glanced around and noted their position with a sinking heart.
They were being pushed back to Flamel Bridge, a narrow span that would leave them completely vulnerable. “Sybil,” Ben shouted over the din of combat, his voice strained with exertion. “We have to change course!”
Sybil nodded, understanding the implications. She cast another feeble highspell, a Tempest Arrow that barely shoved back a zombie, when a dark pool of blood congregated in front of them.
Bloodmask slowly emerged from within, cutting a menacing figure. “Commendations,” The blood portal closed beneath him as his feet touched the ground. “You’ve shown first-rate control over your spells, gauging their potency to incapacitate rather than kill. Bravo.”
Ben’s grip tightened on his scimitar, his anger overtaking his fear. “Stop with the games and face us yourself, you coward!”
The Solomonari chuckled behind the devil mask, seemingly amused by Ben’s outburst, and continued as if Ben hadn’t spoken a word. “Unfortunately for you, that won’t be enough. Your grimoires are still very limited. A shame.”
He raised his hand, and the air around them grew cold. Ben recognized the dismal, oppressive sensation; it was the same as when Bloodmask cast the previous necromancy cursespell. The ground beneath them shook, and the zombies paused, their eyes aglow with an eerie light. Ben tilted his head back, feeling that the waters of the estuary were now doubly dangerous.
Just as Bloodmask prepared to cast, a fireball struck him from the side, bursting into flames. It didn’t do much damage, but it did the trick and interrupted the incantation. The ambience returned to normalcy. He turned around, furious, to see where the attack had come from.
Ben and Sybil followed his gaze. Approaching from afar, Sam stood with his hands outstretched, smoke still curling from his fingertips. Behind him, a full Warlock Corps regiment moved into position, pouring into the street.
Sam swallowed hard, his eyes wide with fear, and perhaps a glint of resolve. “I-I couldn’t leave you behind, could I?”
The recently arrived warlocks fanned out and formed a defensive line across the parameter. Their leader—at least Ben surmised he was, considering his attire and mien—seemed almost bored, his eyes half-lidded as he scanned the scenario with idle curiosity. He was sharp-featured, with a pointed chin, high cheekbones, and white blonde hair. He styled it short on the sides and parted neatly above. There was an elfin touch to him.
“Reestablish order in the zone. Evacuate the remaining civilians.” The warlock captain told a subordinate beside him, his tone nonchalant but commanding. He then turned his attention to Bloodmask and gave him an easy smile. “You’ve caused the Circle a lot of trouble today.”
Bloodmask stared in his direction, a cold fury swelling within. “There’s more whence it came.” His zombies regrouped, ready to meet the newcomers.
Ben and Sybil collapsed to the ground exhausted and teary-eyed, eternally grateful to Sam for his help. “Let’s get out of sight before they notice you,” Ben told Sybil, and they crept away behind a rat-mailbox, a good spot from where to stay as onlookers.
The warlock captain yawned nonchalantly in response to Bloodmask’s threats. “Yes, yes, as you say.” He then turned around and addressed his underlings, arms crossed. “Attention, 6th Regiment! It looks like your comrades-in-arms are in dire need of discipline. It’s almost as if they forgot their oath, if you ask me. Imprint the corps mission and vision onto them, pronto!”
“Aye, aye, Captain Roguenoir!” came the warlocks’ perfectly synced response. They brandished their standard-issue morning stars and formed a seamless barricade opposite Bloodmask’s zombies.
There was a noticeable contrast between the two groups of warlocks. The zombies, under the influence of necromancy, resembled grotesque parodies of their former selves. Their skin was pallid and stretched tightly over bone; their eyes were sunken and lit with an eldritch light. Ben wondered if it was a permanent condition.
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Captain Roguenoir snapped his fingers, and the 6th Regiment reared into life. The first volley of highspells sizzled through the air: arcing lightning bolts, blazing fireballs, darting icicle lances, and pressurized wind missiles. A rainbow of colors traced behind them.
“Do you think they’ll make it?” Sybil asked, transfixed by the fighting. It was their first time seeing large-scale sorcery combat, and it was an august affair.
“He doesn’t have those pesky blood tendrils anymore, so they should be safe.” Ben replied, unsure of the outcome. His hopes went up, but he maintained them in check. He didn’t want to deal with further disappointment.
Captain Roguenoir watched, satisfied, as his units gained the upper hand on the battlefield, overwhelming the undead horde with a coordinated assault. The warlocks of the 6th surged forward, an insurmountable phalanx. A large wave approached, prancing toward them rapidly on all fours.
One of them unleashed another lightning bolt, which forked a zombie dead-in-the-eye. The electricity chained to the nearest target, then to another—three undead fell to the ground, fried. As he cast the spell, another wave flanked them from the left.
Two warlocks broke from the phalanx and intercepted it. With a fireball in each hand, they unleashed an infernal barrage. The first one exploded on impact, engulfing two zombies in a blaze of charred flesh. The second one followed suit and blasted the backline with concussive force. Roaring fire drowned out their shrieks of agony.
Meanwhile, the defeated undead rose to their feet, replenishing their tally. A female warlock, judging from her frame, summoned a lethal icicle and jumped at the nearest enemies. She handled the frozen weapon so deftly that Ben could barely follow her movements as she quickly impaled a zombie upon another.
Homing wind missiles rained on the zombies from above, crushing them like insects. The warlock in the rear phalanx, with focused intensity, continued to cast one after another, his integrity protected by his position within the formation itself.
Even as the 6th displayed their formidable prowess, Ben could sense the grim reality setting in, as the relentless onslaught of zombies seemed unending, dashing their hopes for a swift victory. For every zombie they incapacitated, more seemed to crawl out of the shadows. The cursespell was unyielding, and the battle slowly ground to a deadlock.
Bloodmask sensed that the tide had finally turned in his favor. “Time to hit the next level.” With a flourish of his hand, he harnessed the magic that swirled around him and harnessed it for a spell. “Coagulate, Danse Macabre.”
Crimson tentacles extended from his back like a sinister spider web. The blood tendrils darted toward the horde and pierced the flesh of his minions with precision. The undead gained renewed vigor, became faster and stronger; these poor souls were now zombies and puppet simultaneously.
The once unbreakable formation of the 6th regiment reeled under the reinvigorated attack. Empowered zombie puppets, driven by Bloodmask’s dual control, surged forward with terrible ferocity.
In the rear, the air warlock was the first casualty. Overwhelmed by their rush, his concentration faltered. The wind missiles he had cast dissipated before they were of much use. The horde dragged him down as he desperately pleaded for help.
Nearby, the female warlock valiantly fought with her icicle lance, but even her skill was tested to its limits. Half a dozen zombies closed in, pouncing at her with one relentless strike upon another. She soon found herself surrounded, her situation was grim.
Ben and Sybil felt helpless as they watched from their hidden spot. They had relied on the 6th to turn the tide, but victory slipped further from their grasp with each sorcerous exchange.
Captain Roguenoir’s demeanor subtly changed as he observed his regiment’s struggle. He let out a loud sigh, an exaggerated gesture of annoyance. “Why did you have to push me into this?” His tone, tough and lighthearted, hid something ugly underneath. He stepped into the fray, and the undead horde shifted their focus onto him.
Bloodmask wasn’t about to take any chances. He sent the nearest zombie puppet charging toward Roguenoir. A blur of decayed flesh, its fleetness would have given most Quicken-boosted sorcerers a run for their money. It lunged at the captain and delivered a raw strike that should’ve blown him off his feet.
Instead, Roguenoir remained glued in place. He did not even flinch from the shot he had received. His eyes, perpetually half-closed in ennui, opened for a moment with murderous intent.
His bloodthirsty gaze briefly paralyzed Ben. Roguenoir morphed from dole indifference to childish playfulness, gently stretching a hand and placing it on his assailant’s chest. Ben saw his lips move, muttering an incantation, but they were too far away to hear what he said.
An endless barrage of slashes and slices instantly beset the zombie puppet. It was a gruesome sight to behold; in a matter of seconds, the entranced warlock was shredded to gory pieces, leaving a mist of blood in his wake. Ben had never witnessed such a brutal spell before. Both he and Sybil were stunned by the savage display of sorcery.
Captain Roguenoir contorted his face into such a devious expression that it matched the face etched on Bloodmask’s visage. His subordinates watched in meek silence as their captain prepared to continue with the carnage, eyes wide-open and gleaming with anticipation.
An arm reached out and stopped the captain before he could take another step. “That’s enough, Rais. I’ll take it from here.” Roguenoir turned, fury burning in his eyes at the insolence of being called by his first name, but he was met with an unexpected face. His eyes went back to their half-lidded, bored state.
Ben and Sybil, hidden behind the rat-mail box, could barely contain their excitement. They nearly shouted and jumped, risking their concealment.
“He finally made it,” Sybil said with an alleviated whisper.
Standing before Roguenoir was none other than Lightfoot. He didn’t don his habitual top hat and trench coat, but he had already unsheathed the blade from his walking stick. His appearance was gaunter than usual.
The captain let out an amused whistle. “The infamous Wilhelm Grayson, in the flesh! I would love to oblige, corps legend that you are—but you’re not a warlock anymore, are you? I can’t let a civilian handle this.”
Wilhelm turned to him, a confident smile on his lips. “And miss this rare chance of seeing Lightfoot go all-out?”
Roguenoir chuckled, the tension easing from his posture. He rubbed his chin as he regarded the ex-soldier. “Hm. All-out, you say? On your word?”
“On my word.”
The captain of the 6th regiment stepped back, chuckling as he conceded with a playful bow. “The stage is yours, teach.”
Wilhelm thanked him and stepped forward in his stead. He scanned his surroundings until his eyes fell on Ben and Sybil, crouching in their hideout. You did well. He mouthed the words clearly so that they could read his lips.
The atmosphere seemed to darken around Bloodmask. “It doesn’t matter who stands against me,” he growled. “I cannot lose today.”
“Ah, the hubris of youth. So certain, so full of itself. I was once like that too, y’know, back in my day.” Wilhelm replied and shifted into a battle stance. He twirled his swordstick with a deft hand. “Let’s get this done and over with, shall we?”