Chapter 4: Alliance
The Cleric had expected to find her way out of the camp blocked. Yet the Savant had been true to his word—she was free to go if she liked. “Someone wants a few words with you, however,” the Savant added as the Cleric hesitated at the exit. “Do me the favor of saying your goodbyes to her, will you? Mistress Tevora has proven to be a valuable ally, and I would be remiss if I did not urge you to visit.”
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The Cleric paused. For a moment, she tried to come up with a reply. Then she simply pushed through the tent’s exit, leaving the Reaper and Hex behind to plot with the Savant.
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Several figures swathed in black hooded robes strode through the camp city, a few bearing firewood in their arms, while others seemed to be going about their normal business. With her pure white robe, the Cleric felt that she stood out. She hesitated, looking one way and then the next.
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“Ah, there you are,” a voice purred. Another band of acolytes approached; this time, the woman in front was uncomfortably familiar to the Cleric. “I so hoped to see you again, Maria!”
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The Cleric flinched. She hadn’t gone by her real name in some time now. Still, she gathered herself up and nodded politely to the woman now reviled throughout Sepulkre as the Heretic. “Mistress Tevora. I see you’ve taken your followers here.”
The Heretic had changed her appearance considerably since last they met. Gone were the traditional white church robes with gold stripes running vertically downward like those that the Cleric now wore. Instead, the Heretic adorned herself in black robes with spiked pauldrons connecting to her iron cuirass. The Cleric was certain the purpose of the look was to inspire fear in her enemies, as the Heretic had also hidden most of her face and hair behind an iron veil adorned with a quite prominent horned skull. Indeed, the Heretic would have frightened anyone who crossed her. Although she had a friendly demeanor, it was clear from the severe gaze of her white eyes that she would quickly end anyone who got in her way.
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“Yes, and I’m pleased to finally worship the true god, Ashathrux, without facing the oppression of the Twin Kings. Tell me. You don’t support them still, do you? After they burned down the city to pursue their misguided, paranoid goals?”
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“Not… as such,” she attempted diplomatically. “I’ve been branded a traitor,” she found herself adding.
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“Ah… you and me both, dear.”
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The Heretic reached out, clutching Maria’s hands. She reluctantly allowed Mistress Tevora to hold them, her hands warm and strong as she gazed into the Cleric’s eyes.
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“How the ignorant and righteous fear what they don’t understand.”
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“I worship Gwyn.” The Cleric’s voice was thin and weak. “As I always have.”
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“Oh, I know, dear,” the Heretic said sympathetically. “You don’t know any better. But you do have a good heart. I remember you, keeping to the background, always helping the common folk. Before the Twin Kings culled them, anyway. You still have so much to learn.”
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“I…” The Cleric pulled her hands away, slightly offended by the Heretic’s condescending tone. “The Savant said I would have safe passage should I choose to leave.”
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“Is that your choice?” the Heretic asked. She blinked and sighed. “Well, that is your journey to make. I will not stand in your way. But come to me if you seek the truth.” Mistress Tevora stepped forward, passing the Cleric. The other robed acolytes strode past, and soon the Cleric was left alone.
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The Savant’s tent flap opened, and the Hex emerged. She glanced at the Cleric. “Oh good, I thought you might have left.”
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“I am leaving,” the Cleric replied.
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“But why?” The Hex stepped closer, studying the other woman. “You know, I would have died without you. I realize you’ve been through a lot, but you got us this far. There…” the Hex glanced at a party of acolytes trooping past and hushed her voice. “There aren’t a lot of people here I can trust.”
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The Cleric smiled sadly. “This just isn’t my place,” she admitted. “I was a healer. Perhaps it was a mistake to serve the Twin Kings, but I am a true and loyal servant of Sepulkre. I… I should not have left. I should have pleaded my case to the Kings.” The Hex tilted her head at that but did not attempt to interrupt. “I was wrong. I need to return to Sepulkre and try to convince the Twin Kings to forgive me. If not…” The Cleric sniffed and stared upward at the enormous tree limbs sprouting above her in the dim light of the Gallowoods. “If not, I am ready to pay for my sins with my life.”
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“The sin of saving me?” the Hex asked acidly.
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“No… well, not exactly…”
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“I’m grateful for it, come what may,” the Hex replied. “But you know as well as I do that you’d simply be inviting death by returning to Sepulkre.” She paused. “Stay with us. Put an end to the suffering faced by the people of Sepulkre. There was no justice in their rule. Don’t the fallen deserve better?”
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The Cleric licked her lips. “Gwyn—”
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“Gwyn is not the Twin Kings,” the Hex said. “She isn’t even… never mind. Just…” The Hex sighed, grinding her boot into the soil. In silence, she stared into the gloom around them. “I remember how much you cared about the people of Sepulkre. How you and the Benetryss would always bring healing amulets and medical supplies to the common folk, no matter what the Twin Kings thought.”
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The Cleric grimaced, remembering her close friend. Luckily the Benetryss had been called away on some assignment by the Twin Kings, sparing her from the upcoming siege.
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“You didn’t mind going against them back then,” the Hex continued. “Despite their disapproval.” She snorted. “You know as well as I do that they only care about themselves. They locked themselves in their castle and let plague and death spread through the city. They are no leaders.”
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The Cleric sighed. “Perhaps what you are saying is true,” she said softly, “but I have no desire to serve a heretic and a madman. Overthrowing the Kings will not benefit the survivors if their rule is supplanted by the likes of the Savant.”
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“Oh, you should hear him talk then,” the Hex added. “Neither he nor Mistress Tevora are interested in ruling over the ruins of Sepulkre. They have other goals entirely. As do I,” she whispered, leaning in closer. “I intend to return to my Library and continue my studies. While there are many tomes about the Void, there are also numerous ancient tracts concerning Gwyn’s origins. It dwarfs what your church possesses.”
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The Cleric blinked. “Is that so…” She nodded slowly. “That explains a good deal. Whenever we acquired a religious text, the Twin Kings quickly confiscated it, aside from prayer books and the like.”
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“Oh, indeed. Stick with us; there’s no end to what you’ll learn.” The Hex beamed at her, and the Cleric couldn’t help but notice the demonic features that had grown on what had once been a quiet, unremarkable librarian. Yet she nodded all the same.
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They speak of my ignorance. Yet I have always thirsted to learn more of medicine, of Gwyn, and of how I can help my fellow man. And what’s done is done. The Twin Kings have denounced me. And she is right… they are not Gwyn—they do not deserve my devotion as Gwyn does.
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“Fine. But first, I—”
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The tent flap opened again, and the Conduits turned to see the Augur approaching. “Oh, you’re still here?” he said, brushing his blonde hair back.
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“The Cleric has decided to join us,” the Hex announced, before the Cleric could get a word in. She was left standing in silence. The Cleric nodded before she fully realized it.
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“Oh! Marvelous. The Savant was just preparing to test out the Soulstealer Chalice.” He stood aside, and the Savant pushed through, holding the Soulstealer Chalice like a trophy. The Reaper followed a moment behind. She glanced at the Cleric but made no reaction to her presence.
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“... and then the Titanblood cell will be filled with energy from the Chalice,” the Savant said, evidently continuing his conversation with the Reaper. “Their lives should be sufficient to feed it, you understand.”
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“Not really,” the Reaper muttered, as the Conduits began trailing along after the Savant.
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“Though I’ll need to gather a few more materials,” the Savant rumbled to himself, then turned abruptly to the Augur. “Ah, make a note of this,” he said, dictating a quick series of tasks. The Augur nodded, absorbing the information while the others waited.
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“Decided to stick around?” the Reaper asked in a low voice.
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The Cleric shrugged. “I’m just… trying to do the most good.” She thought the Reaper might smirk at that, but instead, the other woman nodded thoughtfully. They waited in silence for the Savant to finish as he began striding forward again, retracing their steps to the beginning of the camp.
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“Which is why I chose a secure point beside a Leyline,” he continued, seemingly to himself. “Damned bad luck that the corpse wagon nearly stumbled into us, but it worked out all the same. Fresh bodies will make for a handy experiment.”
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“Those you killed,” the Reaper said, as they came across the broken-down wagon once again, “was it recent?”
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“Oh, yesterday afternoon, I suppose?” the Savant replied, gazing up into the gloom above them. “Recent enough, at least. Bodies don’t rot quite as quickly here. It should suit our purposes. Augur! Find me the fittest-looking body.”
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“What do you need it for?” the Reaper asked.
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“A test.”
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The Reaper pointed at a body lying on the ground. The corpse had handsome features, the beginnings of blond stubble, and a faint scar on his chin. “I say you pick that one.”
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The Savant peered over with little interest as the Augur began checking the pile of corpses. “Why this one in particular? Did you know him?”
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“Yes… his name was Octaius,” the Reaper said slowly. “He was the officer in command here. He always was a diligent sort and organized the corpse wagons. Very thorough.”
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“Hmm.” The Savant stroked his white goatee. “He was a good man?”
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“Good?” The Reaper blinked, glancing back at the Savant. “He served the Twin Kings. We tracked down and killed Conduits together.” She looked back in disbelief. “None of us are good.”
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“A good leader, then.”
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The Reaper nodded.
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“Very well.” The Augur had knelt to examine another body, but now rose, joining the Savant as the older Conduit raised his Soulstealer Chalice high. “The scroll.”
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The Augur nodded, pulling out a whitecloth scroll from within his robes and handing it to the Savant, who held it aloft beside the curio. The Savant began reciting the ancient words, and as his voice carried throughout the Gallowoods, the Cleric felt an intense sense of power emanating outward. As his words fell with a crescendo, the Savant lowered his Soulstealer Chalice, and an arc of lightning jolted outward to the fallen Octaius. The corpse twitched, writhing as its muscles spasmed, again and again, and growing in frequency.
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Then the corpse gasped, eyes flashing open. The pallid, pale corpse shifted in color, steadily growing darker until it was a deep, spectral blue. “Help him up,” the Savant commanded, and his assistant stepped forward, grabbing the twitching soldier’s right hand. The corpse gripped it, and the Augur pulled him upright. Pale blue eyes looked around, unaware of what had happened to him.
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“Where… am I?” the corpse rasped.
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“Octaius?” the Reaper murmured, still astonished at seeing her fallen acquaintance raised from the dead.
The corpse looked briefly at the Reaper, but his eyes had no flash of recognition. He stared at the Savant as the Conduit bent in close, humming to himself.
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“Yes… it worked.” The Savant raised two fingers high—then jabbed them into the walking corpse’s stomach. Octaius’s body arced back, magic flowing through him again, only to be cut off abruptly as the Savant stepped back. “You are in the Gallowoods,” he declared, “the source of much raw material for our army.”
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The corpse stared back. “Our… army…”
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“You shall be my Legate. My commander of the dead,” the Savant declared. “The past is immaterial. All that matters now is that you serve,” he said, and the Legate straightened perceptibly as he came to attention. “Focus, now, and prove your worthiness. These corpses,” he said, gesturing around him. “Raise them.”
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The walking corpse, once one of the Kings’ Headsman, turned around, examining the bodies of his fallen comrades without particular interest. The soldiers blended in with the other corpses, some of which had already begun to rot. For a long moment, the Legate stood motionless. Then he raised his hand high, and a similar burst of magic arced out, flickering around the fallen bodies. The Savant widened a smile as the other bodies began to shamble to their feet. They had formed a rough double line within a minute, the Legate turning smartly to face his new master.
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“We are… ready to serve.” The Legate blinked briefly, bowing low and examining the Savant. “But… who are—”
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“I am the Savant. You, and the others around me, are my trusted Conduits,” the Savant declared. Dead eyes stared back. “Ah, yes. You see, a Conduit is one who is highly attuned to magical energies. Those energies become much more powerful when you’re close to a Leyline, as we are now. Conduits can tap into that connection to perform small feats on their own, but larger abilities require whitecloth scrolls.” The Savant paused. “But you have shown you are capable of this resurrection without using such scrolls—a fine display. Go now, scour the Gallowoods within a league of here, and resurrect what material you can,” he declared. “Bring back your army by nightfall.”
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The Legate thumped his chest. “As you order.” He turned on his heel and began marching away, the other corpses now tinged a dull gray, the spectral soldiers following close behind.
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“I have seen living armies perform much worse displays,” the Savant mused.
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“He didn’t even recognize me,” the Reaper murmured.
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“No, I don’t expect memories from his past life will ever return. So much the better. Besides, do you really want legions of undead with grudges against you? After all, you ended quite a lot of lives during the Cull.”
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The Reaper looked away, then trotted off in silence. The Savant clapped his hands together, then bent down and grasped the Soulstealer Chalice again.
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“You can’t bring them to life, then,” the Cleric mused. “Not true life, anyway.”
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“No. They are but thralls now,” the Savant declared, marching away. Several rotting corpses remained, the bodies evidently unable to host any resurrected souls. “They shall bulk up our forces, but in the end, the fighting will be down to you Conduits. I do hope you’re ready for the battle. I don’t plan on wasting much time.”
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“She can handle herself,” the Hex said, hurrying after the Savant as he returned to the camp. “What are you doing next?”
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“Mmm… now that I’ve confirmed the Soulstealer Chalice works, I’ll be able to infuse the magic from the curio into the Titanblood cell.”
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The Hex exchanged a curious glance with the Cleric as they marched beside it. The Savant had fallen silent, but the Augur joined in to explain.
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“It’s like a large, beating heart. It’s needed for…” the Augur trailed off. “Our purposes,” he concluded lamely.
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“You’re after your own ends, then?” the Cleric asked.
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The Savant chuckled. He had been seemingly drifting in thought, but now he fixed a piercing gaze on the Conduit. “Do not pretend you are still here because you simply wish to be of assistance. No, we all have our own ends. And so what? It suits us all to see the Twin Kings dead.”
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The Cleric bit her lip. She didn’t know what was worse, the thought that she was in league with the traitors or the slowly growing conviction that she was on the right side.
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She put her indecision aside as the Savant entered his tent once again and trailed after the others as he approached a large black pot. At first, the Cleric took it to be some sort of meat, perhaps venison, but up close, she could both see and hear the steady beat of a heart. She blanched and looked away, but the Hex studied it with growing fascination.
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“The scroll.”
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The Savant stood motionless beside the beating heart as the Augur rummaged around, checking the wooden chest before moving on to a smaller lockbox. Finally, he unfurled a sizeable whitecloth scroll, examining it for a moment before passing it over. The Savant gave it a brief, cursory look and held it in one hand as he held the Soulstealer Chalice aloft. The metal rippled with energy as he held it beside the beating heart and began to chant.
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The air was stale and fetid, growing increasingly so as the Savant’s words increased in tenor. The heartbeat seemed to grow faster, and the Cleric’s stomach roiled. Beside her, the Hex watched in amazement as the magical energy of the chalice began to join with the beating Titanblood cell. Then the Cleric reeled away, pushing out through the open tent, sucking in great heaving breaths of air. For a moment, she nearly fell to her knees and vomited, but she forced the bile back down, slapping a hand tightly across her lips.
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The Cleric could not say for sure how long she tarried outside the tent. The magic had gradually died down, replaced by dull chatter from within. The tramping of marching feet eventually drew her attention as a force of perhaps forty undead entered the campground. Mistress Tevora soothed the wary acolytes, who gave way as the Legate led the marching formation. He bore the golden cuirass of a veteran headsman and strode with upright bearing to within five paces of the Cleric before the group abruptly halted. He stared at the Cleric for a moment and then continued on his path towards the treeline.
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The hunters’ footsteps broke the stillness in this part of the Gallowoods. A horseman rode at the front, hunched over in his saddle and peering intently through the gloom. It wouldn’t do him any good.
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The Legate crouched behind a moss-covered boulder, and his small force of undead lay in wait along with him, perfectly silent and tranquil. Their mottled gray bodies, only a few bearing armor or clothing that hadn’t rotted away, blended in with the subdued landscape around them. Stationed behind trees and bushes, the undead soldiers crouched unmoving yet ready to spring their ambush within an instant. The Legate was the only one who made any movement, softly treading on the wet soil as he leaned over, tracking the hunters’ approach.
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As he’d expected, the force of the Twin Kings’ soldiers followed a predictable route, wending their way along the barest outline of a path, which brought them in between the two segments of his ambush. The cavalryman in front bore a golden cuirass, which the Legate wondered at. A blue-tinted finger touched the Legate’s similar armor as he watched.
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Did I kill one of these before and take their armor?
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Try as he might, no memories of his time before joining the Savant’s service came to him. He soon gave up the thought as trivial. Instead, he focused on the precise time to spring the ambush. That, after all, was his purpose. To hunt the hunters and continue to grow his army of the dead.
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The Legate curled his fingers around the hilt of his sword, slowly bringing it high until the tip was nearly visible above the boulder. The horseman approached about six paces away, heedless of the force lying in wait, and the band of unenthusiastic hunters from Sepulkre tramped behind him. They were perhaps equal in number, but that didn’t bother the Legate. If even a single of his fighters remained, that would be sufficient.
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They struck with a single, combined effort, without even the need to spring the alarm. Then, at once, the impulse to charge washed over every one of the Legate’s soldiers. The Legate sprang forward as well, pushing through the dense bracken. The Kings’ hunters shouted in fear, as well they should—the risen dead had come to slaughter them.
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Amidst the chaos, the Legate focused on a sliver of the action. A crossbowman whipped his weapon up, shooting a bolt at close range into a shambling undead soldier. To the hunter’s surprise, the spectral soldier shrugged it off, and continued charging forward mercilessly. The soldier flipped his sword upside down, gripping the weapon tightly by the blade. He swung the pommel into the crossbow, smashing the crossbow with the sword’s pommel and sending splinters flying into the hunter’s face. The hunter cried in agony, joining the chorus of his comrades. The Legate stepped forward, thrusting his sword into the man’s chest, and immediately pulled it loose. The hunter collapsed to the ground, and the Legate continued his unhurried pace, joining in to take down a spearman.
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Hooves thundered beside him, and he twisted around to see the panicked horseman riding back through the trees. A horn blast sounded, but it made little difference—any other pursuers were too far away, and if they came, the Legate would only bolster his ranks. The Legate leaned over, grabbing the horseman by the leg, tugging him loose from the saddle as he barreled past. The rider lurched over precariously, but he might have recovered if another of the undead soldiers hadn’t speared his horse.
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The rider toppled over to the side, scrabbling on the ground. He whipped a sword up at the nearest undead soldier, lopping off an arm. Then the Legate was on him, pressing down with his foot as he pinned the man down, readying his blade. Recognition showed within the fright in the man’s eyes.
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“Octaius?” he murmured in disbelief, the blade pressing down into his throat as the light in his eyes extinguished.
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Was that my name? The Reaper had said the same word.
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The Legate wrenched his blade free, careful not to cut through the man’s neck. He’d found headless undead were of no use to him. The Legate stepped back. The final cries of the dying had ended, and the undead soldiers stood alone, looking at him with soulless eyes. The Legate raised his left fist, tapping into the Leyline, now some distance away. The energy coursed through his veins, filling him with vigor. After a few moments, the freshly killed began to stir. The Legate lowered his hand as the man he killed tried to rise. He clutched the undead soldier’s hand and pulled him upright.
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There was no light in the freshly risen soldier’s eyes: no recognition, no fear, nothing except blind loyalty. The creature was just like the others kept in thrall to the Savant.
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The Legate turned to admire them with almost fatherly affection—an emotion he felt from what must have been his past life. Raised from the corpse piles, they had grown in number from a dozen to nearly forty as their patrols along the edge of the Gallowoods continued, bolstered now by their first ambush. Yet none had the same semi-corporeal form as the Legate, and all were mindlessly loyal to the Legate’s orders. The Savant had explained that the process would be too lengthy and troublesome to bother with. Instead, one general would be sufficient.
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Until the Savant returned with different orders, his goal was the same. Reposition and await the Kings’ men. Greet them with steel—and raise them to add to his ranks. Then, in perfect silence and precise marching order, the undead force turned and melted back into the woods, ready to await the next visitors.
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