Vanalath adjusted his scarf, opening a gap for his nose. He’d just caught the scent of a human—no, a pair of humans—up ahead. A quick glance at Anamu told him that his companion had also noticed.

The younger ghoul had removed his mask, and was now wearing a blood-soaked shirt around his head. The two of them weren’t the only ones wearing these makeshift veils. Many of the undead who marched along only three or four minutes behind them wore them as well. Vanalath’s trio no longer stood out as the only ghouls who hid their faces—another precaution of the necromancer’s. Though he was only scouting now, during the main assault it was vital that he appear like just another normal ghoul.

They crept through the woods by the side of the main path, navigating around twigs and other noisy obstacles by the faint starlight. Despite his boots being built more for slogging through mud than this sort of delicate work, Vanalath, upon reaching a ravine, set foot onto a tree trunk that was only four finger-widths thick. Testing its strength, he found it adequate and began to cross.

One foot fell in front of the other. There was no hesitation in his stride—there wasn’t room for any. A single misplaced step would send him plummeting to the ground some fifty feet down. The thin trunk didn’t so much as wobble, even when Anamu stepped onto the log behind him. They crossed like two silent ghosts.

Even one day ago, this sort of movement would have been impossible for Vanalath. It was a combination of his increased awareness of his environment and awareness of his own body that allowed him to move with such control.

When they reached the other side, the humans came into view. They were sixty yards away, perched on a branch a quarter of the way up a large tree. Where they were seated, they had a good view up and down the path. Vanalath paused, grasping Anamu’s shoulder as well. The overeager ghoul might have tried to charge them immediately. Past the sentries, in the distance, he saw firelight dance off the leaves. They were near the hunters’ camp.

Did they take out these sentries, or did they retreat? He recalled his mistress’s instructions to retreat at the first sign of fire, but they were still quite far away. Surely it would be safe?

A closer inspection showed Vanalath that one of the men fingered a hunting horn nervously. He seemed to be expecting trouble. If he did, it would be in the form of bumbling, noisy undead, rather than a pair of stealthy killers. These men were easy prey. He could scale the tree and kill them himself, likely too quickly for them to even shout, but something seemed wrong with this scene.

Why were they so far from the camp? Here they were, two juicy humans perched on a tree, just too far away to be rescued if they were ambushed. If they were supposed to give the hunters advance warning of an attack, they should have been further out. If they were mere sentries ensuring beasts didn’t wander into the camp, they should be closer to the fire.

Then, he realized why everything seemed wrong, and Vanalath’s eyes narrowed into slits. These men, if suddenly attacked, had no way of fleeing. They couldn’t make it down quickly without enduring a fall that would break bones. There was no way they didn’t know that. Observing the surroundings, he found that the ground all around the tree appeared sparse, with little undergrowth. A distinct, earthy smell told him why. There had been plants here recently, but they were all uprooted in haste and flung aside. Though it was simple enough to sneak up behind the tree towards the two unaware men, Vanalath would be clearly visible from all other angles.

This was a trap. They were expected.

Grabbing the confused Anamu, Vanalath turned and headed back across the ravine, ensuring they kept low and out of sight until they were back with the main force.

After returning, Vanalath laboriously communicated what he had seen. The necromancer accepted the fact that the hunters seemed to expect trouble.

“That is not ideal, but we need to make it work. We cannot delay any longer and give that man time to prepare. Momentum is everything, Vanalath. Phase Two will proceed as planned.”

[Skill increased] (Lv.1) -> (Lv.2)

- - -

Orimo lowered his bow with a grunt. He’d thought something was coming, but the quarry had gotten spooked. It seemed his hastily arranged trap backfired.

Pursing his lips, he whistled in a perfect mimicry of a Blue-Throated Iris. The vibrating pitch easily carried all the way to his two daring volunteers, who hurriedly descended from their perch on the tree and started up the road back to camp. Orimo watched over them, ready to draw back his bowstring at the first sign of trouble. His instincts told him that they were in the clear, but he wasn’t going to lower his guard until they were safely back.

His was rarely wrong, but it had now failed him twice in the past few days, and he’d since lost faith in his discernment of matters. The first time it failed was when it didn’t warn him away from the One-Horned Goat. The second was when he sent fifteen loyal comrades to their death.

Orimo had begun to suspect that this undead force wasn’t what it appeared to be once he found the corpse of the spear-wielding ghoul. After hearing the two return calls of the horn from the path below, sounding a little bit off to his ears, he knew something else was afoot.

When the third blast—the return call—wasn’t made, he knew his men were dead. Was the call made by another hunter, or was it an undead mimicking him?

Those men were his friends. His neighbors. He knew each of their names, and the names of everyone in their families. After he was sent to watch over the Cradle, he’d watched over them every day for twenty years. He lived among them as they grew up and he grew old.

In the Enclave, he never had any real companions. The people there took everything for granted: food, safety, even Brands. In the Enclave, the Branded were respected—and some were feared—but that did not equate to friendship. But from these isolated, backwater men and women of Yayu, he’d felt affection.

Only after the two men walked by did Orimo release the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He half-turned, keeping one eye on the road, to find the twenty-four of his remaining hunters watching him. Never did he feel the weight of leadership like he did right then.

After a short silence, he broke the news. “They won’t be coming back.”

Some of the men’s gazes dropped. Some cried out. A few had already suspected as much, accepting his words as truth. All of them felt grief in their own way. For Orimo, his pain turned into something cold and hard.

“We have little time, so I will make this brief,” Orimo continued. “If you have no desire to fight and wish to leave, step forward. There is no shame in this. Somebody must take word to the Enclave.”

And somebody had to escort his daughter to safety.

Nobody stepped forward. He hadn’t expected them too. Ever since they learned from Lae what happened in the Cradle, these men had made it their intention to die here. Despite some of them being fully fledged hunters who would be accepted anywhere, this was their home.

Giving no sign of his inner thoughts, he began to issue orders. “Then, if you’re staying, get to work. Light the fires around the perimeter. Make sure they will burn for at least thirty minutes, but don’t go into the woods for more lumber. I want all of our bowmen up on the ridge in two minutes, watching the path. Those of you with blades and slings will hold the line across the midsection of camp right here. Start moving! Work while I talk!”

The camp exploded into action.

“This will be different than a Hunt,” he said, voice rising to carry over the noise. “This is a battle. Bladesmen, cut your bedrolls into strips and wrap the leather around your arm, pinning it in place with an arrow. You can use that as a shield against their teeth. When striking, aim for the head or the neck, and don’t bother with superficial attacks unless they serve to disable the enemy. And don’t let yourself get grappled or surrounded! Watch your fellows hunters’ backs!”

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Orimo then searched through the crowd before narrowing in on one person.

“Kye! Over here,” he called.

The wiry man dropped the bedroll he was carving into with a knife and hurried over to his Hunt-Leader. Orimo grasped his shoulder, bringing him into a huddle.

“You aren’t going to be fighting here today,” he said. “You will go to the Enclave with Lae. Grab the pack by my bedroll, there are enough supplies in it to last two people for a week. You will need to forage on the way there to supplement it. I’m trusting you with her, Kye. Go.”

It was to his credit that the man didn’t waste any time by talking. He nodded once before running off. It hurt to let one of his trained hunters go before a fight, but the deputized men—though better off than normal villagers—would have had a hard time making it to the Enclave. Kye was a survivor with a good heart. He’d do what it took to bring his daughter to safety.

Then, Orimo glanced up at the hill where Lae stood, gripping at her tunic with whitened knuckles. It was the look of someone who desperately wanted to run to her father, but knew that her presence would be an impediment. He’d hoped for a proper goodbye in the morning, but that was an unrealistic hope now.

Meeting her gaze, he raised his hand. Then, he formed a loose fist and swiped a thumb across his forehead. It was a slow, deliberate action, and Lae’s eyes widened upon seeing it. He’d taught her the solemn rite of respect between hunters years ago, telling her that when she passed the test and became one, she would need to know. Hesitantly at first, then with more confidence, she lifted her hand and copied the salute. Then, Kye approached her and motioned for them to depart. With a stiff jaw, Lae turned away. Though she tried to hide it, he caught sight of something glittering on her cheek.

She would do fine. She was a bright girl.

Woodsmoke began to suffuse the camp. At seeing the fires lit and everyone taking up their positions, he forced himself to put Lae out of his mind. It was time to do his duty and stop these Fatherless monsters.

Orimo turned back towards the path and activated his . As his eyes burned blue, the blacks of night turned to pale grays and his vision deepened, letting him see farther than any human had a right to. Inexplicably, his sight bent around small obstacles such as trees and rocks, allowing him to see the movement of distant figures on the path.

As they drew closer, he saw their faces.

“Mountain above have mercy,” he muttered.

His suspicion became certainty. A sinister intelligence was behind these creatures.

- - -

Vanalath was in the center of the pack. The shape of the pass had narrowed, squeezing and stretching out their horde until they could only walk five abreast as they neared the camp. Kalaki was ahead of him, while Anamu was further towards the back. The necromancer was placed at the rear.

The going had been steady, but when the first ghouls passed by the tree that held the two sentries before, one of the ghouls fell over without a sound. Before Vanalath could figure out why, a second followed suit. This time, he caught sight of a shaft of wood protruding from its skull.

They were being sniped. At this distance from the camp?

There was no unrest in the ranks, no pause on the part of the undead. They trod over their fallen without hesitation. A pulse came from the rear of the column as his mistress gave her orders. Though Vanalath couldn’t receive commands from her amulet, he could guess what she’d meant when all around, the undead began to hasten.

Up the path they went, like a river reversing course. Some stumbled, falling over. These unfortunates were trampled to make way for those more fit. Ghouls lowered themselves onto all fours and ran like animals, clawing at the dirt for speed, and Vanalath imitated them in an effort to blend in. Riding the wave of bodies, he cleared the final crest and saw the hunters at last. They were in two lines, the front comprised of fighters with slings and swords, while the back line, standing on an elevated piece of ground, had their bows trained on the advancing horde. But their bows were only trained. Other than one or two of them, nobody released a single shot.

They had frozen. Vanalath could see the fires reflected in their eyes, pupils trembling in shocked disbelief.

The necromancer’s ploy worked. This strategy wasn’t a simple, mindless rush towards the enemy. It was crafted to deal them a mental blow. Earlier, she had picked out the ghouls from the village of Yayu, disarming them of any weapons, and put them into a group of their own. Then, she placed that group at the very front of her forces. Yayu, the village of hunters. The men, upon seeing these villagers, appeared to suspend all action. These were their partners, parents, and children.

Perhaps these hunters had already realized that they needed to come to terms with the fact that everyone they once held dear was dead. That they might, eventually, have to fight their corpses. That unsettling thought, however awful it might have seemed to these men, was quite a different thing than facing it in reality.

In the center of the archer formation, a man roared something out as he unleashed bolt after bolt from his bow. Each arrow felled another of the villagers of Yayu. Before they even reached the front line, he had slain half of them—roughly fifteen ghouls. Fifteen soldiers, all expertly destroyed by an arrow through the eye socket. This was Orimo the Hunter.

Fumbling, the foremost hunters dropped their unused slings, drawing swords and daggers. Then, the two forces clashed, and all was confusion. The hunters, still in shock, were slow to bring themselves to strike, but the undead did not share that same hesitation, attacking with a ferocity that could only be born of mindlessness.

Vanalath slowed as the pace of the ghouls in front of him was reduced. Despite their momentum, despite the cunning plan of the necromancer to destroy the enemy’s morale, the front line of hunters was holding firm. Being a good head taller than most of the other ghouls here, Vanalath was able to see why.

Orimo.

The short man wasn’t firing at the same rapid pace he had displayed earlier. Instead, he calmly surveyed the fight, loosing an arrow every time he saw one of his men encountering trouble. With this—with just this—he was able to stall their charge.

Vanalath could see why the necromancer had gone to such lengths to warn him. Why, even after formulating her plan and outnumbering the hunters five-to-one, she seemed to believe they could still lose. Because they could.

The hunters, too, were helping each other with a coordination that the ghouls couldn’t emulate. Rather, the monsters got in each other’s way, jostling for a chance to get at the humans. The natural chokepoint of this mountain pass made it so that only so many ghouls could fight the hunters at once.

The other bowmen near Orimo had shaken free from their hesitation, and now fired deep into the undead ranks, as if attempting to make up for their earlier failure.

At that moment, Vanalath felt something press down on his shoulder, and a ghoul clambered over him as if he were a stepladder. It took an effort of will for him not to unsheathe his blade and kill the monster, but looking around, he saw other ghouls doing the same: climbing over their brethren to get at the humans. It was reckless, but the necromancer wasn’t stopping them. She was nowhere to be seen. She had largely abandoned her control, seeming to wish to capitalize on the horde mentality of her undead. At any rate, it was difficult to give specific, coordinated commands through her amulet, so leaving them to their instincts was likely the best choice.

Vanalath needed to reach Orimo, but at the rate things were going, there was no chance he’d reach him by charging straight forward. So instead, he made sure Orimo’s attention was focused away from him, and Vanalath ducked low, weaving through the zombies until he was at the edge of the path, where the ground began to sharply slope upwards. It wasn’t a sheer wall: hardy trees still grew out of cracks, giving him obstacles to hide behind. In a single leap, he propelled himself six feet into the air, grabbing a branch and swinging himself up onto a trunk that tilted precariously over the road. From there, he began to leap from tree to tree, bypassing the long line of undead beneath him. He passed Kalaki, who was near the front line by now, appearing content to wait his turn to do battle.

Everything progressed smoothly until Vanalath reached the tree line surrounding the clearing that was the hunters’ camp. He concealed himself behind a trunk and waited. He couldn’t get any closer without revealing himself. Right now, he was ten yards from Orimo and the line of archers, but he needed an opening. When Kalaki reached the front, he would—

The world abruptly tilted sideways.

Huh?

Why was he looking at the sky?

And… why couldn’t he feel anything?

- - -

Orimo’s fingers trembled. The wound on his stomach must have reopened as well, as he could feel a sharp pain in his gut, followed by a warm sensation as blood began to soak his bandages. Despite the repercussions, he felt it was worth it.

That had been close. If his instincts hadn’t screamed of danger closing in, and if he hadn’t used his skill to see the ghoul hiding behind that tree, it might have reached his archers.

He wouldn’t be able to use again for a while, but the expenditure had been worth it to kill that thing. He’d have preferred to pierce its brain, but when the arrow passed through the trunk it had used as cover, the shot redirected slightly. He still wasn’t sure why he’d felt such a threat from that monster in particular—other than its clear intelligence in sneaking behind his lines—but it didn’t matter now. Nothing survived a hole through its spine.

His attention was now fully returned to the front line. That moment of distraction meant that the first of his warriors had fallen, pulled into the swarm of undead and torn apart. The ranks quickly tightened up, but at this rate, it would be too difficult for them to continue to hold.

The bodies of ghouls were piling up, but rather than slowing the enemy advance, this actually made it more difficult for his warriors. The ghouls climbed the pile, leaping down upon them with reckless abandon.

He roared out a command. “Warriors! Fall back to the ridge! Archers, with me!”

The ebb and flow of battle continued, with both parties ignoring the paralyzed body of a ghoul who had fallen without knowing why.

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