Chapter 339: Fallen Sanctuary |
Fallen Sanctuary
Monastery, Lower Floor
Resting against her throne of white bones, layered with leather, linen, and silk, the Lich lifted both feet and set them upon a crouching undead dressed in fine red garments, like a human footstool. Her lips curled faintly as she watched the battle unfold before her. Long life had made her cunning. The more betrayals, battles, and narrow survivals one endured, the sharper and more watchful one became. And she had two hundred and forty years behind her.
That accumulated experience had served her well tonight. Rather than follow instinct alone, she had chosen discipline and hidden her children behind a veil of light. That alone might not have worked against Mages, but her masterful manipulation of the Great Gemstone’s light turned it into a powerful illusion, enough to deceive even the best of them.
It had been critical. Had she been any younger, she might have fallen to these Hunters, who had somehow endured her Static Shock nearly unscathed. More than anything else, that stung her. Her most powerful skill, made stronger still by her ascension into a higher form of life, had failed to cripple them. For the first time, it forced an ugly question upon her. Had her long and unjust imprisonment atop this hill left her that far behind the latest craft of Mages?
The Monastery, which many of her peers had once imagined as a sanctuary for magecraft, free from the Guilds and their rules, had become a failure. It had become a menagerie of healers, who to her were nothing more than half-mages and wasted potential. The Monastery, then, was no better than a zoo. The Caretaker and the common candidates were its wardens. The Saint Candidates were its prized beasts.
Though her Static Shock had failed to kill, she hid her surprise well. She would not give her opponents the satisfaction.
As twenty of her children, each with an iron spear in hand, advanced against the four men, the Lich let her feet dangle in open mockery and rested her golden scepter across her lap. To her, the outcome was already decided.
While her children were still fairly young compared to her, their enhanced physiques made them far stronger than ordinary Mages.
Beyond the line of her remaining seven, she noticed the four men had drawn into a tight battle group and were withdrawing toward the center of the hall, while her children closed around them ever tighter, like a knot. At once, she shouted, “Don’t get careless. Think who they are truly aiming for.”
Many of her children slowed. One spoke with a hiss. “We shan’t be drawn out.”
At those words, the four men broke apart to the left and right, trying to slip past the ranks of children and charge toward the Lich.
The twenty sprang forward and gave chase. Five fell upon each attacker, and within moments the hall dissolved into a one-sided running battle.
The Lich laughed at the sight. “Futile,” she remarked harshly. “Gentlemen, you ought to consider giving up.”
Sir Morton blocked and parried a flurry of spears aimed at him, changing direction again and again under the swarm.
The Lich continued, her voice echoing through the hall, rich with menace and almost laced with magic. “Suffer not your fully trained body to be ruined. It would be a waste—”
Arnaut moved a moment too slowly and caught one spear too squarely. Its point punched through his buckler. Yet he did not falter and kept pressing, still searching for openings in their defense.
“Accept my gift, and you shall be unbound from the shackles of impure blood,” the Lich continued, giving them one more distraction to fight through.
The senior and junior Hunters fought with all they had. Flashes of steel and showers of sparks burst around them as they battled for their lives.
“With death conquered, I shall attain the Grand Progenitor’s gift. The Ancients’ pure blood that even the Elves desired. All I ask—”
The four men fought on across the hall. Red mist and flying blood marked the struggle as they drove harder through the chaos, two meeting their foes head-on while the other two searched for weak points.
“—is for you to become part of my retinue. You shall be loyal. You shall find service under me fulfilling your every need.” The Lich laughed, her shoulders rocking upon her throne.
Under great pressure, the men fought what was beginning to feel like a losing battle.
Humming softly, the Lich sat to the side, resting her cheek against one hand. After watching a few more moments of vicious fighting unfold before her, she muttered, in a voice heard only by Gemma, “So one-sided. At this rate, they will not get enough training.”
Gemma, her young confidante, showed little reaction, save for a faint smile, while clutching the jug of rare spiced wine.
The Lich drummed the fingers of her left hand against the arm of her throne. Then her lips curved sharply. She shouted, “Children, eight of you, go upstairs and punish the upstarts who tried to seize our Monastery.”
The children answered with a harsh chorus of assent. Eight broke away at once and ran toward the stairs, their robes snapping and their mail rustling as they moved.
The Lich sat back with renewed interest. “Let us see whether our fine guests here will stay and fight to the death, or go running back to their master’s feet.”
...
Sir Morton
Upon seeing eight of the Wraiths and Liches bolt for the stairs, the senior Hunter, even in the middle of the fight, glanced at Sir Morton. The Mage Knight saw and answered at once, “We’re staying!”
It was brief, but it was enough. The senior held his ground a moment longer and shouted, “Brothers, on my mark!”
The Lich straightened in her seat. “What is this? A foolish bluff?”
“Rain,” Arnaut yelled, as if giving a code.
“Drizzle,” the junior replied.
Sir Morton had no idea what it meant, but he would play it by ear. Dust began to whirl low across the hall, gathering here and there in shifting patches.
The Lich’s lips twisted into a scowl. The three Hunters’ movements grew wilder. Their breathing turned heavy and ragged as they moved faster and less predictably, leaving the Wraiths and Liches lagging behind.
Surprised, the Lich reached for her golden scepter. Finding no immediate threat, she scoffed. “You would try to kill me again? I am Ageless, an Immortal. Death has no claim over me.”
Despite her claim, Gemma at her side quietly checked the long, curved sword at her belt.
“Black cloud,” the senior shouted stubbornly while the three against him fought hard to read his movements and cut off his path.
“Thunder,” Arnaut responded, striking his shield with a ringing clang.
The Lich clicked her tongue. “Too slow!” she complained harshly to her children. “They are trying to find your weakness.”
The creatures answered with shrieks. A few pulled away from the fight, unwilling to be drained in a contest of stamina and wits.
Now the Hunters seemed to change their approach. Sensing their hesitation, the Lich mocked, “You cannot win. Give it up. Not against nineteen of my beloved sons and daughters.”
“Eighteen,” Sir Morton said sharply, surprising the Lich.
The two young Liches against him suddenly widened their eyes as a great shadow loomed at their backs. They tried to evade, but one had no chance. A massive black shape, formed like an armored gauntlet, caught it from behind.
The Lich gasped and could only watch as the Mage Knight closed in against one of her sons. His flamberge flashed. In an instant, the great sword severed the young lich's neck.
Even severed and flying through the air, the head still let out a wail of agony. Its near-eternal life had been ended far too soon.
The wail drew the attention of its brothers and sisters. Surprised and not yet understanding what had happened, a few of them slowed. Seizing the chance, Arnaut planted his foot, turned, and thrust his dwarven sword into an unsuspecting young Lich’s gut. It gasped as the ancient alloy blade punched through its ringmail and bit deep into the body. It tried to counter with a spear thrust, but with enhanced strength, Arnaut ripped the blade upward in one brutal motion, tearing from the gut to the throat.
Another horrendous wail echoed through the death-stained hall.
Not risking Corrupted Healing, Arnaut slammed the body down and cut through its neck with a single slash, then leaped away as a raging Lich and Wraith thrust their iron spears at him. Still, even in that moment, mid-jump, he turned toward the Saint and taunted, “Seventeen.”
The Saint Lich sprang from her seat and screamed, her face contorting. She had carefully nurtured each one of them, and now two had just died before her eyes.
With the enemy in uproar and only two against him, Sir Morton let out a thin smirk. He deliberately slowed and parried the pair of Liches pressing him. He understood now why the Hunters fought this way. They were careful, not rushing into a gamble, but taking their time to learn their enemies. Even Sir Morton, who did not know their method, had benefited from the prolonged engagement.
Sparks flew as he faced the pair in spear-against-sword combat. With skin harder than weathered canvas, muscles strengthened like those of Mages, and bodies as resilient as the undead, the Liches were formidable. Yet while both were undoubtedly trained, there was still a wide gulf of skills between them and the Butcher of Kapua.
Sir Morton no longer fought on the move but stood his ground, taking one on his left and the other on his right, matching their speed and viciousness. At one point, he gave a spear thrust only a shallow block. Sensing an opening, the Lich lunged in with a murderous stab, but Sir Morton snapped his sword across with speed and force. The wavy blade struck the solid iron shaft and made it shudder so hard that the Lich’s grip faltered. It was no more than a moment, but it was enough.
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He whipped his flamberge at the Lich, which was too late to recover its stance. It only managed to duck, but the sword still mercilessly cleaved through its head at the mouth. It shrieked its last with a wet, broken sound from the hollow of its throat.
Sir Morton stepped to the side and turned aside a thrust from the second Lich. But upon seeing how its brother had perished, it sprang back. Even its undead heart seemed to beat with fear.
The Mage Knight met its gaze with his golden eyes, and the creature shrank back another step.
Amid the fighting still raging around them, Sir Morton walked straight toward the Lich Saint with dreadful calm, ignoring the frightened Lich that now dared only to trail behind him.
“Weakling!” the Lich Saint screamed, standing before her throne. “Kill him!” she ordered her remaining children.
Five before her dashed toward Sir Morton.
Even the following Lich found new courage and dashed toward him. Sir Morton knew he had bitten off more than he could chew and withdrew.
The Hunters faced a combination of Liches and Wraiths. The latter creatures’ physiques were only at the level of a well-trained Mage, yet Wraiths, especially the female ones, robbed even experienced Hunters of their usual battle confidence. Though not translucent, they possessed an unnatural mastery of light and shadow, allowing them to slip into the edge of one’s vision without being properly caught. That alone made them formidable, appearing from blind sides and filling their opponent with doubt and hesitation.
Still, Arnaut had laid a trap. The Wraith facing him had grown too brazen, striking as though she could do so with impunity. Arnaut let more blows pass unanswered until at last he chose to spring it. He caught one thrust on his buckler, and with the hand hidden behind it, he seized the spear shaft. The female Wraith thought nothing of it and tried to wrench the weapon free, only to find it would not budge despite her strength.
In her confusion, Arnaut’s dwarven sword had already torn through her ringmail and plunged into her breast. Blood burst from her mouth. Her Lich brother rushed to the rescue, but it was too late. Like a dance move, Arnaut swiftly tore the sword free and, with a trained motion, cut the Wraith’s head clean off.
As her head rolled across the dirty, blood-stained floor, the Wraith still cried out in pain, tears streaming down her bloodied face.
“Ember!” Arnaut said hoarsely to his fellow Hunters as he faced the last Lich before him, which bared its teeth but found no courage to advance.
“Go help him!” the Saint ordered the last of her children to press Arnaut.
“Smoke!” the senior Hunter yelled, using words that seemed random and confusing.
Farther down the hall, where the Mage Knight was cornered by no fewer than six, two Liches and a Wraith had grown too bold and moved recklessly. In their blind bravado, they failed to notice the dust whirling around Sir Morton. Just as they were about to leap, an ethereal gauntlet formed right before them and slammed all three to the floor.
Still, the half-corporeal massive gauntlet could not hold three fell creatures for long. But before they could break free, Sir Morton had already chanted while evading the swarm of spears thrust at him.
[Static Blade]
A white blast engulfed the hall, and then a thunderclap boomed, rattling dust from the ceiling. It was not as grand as the Saint Lich’s spell, but it was narrow and concentrated. Of the three, two could not even scream their last as they burned to cinders, orange sparks racing down their blackened remains. The last one escaped with its charred left arm falling away.
Even greatly weakened from a spell he loathed to use, and with little left but the remnants of his stamina, Sir Morton still faced the rest of the group trying to murder him. Still, he glanced toward the Saint Lich, whose face had already gone half-mad, and raised his voice, “I forgot the number. Do you keep tally of your remaining precious children?”
The Saint Lich screamed herself hoarse and clawed at her own lower arm, drawing blood. As it ran down her flesh, she cried, “Enough. Die, you sinners!”
There was no chant, for it belonged to Mage’s inherent abilities. But in her hands and with the Great Gemstone, it had been scaled to monstrous breadth. She was gathering all the air in the hall, creating a vacuum through sheer magical force. Wind rushed past them as if the buried hall had been opened to the world above, each gust dragged toward a transparent sphere of air whirling fast and violently. More and more air was sucked into it without cease.
Inhaling sharply and fighting a splitting headache, Sir Morton drew on the last of his power and cast an ethereal shield bubble around himself. But he knew it would not last, not after fighting for nearly the entire night. The Hunters would fare worse, for they could rely only on their greater physical endurance to withstand it.
The Hunters’ faces tightened with strain. Within minutes, no ordinary human would remain standing. In three, even Hunters and a Mage Knight would be too spent to fight.
Amid the chaos, the youngest Hunter took a Wraith’s spear to the chest. His armor saved him, but the blow slowed him. Then another Wraith drove its spear into his back. Groaning, he would have died there as two others closed in, but the senior Hunter had tracked his movements and bludgeoned his way through to reach him.
Now they were all in bad shape. Sir Morton was near collapse, and Arnaut had too many on him. Meanwhile, the senior Hunter had to fight while shielding the wounded youth.
They had slain many, but time was running out.
***
Lansius
A gentle night wind drifted in from the courtyard window and passed over Lansius and his men as they waited for the outcome of the Hunters’ fight below. It stirred the bonfire they had lit, making it crackle and spit. The faint echoes and distant noise from below had made the men tense. All kept their hastily sharpened swords unsheathed and close at hand, whether standing or seated on the floor. Some even sat facing the barricade directly, with shield and spear within easy reach.
Though still bandaged from the fighting, Sir Harold looked ready. He sat with Francisca at his side, speaking with her in low tones.
Lansius remained with Audrey and Sir Sterling. Reports still came to him in small numbers, yet none brought any significant development. Sister Emma and Sir Stan had managed to broker a deal with the Inner Sanctum. Over three dozen critically wounded men had been carried there for treatment. Patrols had been established, and so far, the monastery seemed free of undead.
They had also brought in a fresh column from the camp by way of the siege ladders to bolster their ranks.
Lansius had a new addition of heavy crossbowmen with their arbalests and windlasses. If the undead came again, they meant to test them.
“Do you think they’d work?” he whispered to Audrey, who was still in her mask.
“One of Isolte’s friends uses a crossbow, so they can be used against fell beasts. But against undead... their nature is too different,” she replied, making sure none were eavesdropping. She could raise a thin ethereal bubble, but it might draw unnecessary attention.
Lansius nodded, making no remark.
“Still, to have the resilience of the dead, yet not even the instincts of an animal, is a poor tradeoff.” She turned toward him. “That is why you can destroy an undead army twice the size in under an hour.”
Lansius felt the praise was misplaced. “It is the men’s sacrifice. They paid the price for victory. I am only making crude speeches and trying not to get myself killed from careless bravado.”
“Do not be mistaken. You are brave."
Lansius did a double-take. Audrey was never one to say such things casually.
Her hazelnut eyes narrowed. “As your mentor, I will still discipline you for giving away your gemstone of strength in the face of battle. But it was brave, and you did well.”
“Gratitude,” Lansius managed, his chest warm with pride.
“A few times, I nearly turned and charged to your side. But you proved strong enough to stand on your own. And each time you fell or were surrounded, the men fought harder.” She gave a soft snort. “The soft-hearted man from Bellandia is now a warlord who commands respect. These men would die for you. I know that look in their eyes. They would leave their families and march a thousand miles just to earn your praise.”
Lansius turned aside. Her words left him uneasy, yet he could neither deny them nor argue, for he knew they were true. After all, this was not a mere coincidence, but an application of the art of war.
Regard your soldiers as your children, and they will follow you into the deepest valleys. Look on them as your own beloved sons, and they will stand by you even unto death.
Ahead, the men nearest to the wooden fence barricade went tense. The men exchanged glances. Then more heard it as well, and one turned toward the chamber. “I hear something. Something is approaching.”
“Is it Sir Morton?” one asked as the men rose.
“They’re... running?” another said, puzzling the others.
Sir Harold rose quietly, already checking his bandaged fingers. Francisca also rose and took up her battle axe. Her claws were easier to use in tight indoor fighting, but against the undead, they lacked the reach and cleaving power she needed.
Lansius leaned forward in his seat, concerned but unwilling to make a hasty decision. Meanwhile, Audrey lifted her mask slightly and took a sip of water.
The noise grew louder. One of the men blurted, “I hear heavy chainmail clinking. Multiple wearers. They’re running.”
Any doubt was erased. The Hunters and Sir Morton wore no outer mail.
“They’re not our men, all right,” Francisca muttered as she strode to the front. Her half-kin ears were sharper.
The men grew tense.
Lansius rose, and Sir Sterling quickly handed him a helmet. He turned to Francisca and asked, “How many?”
“More than five, My Lord.” Francisca then turned to the men at the front. “I suggest you men get back. These are different from the undead we faced before.”
“They got past the Hunters and Sir Morton,” some of the men muttered, filled with worry but also a fierce eagerness to fight.
Lansius looked to Audrey. She met his gaze and gave a firm nod. He made his decision. “Men, clear the front. Form a line behind the door.”
The sixty men in the chamber obeyed, hastily withdrawing from the barricade.
Francisca and Sir Harold were soon joined by the Hunter, a confident older man who drew two heavy blades.
“What do you think is approaching?” Francisca asked him.
“If I had to guess, the lich and her underlings,” he said, with a hint of tension in his voice.
“This does not sound like undead, all right,” Audrey said to Lansius as she moved toward the wall to her left, drawing her cloak higher to cover part of her face, with more than half of her claymore hidden behind it.
Sir Sterling and eleven men stood in front of Lansius, who kept his visor open, his black hair hidden beneath his helmet.
As they readied their weapons, a group of young men and women finally emerged from the stairs. They were clad in ringmail over robes, and all carried solid iron spears. Their movements were refined, almost graceful. Their skin bore none of the markings seen on the undead they had faced before. Yet it was too pale, their eyes too milky, and despite running, they did not seem winded.
“Good evening. I’m Drucilla, the Saint’s messenger.” The woman in a dark gray robe over ringmail curtsied from behind the wooden fence barricade.
There were gasps from the men, but no one on Lansius’ side answered.
Drucilla glanced from side to side, showing little concern for the wooden barricade. She showed clear interest in Francisca, yet in the end fixed her gaze on a tall, handsome knight. Unable to resist, she licked her lips and used precise control of magic to send a whisper to his ears alone. As greater beings, her natural affinity for magic had improved beyond measure, making even simple tricks like this more refined, turning words into suggestions.
[O valiant warrior, you look as though you need rest. Do not worry, the fight is over. Set that issue aside. I know a way to heal some of your wounds. I would not mind tending to you myself.]
Sir Harold did not even twitch. Gripping his falchion calmly, he asked, “Where are our four men?”
With her suggestion failed, Drucilla laughed like a fox and resorted to taunts. “Do you expect me to talk?”
“No,” Sir Harold replied calmly. “I expect you to die.”
Drucilla shrieked at once. Before anyone could react, two of the liches drove their shoulders into the barricade. Secured by weight alone and not fastened to the floor, it skidded across the stone, opening a gap for their brothers and sisters to rush through with spears readied in absolute confidence.
Fighters as seasoned as Sir Harold, Francisca, and the Hunter noticed at once that some of the movements were unnatural. All three jumped back to gain space. Only Audrey remained where she was near the wall, her lips curling unseen behind her mask.
Drucilla commanded, [Sisters, slip through them like the night wind and sow chaos in their rear].
Shrill cries answered from the two wraiths concealed beneath their innate veil of light. The three liches surged as the vanguard and lunged at their chosen targets, thinking this would turn into a brawl.
They made a fatal mistake.
Like a great cat, Audrey moved on her prey. She slipped to the side with both hands on the hilt, and then a blur of metal flashed through the chamber in a single flat arc. Her claymore sang for a split second and caught the two wraiths as they tried to slip past the line. They had not expected her to see through their veil, nor had they judged that someone of her frame could wield such a massive blade with such reach. Sparks flew as the strike caught them in mid-leap.
The impact was violent. One wraith was hurled straight back into the barricade hard enough to crack the wood. The other was flung onto the stone floor and rolled until it struck the wall, leaving the chamber stunned.
Francisca did not waste the opening. With predatory instinct, she lunged before either wraith could recover. Her axe left her hand and struck the first wraith with such force that it pinned the creature against the wall. Then Francisca slammed into the second. Her claws scraping against ringmail as she drove it down.
Drucilla shrieked at the swift reprisal. Even the liches broke off their attack to watch. One wraith hung pinned against the wall, its body twisting in blind agony. The other gurgled blood through a ruined mouth beneath Francisca’s weight, its arms bent the wrong way.
Witnessing such violence exacted against their own, the liches faltered. Doubt finally touched them, shaking their faith in their strength and their immortal bodies.
Overcoming her grief, Drucilla stared at the perpetrators. “You dare defy the Saint!”
As if in answer, Francisca wrenched the second wraith’s head aside with a brutal crack. It collapsed, twitching, as she bared her fangs in grim satisfaction.
Audrey snorted behind her silver mask, almost amused. She flicked the dark blood from her claymore and strode toward the speaker. “Drucilla, is it? Keep your name. Your grave will still go unmarked.”
***
*Note that I already said this arc would likely run until the end of June, so please bear with it a little longer. Chapter 343 is the start of the next arc.
Or, if you want to read ahead, Patreon is always available. Even the $5 tier is already past this arc. At the $10 tier, another major enemy has already fallen.