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Chapter 5: Insurrection

 

The weather had never been finer this time of the year, and the undead horde took advantage of it, diligently felling trees and fashioning rams, scaling ladders, and the beginnings of a siege tower mounted on great wheels. The Heretic was fascinated by the rapid growth of the undead horde following the Twin Kings’ punitive expeditions. Her apostles occasionally preyed on the corpse wagons that hauled victims of the Cull out to the Gallowoods, but she had to admit that they’d only met with infrequent success. It had taken all her powers of persuasion to grow her small band of followers, but the undead made it look easy. The Reaper and Hex’s infiltration of their castle must have genuinely perturbed the Twin Kings, since they’d sent out band after band of hunters and cavalry after them.

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Only a few had escaped the Legate’s defenses. The rest had been cut down and turned into unwilling, unthinking members of the Savant’s army. Only in the last few days had it become evident that the Kings’ men were no longer risking their lives in the Gallowoods. They’d seen a few in the distance, scouting along the periphery, too far to track down. They must have reported what they’d seen as well: a large staging ground forming, with trees cleared by the hundreds. Untiring and methodical, the undead worked without pause, forming the beginnings of the siege equipment that would shatter the Kings’ so-called impenetrable fortress.

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Yet they will not do it alone.

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“Silence is key,” the Heretic declared, pacing in front of the handful of carefully selected acolytes. “She can pick up on the barest whisper, the first sign that anything is wrong. Consider binding your mouths with cloth to muffle yourselves. Now, the Inquisitor is mortal like any other and will likely be asleep at night. That is your best time to operate.”

“Will the cloth keep out the Red Plague, Mistress?” one of the apostles asked.

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The Heretic smirked. “It might,” she said vaguely. “Regardless, you won’t be there long. Repeat back to me your mission.”

“Find weak points,” the acolytes replied together. “Places where the walls can be penetrated and the castle is lightly guarded.”

“Good,” the Heretic said with a nod. “Remember, your lives are expendable, but a report must be returned to us. In Ashathrux’s name.”

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“In Ashathrux’s name,” they echoed, then bowed low. As one, the apostles turned and left the staging ground, beginning their journey to Sepulkre. The Heretic wondered idly if she’d see any of them alive again. With her speech complete, she found herself walking around the perimeter, lips pursed as she thought. The Augur was at the center of a knot of Conduits and undead, calmly relaying instructions for crafting a catapult. The Heretic diverged from the path leading to him at once.

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The Savant is only an ally, and his servant is no equal to me.

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She couldn’t help but admit that it grated at her how powerful the Savant’s forces were, with her acolytes only dwindling in number as time went on. Yet her spirits rose as she saw the Cleric practicing, using her magic to knock down stones set atop a boulder. The Reaper stood beside her, pointing them out and softly giving her advice.

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Now there’s one who would be a valuable addition to my numbers.

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“Ah, Maria! Do you have a moment?”

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The Cleric turned to look at her. The Reaper frowned, then added, “Anyway, keep at it,” before trotting off. The Cleric grounded her staff.

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“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

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The Heretic kept her face locked in a smile, but she could sense the tension.

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“Come now, Maria, we were friends once. Now we find ourselves on the same side once again.” She nodded. “You’re training to attack in the coming fight? Good. Healing can only get you so far.”

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“Whatever I do… it is for Gwyn,” the Cleric replied uncertainly. “That is my side.”

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The Heretic smiled back.

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If only you knew.

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“Very well then. You know where I stand on that.” Her smile only increased. “Tell me, how do you like our odds? The undead, they’re quite remarkable, are they not?”

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The Cleric frowned. “They’re abominations in the eyes of Gwyn. I…” she shifted her frown to a party of undead workers who shambled past, taking a step away. The Heretic could only laugh in response.

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“Ashathrux would say to do whatever is needed.”

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“I suppose he would.” The Cleric gripped her staff and turned away. “I must be off.”

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The Heretic watched her depart in silence. The sounds of falling trees and sawing timbers echoed around her. She had spent enough time in the Gallowoods to feel a presence within the forest, usually a vague sensation of being watched. There was a growing irritation now, but she felt fortunate that they dwelled at the edge of the Gallowoods. If they had attempted to clear the woods in the very center…

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I think that would not have gone as well.

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“Mistress Tevora.”

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The Hex came near, the shifting runes on her demonic left arm drawing the Heretic’s attention. “Yes?”

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“Perhaps you don’t remember me,” the Hex began. “I was the caretaker of the Twin Kings’ private library.”

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The Heretic squinted. “You?” she repeated with a faint chuckle. “I hadn’t recognized you.”

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“I’ve changed since then,” the Hex replied, casually tapping the black horns atop her bald head, “after what I learned in the ancient texts.”

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“Very good,” Mistress Tevora said approvingly. “One should always pursue knowledge for its own sake. The opinions of the masses be damned.”

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“I couldn’t agree more. That’s why I’ve come to you, actually. I had little with me when I was cast out of the Forbidden Library, yet I thirst to learn more of the Void. More than that, I need whitecloth scrolls to be of any use in the coming fight. These undead are useful enough, I suppose,” she said, sniffing as a band of undead passed them by, carrying a massive log on their shoulders, “but they pale in comparison to the creatures of the Void. If I could just take a look at any arcane writings you may yet possess…”

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“Of course!” The Heretic beamed. “I did not come to the Gallowoods unprepared. Come, come,” she said, waving her over as Mistress Tevora strode over to her personal tent. It dwarfed all of the others, even the Savant’s, and spoke of the years she had spent cast out in these woods. She nodded a greeting to the acolytes who guarded the entrance and pushed her way inside, gesturing expansively to the three heavily laden shelves all around her. The Hex sucked in a breath at the sight. “It’s no Royal Library, but you’re welcome to anything you may find. I’ve read a bit on the Void myself, though it did not particularly hold my interest—regardless, I’m sure you may find material here. Make use of any whitecloth scrolls you need.”

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“My thanks, Mistress!”

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The Heretic smiled as the Hex began looking through the ancient tomes, eager to learn whatever she could. The Heretic left her to it, emerging back outside the tent.

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“She is to be given free rein here,” the Heretic informed the guards outside. “See that she—”

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A horn blast interrupted her, followed by several more. She turned to see the Legate and a small band of spectral soldiers forming an honor guard as they flanked the Savant, who strode into camp. The others approached as the Hex popped out of the tent, curious about the Savant’s return. The Heretic gritted her teeth—then smiled, walking over to the Savant as the Conduits came near.

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“It is time we begin the siege, and I know how we will win,” the Savant declared. “The Kings are fearful and keep their best men close. We will draw them out and strike, gaining entrance to the throne room. We will begin by distracting their attention with our ghostly legions. Once our siege engines are assembled and in place, we will strike at every portion of the castle’s walls. Their numbers have dwindled greatly since the Cull.”

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“My lord,” the Legate cut in, wincing as he attracted the attention of every Conduit. “Our forces have grown, and we do outnumber them, but to attack every side… well, we would have no reserve.”

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“A single roll of the dice,” the Reaper observed. “I like it.”

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The Savant nodded. “This is not a battle by human standards. It is something much grander. And I will spend the lives of the already dead without a moment’s hesitation.”

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“The Twin Kings are quite powerful, however,” the Reaper admitted. “They are not to be underestimated.”

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The Heretic cackled. “Just leave those fools to me and my acolytes,” she said. “I know exactly how to kill them. Just keep them busy once we’re in the throne room.”

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The other Conduits fell silent, their skepticism on full display. However, they took heart from the Savant’s resolve as he nodded agreeably.

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“You will go along with them,” the Savant declared. “As will the Cleric, Reaper, and the Augur. As my trusted attendant, he will inform me of your progress. His abilities will ensure you penetrate the throne room, provided we clear a route.”

“I’ve already sent my apostles to probe for weak points.”

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The Reaper nodded expressionlessly. “I know of a passageway, but it’s likely to be well guarded.”

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The Savant nodded. “Though if the battle along the walls threatens to overwhelm them, the Kings may deploy their reserve. Regardless, it is a solid plan.” He scanned those gathered around him. “You know your tasks,” he said in a soft voice. “In the morning, we will begin our advance on Sepulkre, and the Kings will die.”

 

***

 

The Savant led at the head of their band, his walking staff tapping away with every step. The Legate shook his head in bewilderment, half at the Savant and half at himself, reflecting on everything that had led to this point. Ranks of undead soldiers marched along behind them in a steady cadence. The force was sufficient to frighten off any force of cavalry but not nearly enough to overthrow the Twin Kings on their own.

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Castle Sepulkre lay just ahead.

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The Legate assessed the Augur marching beside him. His purple robes were of Al’Qirsani design, and although he looked like a young man, there was an air of ancient dignity to him. The Legate had said a few words to the Augur over the march but received little response. In mannerisms, the Augur didn’t seem much different from the undead soldiers obediently marching into the woods. Already the first of their scouts had reached the trees outside Sepulkre, ducking low to avoid branches as they scrambled past bushes and fallen rocks.

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As they pushed closer to the castle, the Legate heard the snapping of crossbow bolts. Faces emerged from behind a low palisade of hastily constructed wooden logs. A steady volley toppled a few of the closest undead, yet they rose again or crawled on the ground, indifferent to pain.

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It seems we’ve reached the Kings’ first defenses.

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A few dark forms moved in the distance as if keeping watch on the approaching force. Several mounted riders circled around, lances raised high as they studied the new arrivals. The Legate barked orders, his voice carrying through the continual thudding of marching flesh and bone, and at his shout, several bands of undead archers moved to shield the flanks.

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Perhaps I’m being paranoid, the Legate thought to himself, seeing a flock of birds take flight as they approached. Yet heavy losses now would be disastrous while the others are busy bringing up the siege engines. The Savant seemed content to stare into the distance, and the Augur merely frowned and puzzled at the nearby cavalry as the Legate passed his orders through the ranks by mental command.

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At once, the undead scouts pulled back, leaving their fallen behind. A ragged cheer broke out from the little outpost before them.

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It won’t last long.

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Already he was dividing his force into sub-units, the undead soldiers moving with a precision that seemed to unnerve the watching cavalry. Bands of undead archers unleashed a volley of arrows, and the horsemen scattered, leaving their flanks wide open. Then, the undead warriors marched in from both sides, gradually cutting off the outpost standing before them. Shouts of alarm broke out, but no one could save them.

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Now we finish them off.

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The Savant strode forward at a brisk trot—so quickly that the Legate ordered his undead soldiers to match him at a double-time pace. The ageless Conduit weaved through the trees and leaped over rocks as if guided by his own internal compass. Presently the land opened up, revealing the outpost and its walled palisade. About chest-high, the defenses were enough to provide a firing point for crossbows, and spears jutted out from every direction. It would not be an easy outpost to defeat, but luckily the enveloping force of undead had just closed off their retreat. The sounds of clashing metal echoed in the distance as they ran into a few concealed bands of cavalry as they were quickly put to the sword.

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Octaius paused as one sandalled foot sunk into the rotted chest of a fallen undead soldier. An outstretched arm was plainly visible, a crossbow bolt jutting out from it. Several other undead warriors pushed forward, crawling or staggering closer to the enemy palisade, sporting a half dozen crossbow bolts. The Legate raised his helmet and gazed at his surroundings. A crossbow bolt severed a branch above his head, but he paid it no mind, focusing entirely on his next command.

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“Halt!”

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At the Legate’s shout, the undead soldiers’ ranks suddenly stopped. Heedless to his words, the Savant and the Augur continued forward, seemingly indifferent to the staggered volley fire of the crossbow bolts. Octaius hesitated, wondering if he should warn his master to beware.

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But who am I to speak against one such as him?

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The Legate’s mouth slowly shut. He stood there, stiff and silent as a statue, blending in with the warband of resurrected corpses they had raised along the route. Then he let out a rasping chuckle.

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They seem to have no fear of death. So then what’s stopping us, who have already died?

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“Charge!” the Legate roared, more for his own benefit than anything else. The order snapped his legion of undead into motion, and they closed in on the outpost from all directions, emerging from the trees like phantoms. He rushed forward with the others, eventually passing the Savant and the Augur. To his surprise, a blur formed around the Augur as the two Conduits dodged to the side in a flash, just as a crossbow bolt sailed past where they had once been.

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Screams echoed out from the outpost as the first undead soldiers vaulted over the palisade. Undaunted by spear or crossbow, they slashed away without mercy, butchering the Kings’ soldiers. A few began to flee now, not knowing there was no escape. The Legate picked up speed at the end, pulling himself up the wall. Panic-stricken guards backed away, a crossbowman hurriedly reloading. Distantly, he felt a prick in the shoulder and saw a spearman at the far end of it. The Legate clasped the spear, snapping it with inhuman strength, then yanked him close. The spearman stumbled a few paces closer, and then the Legate sliced his head off with a single swing.

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Damn. That corpse will be useless.

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He strode forward, thrusting a blade into the back of another soldier attempting to flee. Then he pulled it loose and left the massacre to the others, gazing around in approval. The Savant and the Augur pulled themselves over the palisade and joined him. They were indifferent to getting their hands dirty—so much the better. The Legate was thrilled to see his band finish off the survivors, turning to face him now with blank expressions and bloody swords.

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“The outpost is yours.”

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“Hmm.” The Savant tapped his walking staff to the ground. “These will do nicely.”

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Magic flickered out from him, flowing into the freshly fallen bodies. The carpet of corpses twitched as one. Then they began lurching upward as if roused from slumber, the freshly killed bodies rising to stand beside older ones showing signs of decay. The undead formed ranks of their own as diligently as any soldier trained for a legion, filling the small outpost that the Kings had thought might stop the Savant’s advance.

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“Well done.”

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The sharp voice cut through the silent outpost, and the Legate turned at once, belatedly noting the approach of several robed figures. In the center strode the Heretic, her eyes piercing into Legate’s soul.

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“Hold!” Octaius cried out at once, whipping his hand upward. The undead archers who had nocked arrows and drawn their bows now stood motionless, their arms not betraying the strain of keeping their aim steady. 

“I thought you would remain with the construction crews,” the Savant stated without emotion.

“I wanted to keep an eye on your progress,” Mistress Tevora declared. “Besides, my spies might be reporting back soon, and your undead seem to know their business. Even now, they are hauling the siege engines closer and closer. It’s quite the sight.”

The Savant grunted. With his right eye nothing but a milky white orb, his face scored by an ancient cut, the Savant had the look of a wizened master. He turned his gaze toward Sepulkre, visible now through a break in the woods. Distant dots showed the remaining cavalry returning to the city. A gate opened for them. The Legate studied it as well, contemplating how best to break his way through.

“We’ll make camp here and await the arrival of the siege engines,” the Savant declared, gazing around him. “There is enough material for more to be built here as well. So send out pickets, Legate, and set up a perimeter—the rest of the legion shall begin work once again.”

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***

 

Scrambling through sewers and emerging through grates, the metal sliced through with magic, a small band of the Heretic’s most loyal and devoted followers soon infiltrated the Kings’ castle. Moving as silently as mice, several sentries met their fate without the slightest hint that something was awry.

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Yet the faint scratches, the death rattles, and the scuffing of blackened boots on cobblestones were enough to stir the Inquisitor from her dreams. She sat up instantly, blinking as she pushed away the fur covers. Her room in the Eastern Keep was cold and drafty but was the perfect place to hear whispers of treachery.

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Nightmares had recently plagued her, not helped by the veiled threats of the Twin Kings. The Inquisitor bit her lip until she felt the coppery taste of blood, clenching her fists tightly. For years she’d been allowing the Cleric to treat the Kings’ every complaint, ranging from bowel irritation to the vapors, and had never suspected a thing, never seen even a reason to doubt her.

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I have failed them, the Inquisitor admitted to herself, rage-filled eyes opening at once. But I can still defend them now.

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At once, the Inquisitor rose from her bed and began hurriedly dressing, wincing as she put pressure on her neck. She still pained from the Hex’s assault, yet her jaw had healed with a quickness only afforded to the most powerful of Conduits. She leaned out precariously, her keen hearing trying to detect whatever she could. Still, there was the creaking and rattling in the distance, muffled breathing and exertion, barely enough for her to identify the intruders. She likely wouldn't have noticed them if she had been less on guard. The sounds were different than those of the guards, most of whom slumbered, a few praying feverishly to Gwyn in their bunks while others manned their posts.

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It was one of those who made a gurgling sound now. The Inquisitor scowled.

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Another sentry has been killed.

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At that, the Inquisitor quickly strode down the winding stone steps, passing by a sergeant and several night watchmen. They knew better than to question her presence here. The Inquisitor strolled through the silent hallways of the castle as her thoughts raced, passing between the halberd-bearing elite guards that surrounded the throne room. The headsmen knew not to stop her.

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The throne room was still lit despite the hour. Oppius was slumped over, a cup of wine beside his golden throne, though Varus still pored over an opened tome. His lips flickered as he sounded out the incantations. Then he raised his heavy-lidded eyes to recognize the Inquisitor’s approach.

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“Oh. Yes? What are you doing here at this hour?”

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“My majesties,” the Inquisitor began, biting her lip once again as she curtsied, desperately thinking about how to broach the subject. Varus drew his ornate dress sword and leaned over, pricking Oppius in the arm and laughing as his brother cursed and came awake. “I bear… grim tidings. A small group of raiders managed to infiltrate the castle walls.”

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At once, Varus’ amusement faded away, and the two Kings stared at the Inquisitor in silent shock.

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“You—you assured me that the Savant’s forces wouldn’t break through our walls,” Varus stammered.

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“That is true,” the Inquisitor replied, nodding deeply. “The undead are still preparing for a long siege. Hammering away… cutting trees and readying siege engines…” She scowled, the distant sounds like a headache she could not dispel. “Just last night, another band arrived to reinforce the ones outside. But those inside our walls are human. They know how to make their way inside. I… I think they must have lived in Sepulkre once. Before the Cull.”

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“The Cull was sloppy,” Oppius rumbled. “I knew it. I knew the Reaper hadn’t been thorough.”

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The Inquisitor bowed low, pleased by the kings’ acknowledgment of the Reaper’s shortfalls. In the distance, a sentry stammered out a warning before he was cut down. “I think these are Mistress Tevora’s apostles. The ones who left years ago.”

The tense silence lingered, a feeling of anticipation washing over her.

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“Butcher them to the last,” Varus demanded.

 

***

 

The undead legions worked with steady, unbreakable energy. The Legate’s chest filled with pride at what he saw; heavy lumber from felled trees carried by two lines of undead infantry, a growing array of catapults hammered together. Castle Sepulkre was ringed with the Savant’s army, who were numerous enough to prevent any of the Kings’ men from slipping away. Yet from the helmets and spears protruding from the castle walls, the Legate sensed that the Kings were ready for any assault.

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He scratched at his chin, feeling the peculiar dulled sensation of his fingernails against the old scar. The ethereal blue glow that radiated within him and reflected against his golden armor made him stand out even amid this strange, undead army. He marched diligently along, observing the Augur’s ministrations as the silent Conduit organized the siege engines. Mistress Tevora approached, trailed by the Hex. The Legate nodded politely, though he didn’t recognize the Conduit’s authority.

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“Have you seen any of my apostles return from within the walls?” she asked with a hint of worry. “I expected them by now.”

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The Legate shook his head. “They haven’t—”

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“Legate, ready a force,” the Augur interrupted, turning to point at the castle. “That gate will rise soon.” The Augur studied it in curiosity. “They’re preparing a mission… they plan on burning the nearest catapults.”

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Octaius half-opened his mouth to disagree, only to immediately correct himself.

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After all, we both serve the same master, and this servant of his is privy to secrets I will never understand.

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“You lot, with me,” he snapped, pointing at the two dozen undead soldiers hauling the heavy timber. It fell to the ground as they all let go and drew their weapons. The Legate hurried over toward the gate just as the portcullis began to rise. To his surprise, the Hex joined him as well, keeping up at a brisk trot even as she pulled loose a fresh whitecloth scroll. She mumbled something under her breath, waving her hands in the air as glowing flames began to lick at her arms and devour the scroll.

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She shot her hands forward at once, and a glowing black circle emerged several paces outside the gate. A formation of halberdiers in black plate mail were marching out in close ranks with tabards displaying the Kings’ insignia. A towering Pitfiend stepped out of the portal, twisting its head around to glower at the Kings’ soldiers. Smoke smoldered from its nostrils as the sallying party came to a ragged halt.

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Another creature stepped out of the portal, almost a mirror image of the first. Both were enormous bipedal demons, their scales rippling with fire, bearing claws and horns, and standing a head higher than the castle walls. The first crossbow bolts soared out from the nearest parapets as guardsmen snapped out of their stupor.

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As if according to the same joint command, the massive creatures sprang forward, slashing at the front ranks of the halberdiers. Their claws cut through the plate armor, spilling blood and viscera in a growing pool outside the gate. A few of the halberds deflected off their scaly armor to little effect. The Pitfiends snarled and roared, one of them biting down on an officer and twisting its massive head around, sending the flailing man soaring to paint the wall red.

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The bulk of the Kings’ elite guard ran in terror, fleeing back through the gate. Then, the first undead soldiers arrived, streaming in from the sides to slam into those halberdiers still standing and fighting. A wave of crossbow bolts fell atop them as the King’s crossbowmen focused on the undead soldiers perhaps a hundred paces away. 

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The portcullis slammed shut, dooming the last handful of guards as a Pitfiend slashed away wildly, sending several undead soldiers sprawling while it eviscerated the guardsmen. The Hex shot her hands forward again, mumbling in a low voice as she whispered incantations. The Pitfiends turned, looking almost contemptuous as they left the last shrieking halberdiers to bleed out by the gate. Then, one by one, they stepped back into the portal. It vanished entirely, the Hex sinking to her knees and breathing heavily.

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“Pull back!” the Legate snapped, and in an instant, the undead soldiers began withdrawing from the wall. “Keep out of their range!”

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Some of the undead dragged the few downed by the hail of crossbows back to where the Legate stood. He eyed the commotion along the walls with satisfaction. A thin smile spread across his features as he read the dismay among the Kings’ guards.

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The Legate raised a hand in the air, and magical energy flowed outward, animating the bodies of the fallen headsmen. They twitched and then began to rise, groaning as breath entered their lifeless corpses. A low moaning broke out from the guards along the walls. Several shot crossbow bolts as their recently killed comrades staggered back to join the Savant’s army. Many didn’t even bother.

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The Legate smiled, feeling a very human sense of triumph. Your useless attack only strengthened our forces.

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“I will warn you if they try something else,” the Augur declared as he approached them.

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The Legate thumped his chest. “Understood.” He paused. “And the Savant?”

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“He is readying the Soulstealer Chalice,” the Augur said with a thin smile. “The Twin Kings will pay dearly for their sins.”

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