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.
The last of the undead falls. I throw a silent prayer to the Goddess, whose blood runs through my veins, imploring her to ease these poor bastards into the afterlife.
I flick my sword, removing the dirt from the blade, and quickly sheath it.
Then I cross the square and arrive at the imposing double doors.
I push. Unsurprisingly, they’re unlocked.
There’s a great creak as the timber door swings inward, admitting me to the entrance foyer of Deignar Castle.
And inside, I meet another horde.
Hundreds, if not thousands of them. A sea of decaying, animated bodies lurching toward me.
Horror and revulsion well up inside me, threatening to spill over. I quickly convert them to anger. Anger fuels my destructive force.
I start to hack through the bodies as if I were a butcher, caring less about technique and more about efficiency. Thank the goddess for this dhampir body of mine. If I were anyone else, I’d be dead by now.
They really want to see what it takes, don’t they? To slow me down?
I cut a swathe through the horde, earning my share of stabs, cuts, and nicks in the process. My body heals quickly, but my armor isn’t infallible. I choose the leather armor because it affords me greater freedom of movement, and I value speed over protection. But even chainmail and plate-armor can be penetrated by a sharp enough blade.
And the edge of my sword is starting to get dull. I need another blade.
A hulking undead rushes me, his massive war-axe raised. I take his head off in an instant. The axe falls, clattering loudly on the stone floor. I sheath my sword and pick it up. There’s another body nearby, with a similar sized axe lying close to its outstretched arm.
I take both.
Before my transformation, I would have struggled to wield these heavy weapons.
Now, they’re perfectly weighted; comfortable.
I spin and slice an undead corpse in two. Then another, and another. My attack becomes a gruesome dance; it’s easier to spin and whirl than to cut straight through. The blades are sharp and carry wicked momentum.
Better.
Much better.
Eventually, I clear the room, leaving a pile of mangled bodies in my wake.
I don’t look back. I feel sick to my stomach. So many dead men; so many of them freshly dead, too. How did the Talavarras gain so many bodies in such a short amount of time.
Are they killing them?
Did all these men die for the sole purpose of becoming fodder for me? Are these people really so threatened by the mere fact of my existence?
I’m sick.
Sick and furious.
Rage eats at my insides, making me a little bit insane.
Kaithar was right. I never should have relinquished my claim to the throne. If I hadn’t been so blind to it, maybe I could have stopped this rot before it even started.