Four armored men at arms rushed the nearest undead, laying into them with maces and hammers. One man slid across the deck, knocking a wight off their feet. He let out a cry of triumph, only to be cut off by a blade through his eye socket. He spasmed, jerking as his brain tried and failed to comprehend the sensation of death.

Not even when a boot crushed his nose did he understand. Similar scenes played out across the deck. Where the men at arms had easily triumphed over the lesser foes, they were evenly matched against the wights.

Falric retreated into the second rank of his men. He was the commander, it was his duty to find a path to victory. Scanning the deck he tripped over a spear. He cursed as he fell, his fury turning into despair as he weighed the situation.

“The dead are climbing the ropes!” Cried one of his men at arms.

So, it comes down to this. If any of my men were left alive they would have defended the bottom of the ropes. Thought Falric.

Worried glances were aimed at Falric, the men at arms seeking his leadership as they realized they would soon be surrounded. He dropped the warhammer, exchanging it for a rusty blade.

“Cut the ropes!” He shouted, bringing the ancient weapon down on a rope.

Steel bit into twine, severing the rope in a single slash. It was a temporary measure, but one that would keep them from being utterly overwhelmed. Soft chuckles reached Falric. Wafting down the ship from the red eyed captain.

Falric’s blood boiled at the taunt, he was going to die and the sadist was enjoying every second of his plight. Out of sheer desperation Falric hurled his sword at the captain. Praying to Hera that it might darken one of those red eyes. A wight caught the blade. Redirecting the weapon’s momentum into the eye gap of a nearby man’s helmet.

We aren’t matching them at all. Realized Falric.

Picking up a nearby spear he supported his dwindling knights. More men at arms lay on the deck than he could count. While roughly a dozen remained on their feet. Spear in hand, Falrick moved to a position behind two of his men at arms, knowing that his movements would be concealed by their bodies. With careful movements he maneuvered the spear between them, guiding the spear with one hand and thrusting with the other.

The tip caught a wight in the throat, slipping between the gorget and helmet. Falric felt the spear encounter bone and threw his full weight into the thrust. The wight’s eyes went dark and it fell to it’s knees. Falric attempted the trick once more. Unfortunately the wights were quick to adjust, and the black archers began directing their arrows at Falric.

Forcing him to take cover behind the mast, or to dodge and weave between the men. He reached for a shield. Dropping it the instant he realized there were black shafts pinning it to the man who had originally carried it.

He gathered what little courage remained in his heart and ran screaming at the wights.

“For Fallbrook!”

Stunned by his action the lead wight failed to parry his spear, taking the tip into his unarmored armpit and staggering backwards. Falric drove the spear home, pushing the wight through his allied ranks. Blades and hammers assailed Falric, denting his armor.

Accepting his fate, Falric drove the flailing wight all the way to the edge of the ship. The wight’s inhuman eyes realized what was happening a moment too late. It hacked at Falric’s neck, punched him in the face.

Too little too late you ancient toad. Thought Falric, driving the wight off the ship.

As soon as the wight’s feet cleared the railing Falric dove for the deck. Swords and arrows piercing the air he had just occupied. He fell, biting his lip as he bounced off the deck. Blood filled his mouth, the metallic nectar of life.

His hands caught an unarmored foot and smiled. Men at arms wore greaves. Yanking the foot backwards Falric pulled a wight off kilter, a fatal opening in their melee.

It’s head rolled. Severed by a man who lifted the wight’s corpse and stepped over Falric.

“Kill the captain!” Shouted the man.

“Take the ship!” Echoed the men at arms.

Falric felt his heart begin to beat again. His actions had turned the momentum of the battle in their favor. Eight men at arms strained against four wights, shielded from the archers by two men who carried dead wights as shields.

“Press on! Victory is within our grasp!” Screamed Falric.

They have thinned our ranks, Titus might take a ship, but Fallbrook is lost. High king Agamemnon, do not let our sacrifice be in vain. Prayed Falric.

His words emboldened the knights, giving them the hope to persevere. Those black archers flanking the captain in white were beyond powerful, so strong he wagered they might have evolved. Accruing talents as their level reached then exceeded 100. Evolved humanoids were unbelievably rare, only the eternal elves could live long enough to obtain the XP required to evolve. A dark thought entered Falric’s mind.

What if… These undead were older than the elves? He thought.

The red eyed captain laughed. Loud enough for the entire ship to hear.

“These archers? Ha they are no older than you are.” He mocked.

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Did he just read my mind? Thought Falric.

Instincts honed over a lifetime of training warned him to move. Without knowing why he did it, Falric dove and rolled. Coming to his knees at the foot of the stairs leading to the captain’s wheel.

The first knight up the stairs lunged at the red eyed captain. Feigning a thrust that he turned aside at the last second, driving it through the helmsman’s ribs. If the helmsman noticed the blade in his chest, he gave no sign. Silently continuing to hold the helm steady. Red flames appeared in the white captain’s hand, jumping to the first knight before anyone could intervene.

Falric rose to his feet as screams of agony exploded from the man. A pitched shriek echoed as his armor and body fused then vaporized, consumed by the red eyed captain’s hellfire. Falric’s sense of time slowed as adrenaline pumped through his veins. He activated every tactical skill he had in a vain attempt to comprehend his opponent’s power.

“Let me give you a closer look. Maybe then your infantile minds will comprehend death.” Sneered the red eyed captain in white. Once more plucking the question directly from Falric’s mind.

He extended both hands, spraying the ship with twin torrents of hellfire. Falric never saw his men die. One instant they were there with him. A few to his front, several to his sides and at least one to his rear.

In the next instant they were smoking corpses, armor and flesh burned away by the flames of gehenna. Black smoke rose from their charred corpses. Falric gagged and heaved as he inhaled the smoke, falling to his knees with a halfhearted swipe at the frigate’s captain.

“On your knees? Not quite where you belong, but close enough. I had hoped you would entertain me a bit longer, but what can I expect from such short lived animals like you?” Mocked the captain in white, aiming a torrent of hellfire towards Falric.

Steel armor flared red hot, dripping down his chest as the metal succumbed to heat. Falric’s silver amulet shone with Hera’s light, banishing the flames in an instant. Falric smiled, silently thanking his lady for her grace.

“Yes worm, smile. I love watching humans realize they have only prolonged their suffering.” Chuckled the white robed captain.

Faster than thought he drew his rapier. Slipping the point into Falric’s chest with a grace that delighted the swordsman's heart even as it was pierced. The rapier’s tip deftly avoided the ribs and surgically pierced his Aorta, sending heartbeats of blood down the svelte blade. Falric’s eyes went wide as he felt his strength fade. His burns causing him greater pain than any blade ever could.

“We almost had you captain… Just wait for the divine swordsman… ack… Nestor Quade- We’l… kill…-” Gasped Falric, his last works cut short by his bleeding heart.

The red eyed captain in white chuckled, suspending Falric’s fading soul with a flick of his wrist. Mana ensorceled Falric’s body, binding his soul to his dead body. Boredom had dulled the undead captain’s wit. An ailment he sought to cure by tormenting the human for a moment longer. Gloating to the dead was no fun, he needed a living soul to feel the despair of enlightenment.

“Captain? Oh no, I am not even a corporal.” He mocked, grinning wide enough for Falric to see his elongated incisors.

“You humans are more foolish than ants, resisting the inevitable. Ants know to abandon their nests and leave when we come. Whist you ingrates burn your own homes and stand in the fire. I appreciate the commitment, before I ascended I might even have thought it a noble sentiment.” Laughed the captain in white.

His toothy grin made Falric doubt every word.

“The guilds will stop you!” Gasped Falric, finding his voice despite his bloodless heart.

“Guilds? Oh, yes, your oh sooo esteemed dungeoneers. Ah, to be young and foolish. Your dungeons cannot save you. Their trinkets and borrowed levels are hardly worth mentioning. Our pet Leviathans already smashed your dungeons. If you had ten thousand years to grind levels you could not obtain even a fraction of our might. Thank your own gods for that. They betrayed you, ensured you could never challenge us.” Cackled the captain in white, watching with glee as Falric’s tortured face contorted in agony.

“Yes, squirm in your dead body. A soul trapped within it’s body is a memorable experience. Savor the pain, you foolish gnat. It’ll be the last sensation you ever feel. No heroes will greet you at the river Styx. Nor will any gods welcome you into an afterlife. You belong to me.” Sneered the captain, plucking Falric’s soul from his body and swallowing it whole.

The captain in white paused a moment, relishing the taste of a tortured human soul. His archers moved across the ship, retrieving their arrows. Around the ship Fallbrook burned, a dozen blazes consuming the city.

Oh how he yearned to devour them more directly, rending their bodies with his own two hands would have been a joy above all others.

Curse the lich lords, they who forbid us from feeding even as they order us to bring them souls. One day I shall take my rightful place, no matter how many millenia it takes.

Pillars of smoke rose above the city, sparking the captain’s imagination. With a few chanted words he animated the dead humans, replenishing his ranks of wights with the armored men at arms. These wights had performed poorly, if he was going to join the Lich Lords he would need greater undead servants, beings who could withstand their magic.

Without missing a heartbeat, the helmsman barked orders at the fresh warriors. Commanding them to unfurl the sails, propelling the black frigate into the air above the city.

Since the humans had already ruined their city, there was nothing to keep the captain in white from partaking in the inferno. He strode towards the railing, leaning over it to rain hellfire on the city that had already endured more than it could bear. Red and black flames brought the buildings low. Slaughtering the civilians who brandished sticks at him.

He spotted a band of survivors, four armored knights on horseback. Excellent targets for him to practice on, summoning hellfire into his hand he condensed the flames, weaving them into a spear of damnation. With his weapon forged, he aimed at the furthest knight, estimating the distance for a heartbeat before letting the lance fly. He formed another spear and sent it after the second, then a third. Guided by their beating hearts each spear found it’s mark, slaying the horsemen one at a time.

The captain in white giggled. Giddy as he played with his new toys, sparing none as he circled the city. Pelting buildings and the occasional survivor until nought but ashes remained. Scores of undead were caught in his flames, servants of his so called “peers”. They would not notice their minions demise. They were not awakened as he had been.

The fools could never comprehend that minions were the foundation of all things. No man or being, no matter how evolved, could build a civilization without a legion. Numbers were power. A lesson he would teach them before the year was out.

He knew there would be no real consequences for his unfriendly fire. A few days spent raising new minions for his peers, merely an opportunity to feed them the weakest bodies and most tepid souls while he skimmed the best for himself.

The captain in white and gold strode towards a fallen wight, hand extended. He did not need to speak the words to his spell, simply picturing the wight to be whole and expending the MP was enough.

It’s severed head rolled across the deck, reuniting with it’s body and suctioning into place. It rose and disappeared into the ship. The captain in white stroked his chin, the wights had failed him, but they had fought better than four hundred lesser undead. Their ability to coordinate opened the door on a plethora of new tactics. Combining them with his dark archers had also yielded pleasant results. A few thousand wights ought to be enough for his plans.

“Maybe I’ll find that Nest of huade and turn him into my divine minion.” Chuckled the captain in white.

A minion capable of harming the Lich Lords would be a feat worthy of becoming one. Lich Lords did not waste their eternal breath speaking of fodder, an oversight he would soon capitalize. Ten thousand years of preparation, of mewling and scraping, concealing his true knowledge, had given birth to this opportunity. He would conquer these lands slowly, gathering the power he needed to ascend their ranks.

His thoughts turned to the last time he conquered these lands. Of the traditions he ingrained in the humans for the millenia he ruled them. Humans foolishly buried their dead, safeguarding corpses exactly how he had taught them so many millennia ago. Most even adhered to his stigma on necromancy, too afraid of the power it might bring them to wield it as he did.

Eleven frigates returned to the armada, leaving the captain in white to circle the dead city. He chuckled heartily as he surveyed the graveyards, losing count of how many potential servants lingered here.

He ordered the ship to land once more. This time allowing his new servants the honor of exhuming their kin. Being the first necromancer to set foot in the city was a boon he could not have dreamt of.

“Go my minions. Garb yourselves in the finest armor. Seek any bodies with power. This soul speaks of ‘Titus’ and… ‘Dorian’. Their souls might be worthy. Bring them to me, along with other great souls so I may forge more wights.” Commanded the captain in white.

His minions scattered through the city, combing the ashes and disappearing into stone tunnels. With his curiosity piqued he spared a moment to follow them. The admiral would require a report soon, but not so soon that he could not spare a few moments to explore.

Through stone tunnels and sewers he went. Hot on the heels of his armored zombies. As they traveled the underground he examined the walls, his grin widening as he found more and more complete skeletons. When his lord had first outlined the invasion, none could comprehend why it called for a century of war. Now the answer was before him. Stacks of bodies were buried on top of one another. A century of raising the dead would not begin to exhaust this trove of bones.

Humanity was doomed to face their ancestors. In this life and the next. A century of combat was barely a formality, Hades would claim the world as his own and ascend new gods to manage the human crop.