Chapter Six

  Un-dead

  The undead horde surged forward, a relentless tide of bone and rot. Skeletal knights hammered against the last standing barricades, rusted blades sparking against the fortified ruin’s cracked stone. The walls—once a proud stronghold of the Beast Lord’s vassals—now stood as a crumbling relic, its lingering defenses barely more than dust in the wind.

  The adventuring party, The Gnarly RosesAntiquarian Artifact Collective (AAC)

  A skeletal mage raised a bony hand, glowing sigils flaring within the empty sockets of its skull. A necrotic fireball spiraled through the air, sickly green and pulsing with corruption. The impact sent a shockwave across the battlefield, warping the air with heat and dark energy. The outer barricade shattered, splinters of wood and stone bursting outward.

  Nia was thrown back, her cape smoldering as she hit the ground with a grunt. Ula staggered, her shield arm numb from the second blast. She clenched her gauntlet, the metal still hot against her skin. Roaka wiped at the blood dripping down her brow, eyes burning red with fury. Her grip tightened around her war-axes, muscles coiling with barely restrained aggression.

  “This is getting bad,” she muttered, her voice low and guttural. She shot a glance at Captain Rin, who stood rigid, tail flicking in agitation. The tiger-kin’s sharp eyes scanned the battlefield, weighing their dwindling options.

  Elara, barely standing, pressed a trembling hand to the air, whispering an elven incantation. A golden barrier flickered into place just in time to intercept another volley of necrotic fire. Cracks splintered across its surface like fractured ice.

  Gorik watched the undead’s movements, his brow furrowing. There—it was clear now. The unnatural coordination. The way skeletal archers shifted their aim to take out spellcasters first. The mages focusing their attacks on the healers.

  “This isn’t mindless aggression,” he murmured, realization settling like a stone in his gut. “It’s strategy.”

  “They’re targeting our supports!” Tibbins shouted, his small frame perched on the shoulder of a towering ogre. His fingers worked fast, crafting and reloading a time-fuse grenade.

  He lit the fuse and dropped it. “Gru!”

  “I got it,” the ogre grunted. She caught the grenade midair, barely sparing a glance before flinging it into the heart of the undead’s backline. The explosion rocked the battlefield, sending skeletal bodies flying in every direction.

  “This ain’t no accident, boss!” Bru bellowed over the chaos. “They’re trying to wear us down!”

  Gorik exhaled sharply. “Then we need to stop holding the line.”

  Selene’s fox-like ears twitched. “You’re saying we fall back?”

  “No,” growled Gru, her gaze locking onto Gorik’s.

  Lyra, the Sylvani warlock, let out a dark chuckle, summoning a snarling demon dog wreathed in shadowflames. “He’s saying we hit them harder.”

  A deep, guttural roar shakes the battlefield.

  Thump…

  Thump…

  Thump…

  A skeletal juggernaut barrels forward, each thunderous step shaking the ground. It looms over the battlefield, a grotesque fusion of shattered bones, rusted armor, and raw malice. Three death knights flank it, their massive greatswords wreathed in unholy flames, moving with unnatural precision.

  The juggernaut swings its colossal flail in a brutal arc, the air rippling with heat and dark energy.

  "Gravitas!"

  "Hail of Arrows!"

  —And ricochet harmlessly off.

  "Wild Stance!""Whirlwind Attack!"

  —And barely leaves a scratch.

  "Damn it!"

  "Threatening Stance!"

  They turn in eerie unison.

  "Fortification! Bastion! Shield Stance!"

  "Fortification! Quick Heal! Rejuvenation!"

  Then—

  "Assassination!"

  A Death Knight stiffens, eyes dimming. Then its form dissolves into smoke, armor clattering to the floor. Rin appears behind it, her daggers dripping with spectral energy. "Thirty seconds, rinse and repeat!"

  Meanwhile…

  Selene’s fingers tremble as she fumbles with the mana stone, slick with sweat and grime. The turret’s sigils flicker weakly, the arcane machinery refusing to engage.

  Too slow.

  Her breath comes shallow, heart hammering. She shoves the mana stone into place, forcing it in with more strength than finesse.

  "This would be easier if I weren’t trying to do this while NOT DYING!"

  Lyra doesn’t look up, her hands steady as she carves the last rune into the turret’s metal plating. Sparks fly as her etching tool presses deep.

  "Less talking, more activating."

  Her voice is iron—calm, unwavering. Even as the juggernaut’s flail rises, its shadow swallowing them whole.

  CLANG!

  CLING!

  CLANG!

  CLING!

  Nearby, Gorik and Tibbins work in furious tandem—Dwarven craftsmanship meeting Gnomish ingenuity. Wires spark. Gears grind. The turret hums as mana surges through its circuits.

  "War Stomp!"

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  "Ha! Ha!""Fickle little bones!"

  Behind her, the turret’s runes ignite—one, two, three—flaring to life.

  A pulse of energy surges through the mechanism.

  The turret fires.

  A shockwave of frost erupts, slamming into the juggernaut mid-strike. Its flail halts inches from Roaka’s head, the sheer force sending fractures of ice racing across its skeletal frame. Blue light crystalizes over its bones, locking necrotic flames in a frozen prison.

  Then—

  A second turret fires.

  A molten bolt of rock pierces the ice-locked monstrosity, superheating the frozen surface from within. A tremor rattles through its form—

  —Cracks spiderweb outward.

  —The ice shatters.

  The juggernaut explodes in a burst of steam and fractured bone.

  A third turret hums to life. Then a fourth. A fifth. A sixth.

  The battlefield shifts.

  Undead reel

  BOOM.

  CRACKLE.

  Rin’s ears twitch. She catches the moment, her instincts razor-sharp.

  "Push forward!"

  The Gnarly Roses surge, pressing the advantage, their war cries rising into the fray.

  Yet—

  Gorik’s gaze lingers on the turrets.

  The mana stones are dimming.

  His jaw tightens. He knows

  They need a new plan.

  Chaos churned the battlefield.

  Blackened bones and rusted steel littered the war-torn courtyard, the remnants of shattered undead strewn across the churned stone. But for every abomination cut down, two more rose from the swirling necrotic mist.

  Then, the enemy shifted tactics.

  A tide of shadow crept across the battlefield, curling around the ruins like grasping fingers. Skeletal mages, their sockets burning with malevolent light, raised gnarled staves and chanted in guttural tones.

  The air thickened with decay. A suffocating dampness clung to Rin’s throat, acrid and wrong, curling into her chest like rot made air. Among their ranks were Beasts—some humanoid, some war-mounts. She had wondered why they had not joined the fray. At first, she assumed the undead were being used to chip away at their forces. But now, as she watched, her stomach clenched.

  The Beasts weren’t allies. They were fuel.

  Rin’s ears twitched, sharp eyes scanning the shifting battlefield. The undead weren’t just retreating—they were controlling the flow.

  Her tail flicked with agitation. “Hold!” she commanded. “Regroup.” She tightened her grip on her daggers. This wasn’t random—it was tactical. The mist didn’t just disorient them; it was herding them, limiting their vision, preventing her from assessing the enemy’s true numbers.

  Then she noticed it. The way the mist shifted—not aimless, but deliberate, rolling in an angled path across the battleground. A pressure built in her chest.

  “I get it now,” she growled, baring her teeth. “It’s a damn funnel.”

  A deep horn bellowed from beyond the veil, followed by several blasts. Holy magic flared as a segment of the necrotic mist parted, and figures bled through.

  Reinforcements.

  Adventurers of every shape and size crested the inner ward, clad in mismatched armor, fur and hair whipping in the wind. Panther-kin, wolf-born, scaled drake-bloods, fox-eared and more poured onto the battlefield. The battered forces of the Gnarly Roses surged with renewed hope.

  A panther-kin in dark red armor charged toward Rin, twin sabers dripping with undead ichor. “General Rin!” His voice cut through the din of battle. “Is that you?”

  “K’sharr?” A flicker of something warm flashed across Rin’s face before she clasped his forearm in greeting. “Long time no see, K’sharr.”

  “Likewise.” He held her in a half-embrace, his grin sharp. “How fare thee, General?”

  “Come now, K’sharr.” She looked away, ears twitching with embarrassment. “It has been a long time since the tribal wars.”

  Elara cleared her throat. “Apologies, but is this truly the time to… rekindle?”

  Both K’sharr and Rin stepped back, clearing their throats.

  Rin didn’t hesitate. A battlefield didn’t wait for hesitation. “K’sharr, who do you lead?”

  “Caravan B,” he replied. “With me are the remnants of C, F, and I.”

  “And the rest?”

  K’sharr’s expression darkened. “Aside from J… not sure.”

  “What happened to Caravan J?” Elara asked.

  K’sharr turned, pointing to the opening he had just arrived from. Beyond the veil, massive abominations loomed, their grotesque forms twitching with unholy life.

  “They were turned into that.”

  No hesitation. K’sharr raised his saber. “Form up around the General!”

  The adventurers closed ranks, mercenaries falling into disciplined formations around Rin.

  “Just like old times, eh, General?” K’sharr said.

  Rin let out a dry chuckle. “Last I checked, K’sharr, last time we were on opposite ends of the battlefield.” Then she took a deep breath. “Fall back to the safe zone! Leave the non-essentials! Protect the AAC! Shield wall, spell flank! No stragglers!”

  K’sharr echoed the command. “Move as one! Defend the non-combatants! No one gets left behind!”

  Ula joined a squad of heavy tanks, shields locking into an unbreakable wall. Behind them, the excavation teams huddled together, terrified but moving in tight formation. Roaka and an impromptu hit-and-run unit darted through the enemy lines, striking down skeletal snipers lurking in the shadows before retreating to the shield wall.

  At the rear, Nia and Elara led the support squads. Bows sang, spells flared—the air crackled with arcane fury. Arrows punctured shadowed skulls. Fireballs erupted in bursts of golden light, driving back the clawing darkness.

  The AAC forces moved in unison, their turtle formation inching toward safety. The turrets provided covering fire, elemental blasts cutting swathes through the undead tide. But with the mist thickening, their precision faltered. Mana was being wasted on blind shots.

  Then—panic from the right flank.

  “Caravans D and E are gone! We lost all communication!”

  Rin’s stomach knotted, but she didn’t falter. Later. Grieve later.

  Right now, there was only the battlefield.

  She pivoted, scanning for the next threat.

  A flicker of movement—too slow for the living, too cunning for the mindless undead.

  A figure stumbled from the group—an AAC archaeologist. His robes were torn, his face pale. His mouth opened, lips trembling as if to call for help. But Rin’s sharp eyes caught it. The unnatural stiffness in his joints. The empty sheen in his eyes.

  The emblem on his coat. D.

  “No!” she roared.

  Too late.

  The undead puppet lunged, not for them, but for the spider construct carrying the excavation explosives.

  Dynamite.

  The explosion ripped through their ranks. Bodies were hurled like ragdolls. Smoke and debris choked the air. Screams were swallowed by the roar of the blast.

  Rin hit the ground hard, ears ringing, dust thick in her lungs.

  Sabotage.

  She scrambled to her feet, vision blurring. The AAC forces were in disarray—wounded, disoriented. The undead surged forward, sensing weakness.

  Her muscles coiled. She bared her fangs.

  Not today.

  She thrust her sword skyward. “REFORM THE LINE!”

  K’sharr’s voice rose above the chaos. “FORM UP! HOLD THE LINE!”

  The adventurers responded without hesitation. Shields slammed together. Weapons rose. Magic crackled. In seconds, the formation was whole again.

  But Rin knew the truth.

  This wasn’t random.

  This wasn’t just the mindless hunger of the undead.

  Something was controlling them.

  Then—K’sharr’s sharp intake of breath. “By the All-Mother…”

  Rin followed his gaze.

  The figures approaching weren’t just more undead.

  They were friends.

  Fellow adventurers. Scholars.

  Their fallen, now risen.