Alaric felt his cheeks burning up. Just after declaring their safety, they were surrounded without any escape.
His son’s earnest gaze met Alaric's anxious eyes, who in turn looked towards Murphy who was leisurely sipping his tea.
Feeling a bit hassled under their stares, Murphy set down his cup and said, “What’s the rush? The cavalry’s on its way.”
“Cavalry? Seriously?” Alaric was on the verge of tears with relief. “Here I thought you’d handle it solo!”
“Of course there's cavalry. What waves could I make alone as a level-twenty low-tier mage?” Murphy smirked, self-deprecatingly.
Although Alaric wouldn’t believe a word about him being level twenty, Murphy's brimming confidence reassured him somewhat.
“So, where’s this cavalry coming from?” Normally, this wasn’t the time for questions, but with his wife and son there, Alaric felt compelled to ask.
Murphy just smiled at Alaric, “Aren’t you the least bit curious where the Viscount’s heir has vanished off to recently?”
“Mr. Byron has been…” Alaric’s voice trailed off, a realization dawning; it had been around ten days since he had last seen him.
Murphy nodded, satisfied.
“But the whole City of Gath is under lockdown…” A new confusion arose in Alaric. It was easier to defend than to assault. If Byron wanted to force entry, it could cost nearly ten thousand men. And where could…
A spark of insight struck Alaric. Pieces of unrelated information began to connect. He dared not think further, yet his thoughts blazed ahead like a fuse rushing towards gunpowder.
Murphy waved a hand before Alaric's face, pulling his thoughts back from the unknown. “So we’re locked down; who says we need to come in from the outside?”
“What do you mean?” Alaric was puzzled, sensing only a fragment of the truth.
“Don’t forget Byron hails from the old Heracles kingdom, right in the City of Gath.” Murphy stood up, swung his arm grandly and declared, “When you head out, you take the tunnels.”
---
Three days earlier, in the mines.
Standing atop a stone dais, Byron waved his hand to silence the chattering sea of white skulls below, “Quiet down!”
Raising the skeletons’ level had its pros and cons. On the upside, after training, they learned to understand and respond to speech. Essentially, they could talk. The downside? It seemed after holding their tongues for decades, the newly vocal skeletons became quite the chatterboxes.
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Chatty skeletons loved exchanging words, be it with their Slime partners during practice, among themselves when idle, or even muttering to themselves when there was nothing else to do. Thus, as they mimicked humans more accurately in their drills, Byron’s standard call to attention morphed from “Look at me” to “Quiet down.”
Thankfully, the skeletons were as obedient as ever. At Byron’s command, the noise instantly dissipated, replaced by countless hollow eyes fixed on him.
“All present, begin!” Byron thought the process of skeletons and Slimes fusing deserved a catchier name, but as a necromancer lousy at naming, he decided to leave that to the esteemed Demon Lord, His Majesty.
Byron spread his arms, and Brue, as in countless rehearsals prior, changed color and merged with him. In ten seconds flat, a lively "Byron" stood atop the dais.
The creatures below, still green in mimicking human form, took about thirty seconds to complete the transformation, achieving roughly eighty percent similarity. Without scrutiny, they were indistinguishable from humans.
Looking down at the row of ‘humans’ below, Byron felt a twinge of pride, “Attention everyone! Grab your pickaxes, we’re heading out!”
The imposing army of miners made their way to a large forest a few miles outside the City of Gath. Given the distance and need for concealment, it was an ideal spot for tunnel digging.
As for direction, Murphy had cast a reverse tracking spell on Byron for some time. A little red dot marking Murphy’s location persisted in Byron’s vision, guiding him to dig in the right direction towards Murphy’s side.
“Dig!” At Byron's command, the skeletons, encircled by their fellow faux-humans, reverted to their true forms. Pickaxe in skeletal hand, they burrowed into the earth while their Slime partners swallowed the loosened soil and stone, transporting it nearby before expulsion, repeating the cycle.
Unbeknownst to anyone above, a spacious tunnel was being carved out ten meters underground.
---
Now, outside Clyster Street number two.
“Witt, your team's got the best gear. Take your men in to negotiate. Tell that Murphy he can live, but the rest have to die!” the commander of the standing army ordered Witt fiercely, his face twisted in malice, “Especially that damned guild master.”
Witt shot his commander a ghastly look. Really? It’s just because that one time he accidentally knocked the big guy down during sparring. Now he was putting his own squad on the line for revenge? “The best gear”? Please. They were all equipped the same. In his mind, it was clear he was just being sent to clear the mines.
But no good excuse came to Witt's mind, so, begrudgingly, he declared, “Acknowledged. Ready up, Squad Twelve of the standing army. We move on Clyster Street number two.”
A desultory chorus of affirmations echoed through the ranks, as a few dozen soldiers, deflated, lined up behind Witt.
Witt led them to the courtyard gate, took a deep breath, and pushed—
The gate creaked open.
Witt quickly pulled back his hands, staring intently at his palms.
No blackening, no reddening, no chaotic transformation.
Breathing a sigh of relief—wizards were rumored to possess unfathomable powers, some even capable of draining a life in the blink of an eye.
The standing army had opted for a siege and persuasion over a direct assault for fear that the enemy had concealed their true magical might and the courtyard was booby-trapped with magecraft.
If that were a fact, then this squad, elite in appearance but naive to magic, would suffer incalculable losses.
Witt reopened his eyes, feeling utterly normal, and glanced at the iron gate he’d pushed open. It seemed its biggest issue was simply a lack of oil.
He looked back at the standing army commander, whose expression was a mix of Schadenfreude and a tinge of regret, as though he was the most disappointed by the lack of traps on the gate.