But I simply leapt over it.
I’ve spotted at least six human guards stationed on the battlements. Crossbows in hand, their eyes are trained upon the skies.
They’re waiting for me.
But they didn’t know that I move faster than light; I’m almost invisible against the night sky. I’ve pulled a black hood over my hair and face, hiding the paleness that would make me stand out.
I hardly make a sound.
I listen to my surroundings; to the faint shuffling of feet, to the gentle hiss of the wind and the whispers of movement within the castle proper.
The air is thick and oppressive, as if I’ve waded into a miasma. The stench of decay grows ever stronger.
Instinctively, I recoil. I yearn for Tyron; for the big skies and the majestic snow-capped vistas.
I yearn for Finley. For her sweetness. Her pure, bright energy.
The memory of her strengthens my resolve. I know what I must do. And it means that men will die here, but I can’t afford to hesitate.
There is no point in showing mercy. It will only make things worse.
The Talavarra Fortress has stone walls reminiscent of Tyron Castle’s, only these are made of pale, golden-hued stone. The main entrance is a pair of imposing metal-studded wooden doors set in a stone arch.
I could probably go in through the side or the back, taking a stealthy approach, but it’s pointless if they’re already expecting me.
They know they can’t best me with physical force alone. They can throw men at me, but I’ll cut them down—each and every one of them. Compared to when I was human, I’m a thousand times stronger.
That means they have a trump card. Something they’ll bargain in exchange for my cooperation.
I suspect it has to do with Finley and her mother.
Their plan seems painfully obvious to me. I suspect they’ll try to threaten me with Aralya’s life; make me yield in exchange for her freedom or something equivalent.
I think I have an idea of how this is going to play out.
And I know what I’ll do.
There are many ways to win a war—many ways to gain leverage.
I leap off the wall and land in the forecourt, my boots barely making a sound on the cold stone pavement.
All of a sudden, I’m surrounded by monsters. Undead souls; sons of Deignar, judging from their dark, matted hair and distinctive angular features. Some are long dead; shuffling corpses of desiccated skin and exposed bone. Others are fresh from the grave. They’re more animated, with intact bodies and an almost sentient aura about them.
There must be at least a hundred of them flooding into this stone-walled courtyard—or more. A veritable army. And they just keep on coming. They have weapons, too; halberds and broadswords and war-axes and crossbows.
I throw my hood back. No point in hiding myself now. They know I’m here. I whip out my sword and wait, perfectly still as the undead army advances.
The easiest way to put down an animated corpse is to separate the head from the body. Some of these undead soldiers wear chainmail and plate-armor. No doubt it’s to make it harder for me to decapitate them.
Well, this is going to be interesting. I haven’t really had a chance to test the full power of this body of mine. And now I’m brimming with Finley’s power; with the knowledge that what I am isn’t an abomination but a gift.
I am my mother’s legacy, made flesh.
I trace a path with my gaze, determining the path of my blade.
Then I move, becoming a blur. The undead might be brutally strong, but they’re also much slower than I am. I catch one mid-stride, lopping its head in a swift arc. A crossbow bolt whizzes toward me, but I snap my head to the side, allowing it to narrowly miss my eye socket.
I move again, felling several more, creating a storm of foul ichor and rotten flesh. As they fall, the sentient undead rage and curse at me, mouths snapping even though their heads have been separated from their bodies.
But eventually, the unholy green light in their eyes goes out, and they return to Hecoa’s embrace.
I draw my dagger, using my other hand to impale as I cut a swathe through the sea of bodies. It’s a grotesque crush; a pulsating, unholy mass, seething with the magic of corruption.
Before I left Lukiria, I spent some time in father’s secret library. I consulted the old tomes and gleaned valuable knowledge.
I discovered what I’d always suspected—that necromancy is a truly vile art. It channels the power of the Life God, Eresus, into the dead, animating them unnaturally, drawing the essence of life away from the creatures it’s supposed to sustain.
It prevents the dead from crossing into the afterlife, denying them peace in the arms of the Goddess.
It desecrates their bodies and makes a mockery of their lives.
It turns once good people—like Kinnivar—into malevolent caricatures of their past selves, opening their arrested thoughts to the necromancer, leaving them prone to manipulation. They, in turn, become extensions of the necromancer’s will.
And the immense life-force needed to generate necromantic magic…
It can be generated from sacrificing the living.
When it comes to these wretched undead, my mission is simple.
Send them to Hecoa’s domain, where they belong.
A big, armored figure rushes toward me, taking a swipe with its massive war-axe. The weapon comes down with impossible force, narrowly missing me. I swerve to the side and meet the blade of a staggering undead. The tip penetrates my leather armor, piercing my side.
Pain lances through me, but it’s only momentary. I grab the blade with my gloved hand, cutting myself in the process, and yank it out.
My blood spurts, then stops.
I’m already healing.
Funny how the Death Goddess’s magic can heal, as well as take away.
I spin. My broadsword flies around in an arc, separating the attacker’s head from its body. The axe-wielding one falls too as my blade crunches through the chainmail covering its neck.
Bodies fall with a sickening thud.
I need to move faster.
So I do. And I say a silent prayer of thanks to my betrothed for giving me the strength I need.
My blade is sharp.
My resolve even sharper.
I may get stabbed here and cut there. A crossbow bolt might penetrate the thick hide of my armor, piercing my shoulderblade. But none of that matters, because I pull everything out, and my body heals, and even though each attack weakens me slightly, I have plenty of reserve to go on.
I could do this all night and day.
Thrust. Slash. Spin. Impale.
It feels endless until it isn’t, and at last I’m down to the final dozen or so, and it’s obvious they’re being controlled, for ordinary mortal men with the fear of death in their hearts would have dropped their weapons and run by now, but these poor creatures don’t.
And all I can do is cut them down, again and again. My hands and armor are soaked in blood and filth.