Chapter 334: Blight |
Blight
Monastery
Seemingly without a care, Sir Stan sat on a padded chair provided by the Sisters, one foot resting on a low cushioned stool as he kept watch over the uneasy situation between his allies and the surviving Sisters inside the Inner Sanctum. He was accompanied by his hundred men from Toruna, along with another hundred from a different company, and Big Ben with his own group of men-at-arms.
With their magic, the Sisters were now the greatest threat left within the Monastery. Fortunately, Sir Stan was not a stranger. Many knew him as Bengrieve’s cousin, of the House that had built the Monastery and controlled it for two centuries, until recently. Nearly a dozen Sisters openly welcomed his presence as a mediator.
In truth, the baronet had bedded several of the young Saint Candidates, and while not all were thrilled to see him, he remained a more welcome presence than any of the Black Lord’s men.
In an attempt to appease him, the Sisters had provided him and his troops with meals and pale ale from the Inner Sanctum’s larder.
Now, the night seemed peaceful, even cozy. At last, the men were able to wind down and relax, bantering among themselves while sipping watered-down ale, eating what snacks they could find, or drinking herbal brews.
They had no fear of poison. Big Ben’s nose was famously sharp when it came to spoiled food and other questionable substances.
Unknown to them, in that lull of the night, far off in the gatehouse, a figure in black armor rushed through the corridor with a large escort behind him, heading for the battlements. He had already sent runners and messengers, each racing toward their appointed recipients.
Though surprised, the signifier asked for confirmation only once. Then he drew a small wooden box from his inner sleeve, took out the prepared flares, and readied his sling. A moment later, he loosed them one after another into the night.
Each flare cut upward with a sharp hiss, climbing fast into the dark. They arced high above the Monastery, rising past the walls and towers until they seemed to hang against the night sky. Then, one by one, they burst.
Three red stars flared into life, burning bright against the darkness.
After a short delay, their counterparts in the camp answered with the same three red flares. From below the hill, three more flares soared into the night and burst high above the darkness, mirroring the first signal. Now every high officer of the House of Blue and Bronze in the vicinity knew that they had a terrible situation on their hands.
Inside the Monastery, the men turned restless.
“Three,” Big Ben exclaimed as he leaned out the courtyard window. “But even if my kin rebelled, that would only be two red stars.” He pointed to himself in confusion. “What kind of threat calls for three?”
“I have no idea,” said Sir Stan, who had already risen from his chair and moved to the window. Then he turned to his squire. “Oi. Get me information. Fast.”
Though they did not yet know the situation, they quickly roused the men and began fresh preparations for battle. Trumpets sounded, and the Monastery braced itself for yet another battle.
At last, a breathless messenger reached them, and what he recounted sent a chill through them all.
“Undead?” Sir Stan echoed, stunned enough to lose focus on everything else.
The hundreds of men crowding around them broke into uneasy murmurs.
The messenger nodded hastily and repeated, “We are locking the Monastery. Sir, you are requested to secure the Inner Sanctum.”
His words were almost drowned out by the murmurs. Sir Stan turned to Big Ben, still muttering, “Undead?”
“Do not look at me. I have never seen one,” Big Ben replied, equally troubled.
Then came the sound of hurried footsteps from within the Inner Sanctum. A group of Sisters, led by the old Sister in charge, came forward and demanded, “What is going on?”
Sir Stan composed himself and stepped forward to greet them. “Sister, we have bad news.”
“Bad news?” she asked, her brows furrowing, while the other Sisters behind her looked frightened and suspicious.
“The Monastery is being sealed. We have a critical situation on the lowest floor. Reports speak of an undead army.” Sir Stan braced himself for the Sisters’ outrage.
The Sisters reacted at once, gasping, covering their mouths, and breaking into confused whispers.
“Undead...?” one of the Sisters repeated, almost in ridicule.
He met her gaze calmly. “You will not believe this. They say the Saint has turned into a lich.”
“Sir!” the old Sister snapped, her voice sharp with offense. “I respect what you have done for us, and I acknowledge that Saint Nay may have committed a crime, but we will never accept such a horrid accusation. Necromancy? That is absurd. There is no such art. It's nothing but peasant superstition and old folks' tales.”
Sir Stan was about to reply when he heard the echo of hurried footsteps from the far end of the corridor. Everyone turned and saw the Mage Knight. His blackened armor remained dull even beneath the chandelier light, yet dark blood had been smeared across it here and there.
Stopping in front of Sir Stan and the old Sister, he said at once, “Your Saint has performed corrupted arts."
“What proof do you have?” the old Sister challenged.
Sir Morton did not even bother answering her. Instead, he motioned for his escort behind him to bring it forward. What they revealed shocked everyone. It was a nearly limbless young man in robes.
“What in the name of—” the old Sister shrieked, stepping back. The crowd behind her murmured in disgust and fear.
Yet, they suddenly fell silent.
The limbless body’s neck began to turn. Its milky white eyes stared blindly as its mouth opened. It writhed and tried to move, dragging itself like a worm with its one remaining arm and hand. Even the stumps that had once been its limbs twitched and struggled to move.
A wave of horror spread wildly. Many sisters and men recoiled. Others covered their mouths, staring as if their minds refused to accept what their eyes were seeing. Even Sir Stan and Big Ben stood either shocked or disgusted.
Overcoming his shock, Big Ben stepped forward, knelt, and prodded it with one long claw. “What is this? Yuck.”
Sir Morton kept his gaze on the old Sister. “That is your proof. Your Nay is a lich, and she is about to unleash the undead upon everyone.”
Faced with both the accusation and the undeniable proof, the old Sister struggled to recover her dignity. “W-we are not part of this. Whatever this is, it was done without our knowledge or consent. The Inner Sanctum is innocent.”
Another Sister quickly added emotionally, “The Saint must have been forced. You must have pressured her too much.”
Her thought quickly gathered support. Another claimed, “She might have somehow slipped and unknowingly healed Monastery members back from the dead.”
Sir Morton cast a hard glance at them, and the Sister faltered under it. “It doesn't matter. What matters now is that you have thousands of bodies in the catacombs, and hundreds of wounded still lying all over the Monastery. They will rise, and they will kill you.”
He pointed at the undead on the floor, added, “It is one of your own members. Go on. Try and see whether it recognizes any of your Sisters.”
The Sisters quickly lost heart.
A different Sister stepped forward. “Then, what do you want us to do?”
“Barricade yourselves in. Do not trust anyone who tells you to open the door,” Sir Morton said. “I have seen what the Saint did to one of your Sisters, Anna.”
“Anna? The apothecary?”
“She was possessed. She slit one of my men's throats and wounded three others before I could subdue her. She begged me to kill her, but I was able to save her. So, I beseech you, lock yourselves in. We cannot risk one of you being possessed while we fight.”
“But why single us out? If what you said is true, then she could possess anyone,” another Sister argued.
“Whatever she did, the corruption came through the inner vessel. It's likely harder for her to influence others, but not you. After all, she was the one who invented this technique.”
The Sisters exchanged uneasy glances among themselves. Indeed, though it had been kept off the books, many knew that it was Saint Nay who had pioneered the technique of creating the vessel rather than using the source, as was the norm among mages.
Then came the echo of hurried footsteps, a group of men running as though there were no tomorrow, with one of them carrying a woman in his arms.
“Sir Morton,” called the woman being carried as the escort came to a breathless stop.
“Emma?” the old Sister and the other Sisters exclaimed in surprise.
“Speak,” Sir Morton said, his voice cutting through the chaos.
“The men can’t hold them anymore. Sir Harold has brought all his men up. The Saint has breached the barricade.”
Sir Morton let out a bitter breath.
At his side, Sir Stan swallowed dryly. He pulled his cloak tighter over his red armor. Though they had never met in person, he was Bengrieve’s cousin and right-hand man, and that alone was enough for the Saint to despise him. The feeling was mutual. To him, she was a treacherous, vile, opportunistic usurper of the Monastery, with the blood of many allies on her hands. Their hatred had found its way into letters.
She had called him the lapdog of a fallen lord. He had called her a murderer wearing the false title of Saint. She had called him ungentlemanly and fit only for a peasant whore. He had sent a mock betrothal proposal in his dead granduncle’s name, claiming the man was a suitable match, as he was just as ancient as she was. In return, the Saint had threatened to send a plague upon Toruna that would wither crops and men alike.
His answer, just before the siege of Cascasonne, had been to send a paid order to a famous Explorer Guild to seek out a juvenile goblin from the Old Continent and paint it red, so it might serve as a bedchamber companion for the Saint, adding that only such a creature would be interested in an old wench like her.
Now, with her raising an army of undead, such mockery no longer seemed wise. He quietly cleared his throat.
Stolen novel; please report.
Big Ben stirred his tall frame and stepped forward. “Let me handle her,” he offered, banging his fist against his ringmailed chest.
“We can’t risk it,” Sir Morton shot the idea down. “We know she can possess, and I do not want to fight you.”
Big Ben grinned, knowing it was praise.
A different man came hurrying in, almost slipping and falling, and shouted as soon as he saw Sir Morton and Sir Stan, “The undead are everywhere. Our men in the gatehouse are overwhelmed.”
Everyone grew restless. Yet Sir Morton, seemingly unperturbed, asked, “How is the gate?”
“They lowered the portcullis, but there was not enough time to block the gate.”
Sir Morton turned to the Sisters. “That is your cue. Bar the door, and do not open it, not even for a friend’s voice.”
For once, the Sisters did not argue. They hurried back to their Inner Sanctum and closed the sturdy gates. From inside came the heavy sound of the bar being dropped into place.
...
Moving away from the Inner Sanctum toward the dining hall that their men had been using as quarters, Sir Stan walked side by side with Sir Morton, preoccupied with his own thoughts. At last, he asked the Mage Knight, “What plan do you have in mind?”
“Normal methods do not work against them,” Sir Morton said, voicing his thoughts. “In tight spaces, we will not be able to rotate the injured men fast enough. The undead would simply swarm us like a flash flood.”
“You want to meet them in the open?” Sir Stan asked in disbelief. “But it’s still nighttime.”
“There is no other way. Against a raging flood, we stand a better chance in a wider space.”
The officers following behind them glanced at one another until the Captain barked, “Lanterns and torches. Get them out.”
The order finally stirred the men into quicker motion.
Spurred on by the Captain's command, Sir Stan finally came to a decision and turned to his men. “You heard the Banneret. Out to the courtyard. Undead or alive, we fight.”
Meanwhile, Sir Morton turned to Big Ben and called, “Big One.”
The half-kin stood tall and straight. “Yes, Sir.”
“Inform the other commanders. Tell them to bring their men to the courtyard. We'll fight. The blight must end here.”
“Leave that to me,” Big Ben said, thumping a fist against his chest. Then the half-kin sprinted off on all fours.
They arrived at the dining hall with hundreds of their men. Emma, following behind, saw Uncle sitting on the floor beside the SAR man with the two crossbows, both drinking and nursing their stamina.
“Uncle,” she called.
The two men rose, more because the Mage Knight and the Baronet were heading toward them. “Sir,” the SAR man greeted.
“How is Sir Harold?” the Mage Knight asked.
“He took some blows, but he will live. Still, the men urged him to get checked, they fear it could turn fatal.”
“Who is in charge, then?”
“The Vice Commander is. He is organizing the men.”
“I’ll go meet him, then,” Sir Morton said, and he and Sir Stan walked away.
Emma stayed behind with Uncle and the SAR man. She needed to sit and drink as well. Her injured ankle could still bear her weight, but keeping pace with the other two men had been painful.
The SAR suddenly said to Uncle, “Hey, tell her about the woman in white.”
“What woman in white?” Emma asked, not understanding.
Uncle sighed. “On the lowest floor, among the mass of suicides, do you remember the woman in white at the center of the formation?”
Emma's eyes narrowed. At first, she had thought it was the Saint. But since it was not the Saint, then it had to be Gemma. “To think the Saint would sacrifice her most loyal confidant...”
“No. It’s not Gemma.” Uncle shook his head.
“Not Gemma?" She frowned. "Then who is it?”
Uncle looked tired as he turned toward her with his weak, reddened eyes. “I forgot her name. She’s the bitch who married that failed knight. The loser of the war. Hobendort.”
Sister Emma gasped as she realized the decapitated body was Angela, a fellow Sister. Despite their disagreements, she had never wished for such a fate to befall her.
“Hohendorf,” the SAR member corrected him.
“Yes, him,” Uncle said with a scoff.
The SAR man then turned to Emma. “You seem to know this woman in white. Who is she?”
“Her name is Angela. She was one of the Saint’s enablers, but she was not in the upper hierarchy.”
“You said she was with Hohendorf? Am I correct to assume she was directly involved in the rebellion and in the theft of the Great Gemstone?”
Emma nodded. “That’s her. She was the one who returned to the Monastery with the Great Gemstone.” Then she suddenly realized something and turned to Uncle. “But then, where is Gemma? Has she turned into an undead, too?”
Uncle could only shrug.
Sir Morton, Sir Stan, and the Vice soon appeared again. They had come away with a plan and had mobilized the entire force. Men in armor now streamed toward the courtyard. More men forming up in the corridor while their lieutenants marched them out in order. The passage quickly turned busy and tense with movement.
Worried about Anna, Emma approached Sir Morton and asked, “Sir, what about the Healing Hall? You have many wounded in there.”
The other two commanders glanced at Sir Morton, who hesitated for a brief moment before replying, “There is nothing we can do right now. The path is already contested.”
By then, the sounds of fighting had already reached them. Stragglers among the undead had found their way there, and more would soon follow. With the pressure mounting, the Vice and his staff moved on with their duties, for they had a battle to prepare for. The SAR member went with them as well.
“But, Sir,” Emma pressed Sir Morton, “Sir Harold and his men are in there.”
“I’m aware,” he said. “But I have no other option.”
She grew desperate. “Can’t you even send more men?”
For a brief moment, they simply met each other’s gaze. “More movement might draw even more undead to the Healing Hall. If they have Harold with them, he should know what to do.”
“Then...” Emma was at a loss for words. “You will not even allow me to take some men there?”
“Sister,” Sir Morton said with sympathy, “I need you to lead the surviving Believers. If you do not, you will be condemning them to the lich.”
Emma was shaken, realizing the weight of her new responsibility.
There was no time for reflection, for the corridor had already filled with a fresh wave of chaos. Even this place would soon become a battleground. Lieutenants barked orders to keep the men from falling into confusion. Meanwhile, the undead cared for nothing and, even in small numbers, attacked with blind ferocity.
Amid the growing dread, Sir Stan stepped closer to Sister Emma. “I’ll drag her out.”
That caught her by surprise, and a flicker of hope entered her voice. “Sir...?”
Sir Morton met the baronet’s gaze, and Sir Stan went on, “The Saint hates my guts. I believe I can draw her away from the Healing Hall.”
***
Courtyard
A force of nearly two thousand poured toward the courtyard, now filled with the glow of long torches and lanterns. At the known entrances, groups of men rushed to drag up chairs and tables, smashing them apart and throwing the pieces into hastily built bonfires. Flames climbed fast as they fought to light the killing ground.
“Line formation, five men deep!” the Vice shouted, and the captains and lieutenants carried the order down the ranks. Nearby, Sir Morton stood with one of his knights, watching the field.
The formation came together with urgency.
“Shield bearers to the front!” each captain commanded.
“Forget crossbows. Sharp blades only. Go for the head or the neck if you can. Otherwise, it’s a slow kill.” Another captain could be heard shouting the same instructions Sir Morton had given them.
The line had barely settled when the undead began to pour in from unexpected places. They came from the cloistered walk, climbing through hedges and rows of plants, driven only by the urge to attack the living.
Now the troops fixed their gaze on the undead approach. Many drew in sharp breaths, seeing them for the first time beyond scattered talk and rumor.
The undead came without order or formation. Some lurched forward with uneven steps, dragging stiff legs. Others staggered with a broken gait, shoulders slumped, heads hanging at wrong angles. Yet there was no hesitation in them. Like a flood after the rain, they simply advanced without care, swords and other weapons in hand, pressing forward in a mindless, suicidal rush.
“It really is undead...” one man-at-arms said, his voice tight.
“This can’t be...” another muttered, sweat forming on his brow.
“Fucking undead.” Another spat the curse while gripping his shield and sword tight.
“The Lord and Lady are watching!” a lieutenant shouted.
That drew a wave of cries from the line. “For the Blue and Bronze!”
The men roared, but this time the sound felt thin against the horror before them. A squire leaned toward his superior and whispered, “Do you think we can even kill what’s already dead?”
“Don’t overthink. We’ll get through this,” the officer replied firmly.
“Here they come!” the captain next to the Vice warned the entire formation.
Eyes strained in the torchlight as the men watched the undead make their final approach, some with broken limbs, others with hanging jaws. Then the dead charged their line with reckless abandon. Before the men knew it, rotting bodies slammed into shields. Men grunted and stumbled as the force of the impact ran down the line.
A chorus of grunts ran down the line as it bent under the blow.
“Keep the line!” an officer shouted.
“Hold it, hold it!”
Many of the undead ran straight onto spearpoints, but that did not stop them. More pressed on from behind, driving the front ranks into the shields. The men strained against the weight, feeling each impact jolt through their arms and shoulders. Despite the stench of death and the horror before them, swords hacked down, and axes rose and fell. Sharp blades bit into rotting flesh.
The undead shrieked as if taunting, and the air stank of corpses. Some were knocked flat in the first clash, yet still clawed at boots and legs from the ground.
“Strike them down! Don’t let them stand again!” one of the captains shouted amid the fight.
Just as it seemed the formation would hold, disaster struck. Sir Stan’s hundred were seen withdrawing from the main cloistered walk. They had served as bait and should have been rejoining the line, but so many undead were now pouring into the courtyard that they were cut off and in danger of being surrounded.
Watching the situation unfold while the line was battered by yet another wave of undead, the Vice turned to the Mage Knight. “Sir Morton,” he called, his voice edged with plea, “the men need you here.”
The Mage Knight met his gaze. “I cannot let the Baronet fall. He's too great an ally to the House.”
The Vice gritted his teeth, knowing the cost it would bring to their own line, but said, “Take the SAR and a column of two hundred men with you.”
“Gratitude.” The reply was brief. At once, the Mage Knight led two hundred men to relieve Sir Stan’s trapped force.
With Sir Morton leading from the front, the detachment hacked its way through the waves of undead. Sir Stan, clad in his red armor, had activated his gemstone of strength and was wreaking havoc among the dead to keep his bloodied column alive. Only after several grim minutes of intense fighting, at the cost of dozens more injured men, did the two forces manage to rejoin. But even with their combined three hundred men, they failed to break free.
The men were growing exhausted. Even Sir Morton had fought with all he had. Meanwhile, more waves of undead kept pouring out from the accursed Monastery. Hundreds swarmed toward them, more than anyone could count.
The troops gasped as they witnessed the true horror of the undead host.
Comrades exchanged glances, each silently wondering whether they would make it.
Even the Vice and his officers bore the same look of despair. More and more undead had crashed into their line, and the weight of the assault was growing unbearable.
“Ack!” a man-at-arms in front of the Vice cried as teeth sank into him, while beside him, his comrade fell and took a stab to the thigh.
“Sound the cornu. Keep fighting!” the Vice commanded, even as he and his men threw themselves forward to cut down another surge of undead crashing into their line.
The cornu gave out its terrifying cry.
From the battlements, the slingers hurled fire bottles to ease the pressure. Yet against thousands of undead, it amounted to almost nothing. The fell creatures kept coming. Even when they lost limbs, they still threw themselves forward.
“Commander!” a lieutenant called to the Vice in desperation as his section of the line was nearly overwhelmed.
Just as all seemed nearly lost, three flashes of light burst from the sky. Almost everyone looked up in sheer awe and surprise. The vast courtyard suddenly washed in blinding white light.
That magical radiance even slowed the undead, and many gazed toward it. The corrupted magic within them reacted to this new source of power.
And it was not only light.
Three figures dropped straight from the air and crashed into the middle of the undead formation. Several were crushed or hurled aside by the impact, and without even pausing, the three men broke into a charge and tore a hole through the undead mass. Wielding large single-edged swords in both hands, more like great knives than true swords, they hacked and slashed through the undead like farmers reaping weeds. Each carried four more blades strapped across his back in leather sheaths, as if they had come prepared for exactly this kind of slaughter.
“Who...?” the troops muttered, struggling to catch their breath.
“All I care about is that they are on our side.” The trio’s intervention had pulled many of the undead away from their line.
“Fuck. I’m bleeding.” A man gasped before his legs gave out beneath him.
“Oi, help out. Don’t just gawk!” a wounded lieutenant ordered his men.
Not willing to waste such a chance, the Vice, while the men in front of him stabbed down another undead before him, shouted at once, “Reform the line!”
Each officer quickly bellowed orders to pull back the wounded and funnel fresher men to the front.
Amid the chaos, a fourth man descended from the airship by a lowered rope and landed near the Vice’s position.
“Good late evening, or should I say early morning,” the old man said calmly as he approached. He was likely in his late fifties. “My friends and I were sent by the Lord Shogun to assist in this matter. We are Hunters, and we excel at fighting this kind of enemy.”
“We are privileged to share this battle with you, honored Meister.” The Vice gladly clasped the old man’s hand.
The men who heard it reacted at once. Faces that had been grim now showed a flicker of hope, and low voices rose through the line.
“Help has arrived,” some muttered, their spirits rising.
“The Lord has sent reinforcements.”
“We might yet make it.”
But the officers and veterans remained skeptical. Despite the power of the three men who cut through the undead as though they were no more than scarecrows, they were still only three against thousands. At this rate, even Hunters like them would be exhausted within minutes. Even if this older man proved just as capable, it would not change the outcome of the battle. Many had been sobered by the sight of Sir Morton left out of breath against such a vast swarm of undead.
The battle raged and the Vice asked, “We are glad for your help, but do you have anything else?”
“I have none of that,” the old Hunter admitted, drawing a wave of quiet sighs from the staff and nearby troops.
But he was not finished. With the corner of his mouth lifting in a faint smile, he added, “For that, you need to ask him yourself.”
“Him?” the Vice asked, almost stuttering.
To their rear, beyond the reach of the white light, a large rattan basket descended from the airship, wide enough to carry several men. Even before it touched the ground, a large creature leaped out and landed on all fours. The men recognized her at once by the white fur.
“Francisca,” the men muttered between low gasps.
The basket touched down, and its door swung open. Sir Sterling, Squire Carla, and Lady Ingrid emerged, followed by two other figures cloaked in travel-stained mantles.
In the dim light, no one could yet make out their faces clearly, but the troops did not need to.
The men raised their weapons and roared their fiercest battle cry.
At once, the battlefield and the Monastery itself seemed to tremble. Even the undead took notice. Hundreds halted in mid-step. Heads turned. Dead eyes fixed upon the new arrivals. They felt it, in whatever corrupted magic still drove them onward. The tide had shifted.
***