Attack!
A booming voice slammed into his ears. "Attack!"
The flustered soldiers, scrambling in confusion, gripped their weapons at Haellagos's command and swung them at the cavalry charging in. The ghost horses bucked wildly, inflicting some damage on their side, but even a hundred riders couldn't overcome the massive army. As the soldiers responded with organized calm, the cavalry tumbled from their mounts one by one. The infantry stabbed spears and swords into the fallen riders on the ground, finishing them off for good.
The minor commotion ended swiftly. Haellagos spurred his ghost horse through the ranks of soldiers.
"What the hell are these guys? Traitors? Spies?"
Yoahim, following behind, grimaced at the sight of the riders whose hoods had fallen away, revealing their faces. They were rotting corpses.
Haellagos, who had been staring at the groaning, collapsed riders, finally spoke. "Not spies. Infiltrators in an organization don't know who else is a spy or how many there are—it's to prevent them from spilling secrets if captured. So a hundred spies couldn't act in such coordination."
It made sense. Then traitors? A hundred elite cavalry units turning traitor? If true, it was disastrous news for Haellagos.
"Not traitors either. Well, strictly speaking, they are—but not by their own will."
"What do you mean?"
"Look at the corpses."
Haellagos pointed at one of the faces. It was decayed and bloated in places, hard to discern its original features. But the pointed ears marked it as a dark elf. Where eyes should have been were hollow sockets crawling with maggots—a bit gross. What was this? Just regular corpses?
Yoahim tilted his head, and Haellagos explained. "Recently dead. Alzahar probably ambushed a cavalry unit, killed some, resurrected them as undead to provoke us, and stationed them near the gates."
"Bastardly move..."
The terror of necromancers lay in turning slain enemies into allies. Not just the swelling enemy numbers, but the horror of having to kill former comrades with your own hands.
"Apostle Yoahim, steel yourself. Biljera Castle is a slaughterhouse built for the lich Alzahar. Anyone who dies inside will be drawn by the power of death and rise as undead. Don't forget—you may have to fight your own subordinates."
Yoahim swallowed hard. Biljera Castle was a realm of death. Fallen allies would rise as enemies to fight for Alzahar.
Leon or Sasha, maybe... even them.
There were no certainties in the world. No guarantee they'd survive. If they rose as undead, could Yoahim cut them down without hesitation?
"...We need to end this fight as fast as possible."
"Exactly. The longer it drags, the worse for us. I know necromancy, but I'm a step below a lich like Alzahar."
The great demon Haellagos commanded death knights as subordinates, a testament to his mastery. But Alzahar was superior. A lich was the undisputed grandmaster of necromancy. Even if Haellagos raised fallen allies, Alzahar would double the undead output. Prolong the battle, and enemies would outnumber them. With time against them, they had to exploit their numerical edge and crush the foe quickly.
"Let's join the adjutants."
Haellagos and Yoahim returned to the main force. At the great lord's command, the vast army moved in perfect unison to an assembly point a short distance from Biljera Castle.
"That's the place."
Sharpened wooden stakes and remnants of campfires. Undead soldiers patrolling the camp reeked of thick death, while demon knights checking gear in clusters exuded murderous intent. A dark elf knight, tattered cloak flapping as he carried a wounded comrade, bellowed hoarsely for the field priest. The wounded's agonized screams blended with the wind like everyday noise.
Seeing the camp, Yoahim realized how many battles they'd fought to reach here. Countless deaths, endless frustrations. Yet they'd come this far—to drive out Alzahar.
"..."
Everyone was exhausted, but no despair in their eyes. Only burning desire for victory. And for one reason, they'd held onto hope amid this nightmare.
The greater cause? Righteousness? The apostle of Kallagon? No.
These guys... they're all fighting for Haellagos.
Because Haellagos commanded it. Fight Alzahar, seize victory. No one in this land hadn't received his aid. They repaid the true great lord of the Withered Land with their lives.
But in this atmosphere, if he told me to become great lord, would they accept it?
They were Haellagos's people first, before devotees of Kallagon. Yoahim, lacking prestige or achievements, declaring himself great lord would spark rebellion from the ranks before the adjutants opposed it.
"Lord Haellagos has arrived! Lord Haellagos is here!"
"It's Lord Haellagos!"
"Long live Haellagos! Long live! Long live!"
The soldiers cheered at the approaching army. Haellagos's presence meant the end of this long war. He waved lightly to those chanting his name, then ordered the quartermaster to distribute rations and tend the wounded. Orders spread swiftly, actions prompt. Starved from meager wartime meals, soldiers finally ate properly from the main force's supplies. Field priests from the temple chanted healing spells on the injured—not enough to return them to battle, but easing the pain.
"L―ord!"
Aljes, first among adjutants, rushed forward. He'd been repairing stakes with the soldiers, slamming down his massive log and charging at Haellagos.
"Aljes, good work so far. Summon the other adjutants. It's time for the final battle."
"Y―our will!"
As Aljes ran to gather them, Haellagos and Yoahim headed to the command tent. Even the commander's quarters were spartan, reflecting the grueling campaign.
"L―ord! A―ll—pre―sent!"
With Aljes's thunderous shout, the others entered. Haellagos nodded from the head seat. Gellios, Billad, and Tilia looked ragged. Gellios's armor was dulled, filthy, scarred. Billad's body was a map of wounds and scars. Tilia's pale face was ghostly.
"Where's Jeron?"
Jeron, master of Jenahe Tower and leader of the magic battalion, wasn't an adjutant but qualified for the meeting. Yoahim felt uneasy at his mentor's absence.
Tilia answered Haellagos. "Lord Jeron is meditating to recover mana. The repeated battles drained him heavily, so he asked your understanding."
Black mages in each unit had been ground down in the relentless fights. No need to explain Jeron's ordeal leading the Jenahe mages here.
Haellagos nodded. "Everyone, you've done well. After this battle, I'll reward your efforts fittingly. Time is short—reports first."
"I'll report, my lord."
Even among adjutants, hierarchy existed. Aljes was senior after Halbert by service, but his speech made Gellios report instead.
"First, Sir Aljes arrived at the assembly, then Billad, and three days ago, Tilia, I, and Jeron."
All adjutants had gathered three days prior. Since then, Alzahar's nightly raids had whittled their numbers, the fallen rising as puppets to attack again.
Haellagos hummed thoughtfully, nodding. "You've all suffered greatly. No proper rest guarding against night attacks. Give the soldiers rest today, prepare for tomorrow. With me here, Alzahar's necromancy won't torment them."
"Understood."
"Proclaim to the army: Tomorrow, we will be victors. This grueling war ends, and true glory returns."
"As you command!"
Flames erupted around Gellios's neck. He trusted Haellagos absolutely. A promise of victory meant victory.
"Apostle Yoahim, rest today. Prepare meticulously for the decisive day."
Yoahim nodded. The strategy meeting dragged into dusk. Normally, they'd brace for undead in the dark, but Haellagos's black magic turned them to dust before they neared. Soldiers finally slept soundly. Yoahim conserved strength in his tent, bracing for tomorrow.
It was dawn, the world tinged hazy blue. White breath puffed out, the sun not yet fully risen. Soldiers rubbed sleep from eyes in the dim light, gripping cold spears and swords. Resolve filled their gazes. Faint smoke rose from last night's fires, like incense for the dead-to-be.
"Apostle, be careful today. May Kallagon's blessing be with you."
Yoahim, geared up, nodded to Leon and Sasha. "You too."
"And Apostle, I have a request."
"What?"
Sasha rarely asked favors. Yoahim tilted his head, and she spoke firmly. "If we become undead, kill us without hesitation. Preserve our dignity. Let us die as your warriors, not the foul lich's minions."
"Sasha..."
Killing Leon and Sasha, who'd trusted and followed him? Unthinkable. He'd prevent it at all costs.
"That won't happen."
"But 'just in case' exists. Please promise, Apostle. Let me die honorably."
No waver in Sasha's eyes—those of one who'd conquered fear of death. Yoahim glanced at the ceiling, then ground, sighing. "Fine. But you promise too. If I become undead, kill me."
"How could we... dare to..."
Sasha shook her head, as if impossible. Yoahim turned to Leon. "Leon, swear it. Help me die as Kallagon's apostle."
"Apostle!"
Leon snapped, frowning deeply—like anger at the words.
Tch. His heart twinged. Leon, you bastard... Taking care of me 'cause I'm the apostle? Kinda touching after so long...
"I was gonna do that anyway! Don't worry, Apostle! If you turn undead, I'll handle it! Die easy!"
"..."
This prick always trying to kill the apostle at every chance...
Consistent bastard... Makes him cooler...
They said sudden changes killed you—Leon might live forever. Yoahim felt relieved.