The heavy gates of Fort Magnus ground open, the sound echoing across the dawn-lit Wastes like a challenge.

  Marcellus took the lead, his massive boots crunching into the hard-packed ash. He was a mountain of a man, and the weapon resting on his shoulder, a double-headed Great Axe forged from black steel, made him look like an executioner of giants.

  Behind him marched the Cinderblades. They were the heavy legion of Cindercrest, the iron fist of the Empire. Encased in a thick, matte-black full plate that seemed to drink the morning light. They moved with a heavy, rhythmic thunder that shook the ground.

  Flanking them were the Ember Vanguard. Dangerous scouts and patrolmen who kept Fort Magnus operational year-round while it was constructed. They wore lighter, articulated crimson mail and leather, designed for speed and endurance.

  Drakath, the vanguard commander, walked with a predatory grace, his shield strapped to his back and a sword at his hip. His breath fogged in the chill dawn air that would soon turn into a furnace. He glanced at the bulky Cinderblades, then at Marcellus, shaking his head.

  "I don't understand it," Drakath grumbled, adjusting his shield strap.

  "Understand what?" Marcellus rumbled, his voice deep and calm.

  "Your men. Look at them," Drakath gestured to the wall of black steel marching behind them. "Pauldrons thick enough to stop a ballista bolt. Helmets like anvils. We're marching into the Infernal Wastes, Marcellus. By noon, the sun will be hot enough to fry them inside out. My lads are in half-plate, and we'll be suffering. Yours... they should be boiling alive in those tin cans."

  Marcellus tapped the thick breastplate of his own armor with a gauntleted knuckle. A faint, fiery rune pulsed briefly beneath the black steel before fading.

  "Obsidian Spire craftsmanship," Marcellus said. "The alloy is folded with finely ground ember-dust, and the interior is etched with dispersion runes. It reflects external heat and keeps the wearer's body temperature at a comfortable level. Despite the bulk, it weighs about as much as your leather jerkin."

  Drakath stared at him, then let out a sharp, envious snort. "You'd think that the vanguard, being the guards of the frontier, the actual shield between Cindercrest and the Wastes, would get the experimental armor first. We're the ones bleeding in the sand, Marcellus."

  Marcellus chuckled, the sound rattling in his chest. "You're right. If it were up to me, every scout on the wall would be outfitted in Spire-plate."

  "Then why aren't we?"

  "Because of the Magma-Wrights," Marcellus sighed, shaking his head. "The dispersion runes are volatile. They have to be keyed to the specific wearer's heartbeat and thermal signature by a Master Wright, or the armor risks cooking you instead of cooling you."

  Drakath frowned. "So? Send a few smiths to the fort."

  "We tried," Marcellus admitted. "But the Wrights are civilians. Soft ones. They are terrified of leaving the capital. To get a team of them out here to measure your men, we'd have to provide a dedicated armored escort for their wagons, their tools, and their delicate sensibilities."

  He gestured to the endless, hostile dunes around them.

  "Civilians don't like leaving the comfort of the city, Drakath. Moving a guild detachment that slow would take three times as long as a military march, and I can't spare the knights to babysit blacksmiths just yet."

  Drakath grunted, spitting into the dust. "So we burn because the hammer-men are afraid of a little sun."

  "And demons, don't forget the demons," Marcellus replied dryly. "Comfort breeds focus. But fear keeps the supply lines short. You'll get your armor eventually, Captain. Once we make the road safe enough for cowards to travel on it."

  In the center of the formation, Ignivar walked. The fire sage looked out of place amidst the steel, his robes fluttering in the wind. He was accompanied by a single pupil, a young pyromancer named Kaelen, who looked terrified to be outside the walls.

  "Stay close," Ignivar murmured to the boy. "Eyes on the horizon. The Wastes change quickly."

  They marched northeast.

  According to the scouts, the cannibals' encampment lay in the central basin, a hard four-hour march through the jagged dunes.

  By early afternoon, the terrain began to change. The flat dunes gave way to rocky outcroppings. The sun was reaching its peak, casting shadows across the ash.

  "Basin rim is just ahead," Drakath warned, eyeing the jagged ridgeline that cut across the horizon. He glanced at Marcellus. "Best to hold the heavy line here while we get eyes on the drop. If they're waiting, I'd rather they didn't hear your clunky men."

  Marcellus nodded, raising a gauntleted fist.

  The column halted. The rhythmic marching stopped, replaced by the settling clatter of steel and the heavy breathing of men.

  Drakath turned to his vanguard unit. "Forward scouts. Check the ridge."

  Two rangers nodded, breaking from the formation. They moved low and fast, sprinting up the incline and vanishing into the jagged rocks.

  For five minutes, there was silence. The sun beat down on the black armor of the Cinderblades, the air shimmering with heat. Drakath stood motionless, his head cocked, listening to the wind.

  Then, a pebble skittered down the slope.

  Drakath's hand drifted to his sword hilt.

  The two scouts reappeared at the top of the ridge before sliding down the loose scree, moving with a practiced, controlled haste.

  As they hit the bottom of the slope, one of them jogged up to Drakath. He wasn't winded, and he didn't look panicked. Another day in the Infernal Wastes for them.

  "Company," the scout reported, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. "About thirty of them. They spotted us on the ridge and decided we looked like lunch."

  "Distance?"

  "Cresting in three... two..."

  Drakath didn't even look at the ridge. He just turned his head slightly toward his line.

  "Archers, front," he ordered, his voice conversational. "Standard volley."

  The vanguard bowmen stepped through the gaps in the heavy infantry lines, drawing arrows from their quivers in unison. They nocked and drew in a single, fluid motion, aiming at the empty skyline.

  Seconds later, a group of cannibals burst over the ridge, weapons raised, eyes wide with the thrill of the chase. They were sprinting full tilt, expecting to run down two fleeing scouts.

  Instead, they ran headlong into the entire Expeditionary Force of Fort Magnus.

  The lead cannibal froze, his scream dying in his throat as he saw the wall of black steel and the rows of drawn bows. He tried to skid to a halt, scrabbling in the sand, but the momentum of the pack behind him pushed him forward.

  "Loose," Drakath said.

  The air hummed.

  Two dozen shafts hissed through the air, finding throats, chests, and eyes. The front line of the cannibal charge dropped into the sand in a tangled heap of limbs.

  The remaining cannibals skidded to a halt, tripping over the bodies of their kin. They stared down at the intimidating force.

  The realization hit them all at once. This wasn't prey.

  With a collective shriek of terror, the survivors turned and scrambled back the way they came, fleeing toward the main camp.

  Marcellus chuckled, a low rumble inside his helm. "They're running home to mommy."

  "Let them," Drakath said, waving the archers back. "They can tell the rest of them that death has arrived."

  Marcellus lowered his visor. "All units. Advance. March pace."

  The force began to move. The rhythmic thud-thud-thud of armored boots hitting the hard-packed earth followed the blood trail over the ridge and down into the basin.

  The camp lay ahead, nestled between the cliffs. As the Cindercrest force stopped just outside bowshot, the silence from the camp was deafening. The survivors had made it back. The alarm had been raised.

  They halted a hundred feet from the camp's perimeter.

  Up close, it looked even more pathetic. The tents were tattered skins stretched over bleached ribs, flapping dismally in the hot wind. The cannibals who had survived the initial volley had vanished into the maze of shelters, leaving the camp eerily silent.

  Marcellus lifted his visor, looking at the collection of bones and refuse with unimpressed eyes. He gave a short, barking laugh.

  "This is it?" Marcellus asked, glancing sideways at Drakath. "This is the great threat? I marched my legion two days to stomp on a few scavengers living in dirt hovels? Is this really the chaos you protect the frontier against, Captain?"

  Drakath didn't smile. He kept his hand on his sword, scanning the gaps between the tents. "They aren't fighting like scavengers today, General. Usually, they swarm."

  "They retreated because they saw real steel," Marcellus scoffed. He turned, looking back toward the Archmagister. "Relax, Ignivar. This will be short. You'll have plenty of time to poke through the ashes once we-"

  He stopped.

  Ignivar wasn't looking at the camp. He was staring at the ground, his head cocked to the side as if listening to a conversation no one else could hear. His face was pale, his expression tight with a mixture of concentration and revulsion.

  "Ignivar?" Marcellus pressed.

  "Hush," the mage hissed.

  Before Marcellus could respond, a sound tore through the air.

  A chorus of shrill, oscillating howls that seemed to erupt from the earth itself. The sound defied the natural acoustics of the basin, piercing through the heavy iron of Marcellus's helm and sending a cold shock of primal fear down his spine.

  Marcellus whipped his head back toward the camp.

  Silence.

  The howling cut off as soon as it had begun. The wind blew through the empty tents, rattling the bone chimes.

  Marcellus and Drakath shared a look. The general's amusement was gone, replaced by the hard, flat look of a man who realized the joke was on him. They looked back at Ignivar.

  The Archmagister's eyes were wide.

  "There is a darkness in that camp," Ignivar whispered.

  The ground exploded.

  The dirt floor of the camp ruptured. Dozens of concealed tunnels collapsed outward as things surged from the earth beneath the tents.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  They weren't just cannibals. They were misshapen, rot-slicked nightmares, infected creatures with limbs twisted into unnatural angles, fighting alongside horned, hulking demons that moved with a stiff, puppet-like gait.

  "CONTACT!" Drakath roared.

  The enemy didn't screech or posture. They surged across the flat plain with terrifying, silent speed, closing the hundred-foot gap in seconds.

  "Shields front!" Marcellus shouted, his voice booming over the roar of the wind. "Spears! Brace!"

  The Cinderblades slammed their tower shields into the hardpack, creating a wall of black iron instantly. Behind them, the second rank drove their spears over the shoulders of the first, creating a hedgerow of steel points.

  "Loose!" Drakath commanded.

  The Vanguard archers fired point-blank. Arrows thudded into rotting flesh, but the creatures barely slowed.

  "Ignivar! Flanks!" Marcellus barked.

  The Archmagister didn't need to be told. He and Kaelen raised their staves in unison. They pulled the heat from the air and concentrated it.

  "Burn," Ignivar commanded.

  Two walls of roaring, orange flame erupted on either side of the charging host. The sheer thermal pressure forced the infected horde inward, funneling them into a tight, choking kill-zone directly in front of the shield wall.

  The collision was sickening.

  The infected slammed into the Cinderblade shields with enough force to slide the heavy infantrymen back a foot in the dirt. But the line held. Spears thrust out like pistons, punching through chests and skulls.

  "Push!" Marcellus roared.

  The shields surged forward. The fire roared on the flanks. Arrows rained down into the center of the mass.

  And then, just as quickly as it had begun, it was over.

  The last infected creature, a cannibal with veins glowing a sickly green, was pinned to the ground by a spear and decapitated by a Cinderblade captain.

  Marcellus lowered his axe, his chest heaving slightly, not from exertion, but from the adrenaline of the attack. He stepped forward, parting the shield wall with a wave of his hand. He unhooked a gauntlet, intending to peel back the eyelid of the nearest corpse to check for dilation.

  "Let's see what drove them to madness," the general grunted, reaching down.

  "Fool!"

  Ignivar moved with a speed that betrayed his age. He rushed past the front line, grabbing Marcellus's armored forearm and yanking him back with surprising strength.

  "Do not touch it!" Ignivar shouted, his voice cracking with urgency. He spun toward the soldiers. "Push back! Now!"

  The Cinderblades, disciplined as they were, hesitated only a fraction of a second before shuffling backward, creating a ten-foot buffer around the pile of corpses.

  Marcellus frowned, pulling his arm free. "Ignivar, get a hold of yourself. It's just a dead cannibal."

  Ignivar ignored him. He pulled the high collar of his robe up over his nose and mouth. He extended his iron-shod staff, using the tip to prod the chest of the decapitated savage. He pushed the corpse over, rolling it onto its chest.

  Blood pooled around the body, thick, dark crimson. But as Ignivar stirred the puddle with his staff, something else separated from the red.

  Streaks of viscous, neon-green fluid swirled in the gore like oil. It didn't mix. It pulsed. Ignivar used the staff to tear open the tattered rags on the corpse's chest.

  Marcellus drew a sharp breath.

  Seared into the grey, malnourished skin of the cannibal's chest was a handprint. It was black, necrotic, and perfect, the mark of a touch that had killed the tissue instantly and left a lingering residue of dark magic.

  "The mark," Ignivar whispered, his eyes widening in horror. "A direct imprint."

  He looked up at Marcellus, fear naked in his eyes.

  "We are fighting a plague."

  Before the weight of the words could settle, the ground beneath the camp began to tremble again. This time, the sound wasn't a single howl. It was a cacophony. The tunnels beneath the tents erupted in a dozen places, throwing dirt and bone into the air.

  A second wave surged forth, triple the size of the first.

  "Form up!" Drakath roared, drawing his sword.

  "Do not let them touch you!" Ignivar screamed, backing toward the line. "Avoid their blood at all costs!"

  The horde charged. Cannibals mixed in with the hulking shapes of grey muscle and bone plate.

  Ignivar's eyes began to blaze with a terrifying, white-hot power. He slammed the butt of his staff into the earth.

  "Kaelen!" Ignivar barked. "I need your well!"

  The apprentice didn't hesitate. Kaelen stepped behind his master, placing both hands on Ignivar's shoulders. His eyes rolled back as he channeled his own essence, pouring his magical reserves into the Archmagister.

  The air around Ignivar shimmered, the heat rising to a blistering degree.

  "Burn you foul creatures."

  Ignivar thrust his staff forward. A cone of roaring, liquid fire erupted from the tip, painting the world in blinding orange. It washed over the front of the charging horde, instantly vaporizing flesh and boiling blood. The screams were cut short as the first of the enemy wave turned to ash.

  Ignivar slumped, the spell breaking as he gasped for air, Kaelen catching him before he fell. They retreated behind the shield wall.

  "Hold the line!" Marcellus bellowed.

  Through the smoke and the drifting ash, heavy, thundering footsteps shook the ground. Three massive shapes burst through the lingering flames, shaking off the embers.

  Iron-Borne.

  Ten feet tall, their skin a natural armor of metallic-like scales, natural bone plating giving them extra protection.

  They lowered their shoulders and slammed into the Cinderblade shield wall like battering rams.

  The sound of black steel buckling was sickening. The disciplined line of the legion shattered. Soldiers were thrown backward like ragdolls, shields crumpled against their chests.

  "Breach!" a captain screamed. "Center is breached!"

  The Iron-Borne roared, swinging their massive arms and sending men flying. Behind them, the smaller infected poured into the gap, scrambling over the fallen soldiers to get at the soft interior of the formation.

  It was chaos.

  "Hammers!" Marcellus shouted, wading into the fray. "Swords are useless! Bring up the hammers!"

  Drakath saw a young Cinderblade thrust a spear at an Iron-Borne's chest. The steel tip sparked against the demon's hide and snapped like a twig. The demon backhanded the soldier, crushing his helm.

  "Go for the eyes!" Drakath yelled, ducking under a swinging claw.

  He watched a veteran sergeant step in with a heavy warhammer. The soldier didn't try to pierce the hide; he swung the hammer in a massive overhead arc, bringing it down on the Iron-Borne's knee.

  The joint shattered with a wet crack.

  The demon howled, dropping to one knee.

  "Finish it!"

  Two spearmen lunged forward. One drove his pike into the creature's open, screaming mouth; the other thrust his point deep into the demon's eye socket. The beast seized, thrashing once before collapsing into the dirt.

  "Close the gap!" Marcellus roared, swinging his great axe into the neck of a second Iron-Borne, the heavy blade biting deep only because of the immense strength behind it. "Don't let them swarm!"

  The breach was a slaughterhouse.

  Marcellus was a tower of black iron in the center of the storm. An Iron-Borne slashed down, its massive claws gouging deep rents across his pauldron and chest plate. It was a blow that would have shredded standard steel and the man beneath it. But the Obsidian Spire plate held, the dispersion runes flaring angry red as they absorbed the kinetic shock

  Marcellus didn't stagger. He planted his feet, roared, and swung his great axe in a savage, horizontal chop. The enchanted blade bit through the demon's scaled forearm, severing the limb in a spray of black ichor.

  As the beast howled, Marcellus reversed his grip, driving the spike of the axe pommel into its throat.

  "Forward!" Marcellus bellowed, kicking the dying demon back into the press of the infected. "Do not give them an inch!"

  On the left flank, Drakath moved like a viper. He didn't have the general's mass, so he used chaos. He ducked under a wild haymaker from a frenzied cannibal, spinning to slam the rim of his shield into the creature's knee. As the savage buckled, Drakath's sword flashed, severing the hamstring before thrusting upward into the base of the skull.

  "Shields up!" Drakath shouted, seeing a cluster of infected trying to swarm a fallen corporal.

  He threw himself into the gap, catching two cannibals on his shield. He grunted under the weight, his boots sliding in the bloody mud, but he held long enough for a pair of vanguards to step in with spears, skewering the attackers.

  Behind the line, Ignivar was leaning heavily on his staff, sweat cutting tracks through the dust on his face. The spell had drained him, but he refused to retreat.

  "Steel is not enough!" the Archmagister wheezed, seeing the Cinderblades hacking fruitlessly at the flesh of the infected.

  He slammed his staff onto the ground again. A ripple of heat distorted the air.

  The magic wasn't a projectile, but a blessing. The swords and spear-tips of the nearest fifty soldiers ignited, wreathed in magical flame.

  "Strike now!" Ignivar commanded. "Darkness is weak to the fire!"

  The tide began to turn. The flaming weapons cut down the infected. The Cinderblades rallied, stepping over the piles of dead to close the breach.

  But the infection had one final, terrifying lesson to teach.

  Near the center, a young Cinderblade soldier screamed. A cannibal had latched onto his arm, biting through the gap in his vambrace. The soldier kicked the savage away and drove his sword through its chest, killing it.

  He fell to his knees, clutching his bleeding forearm. "Medic! I need a-"

  He cut off with a wet, gurgling gag.

  The soldier convulsed. His back arched unnaturally, his armor groaning under the strain of muscles spasming with impossible force.

  "Help him!" a comrade yelled, reaching down to pull him up.

  "Get back!" Drakath warned, seeing the soldier's veins turning black. "Do not touch him!"

  It was too late.

  The wounded soldier snapped his head up. His eyes were gone, replaced by a milky white. His jaw unhinged with a sickening crack.

  He didn't speak. He lunged.

  The infected soldier tore out the throat of the man trying to help him.

  A ripple of absolute horror went through the ranks. They had fought demons. They had fought monsters. But watching a brother-in-arms turn into a monster in the span of a heartbeat broke something in the men.

  "He's turned!" someone screamed. "Kill him! Kill him!"

  "Put him down!" Marcellus roared, swinging his axe to decapitate a lunging cannibal. "If they fall, they are gone! Show no mercy!"

  It was a nightmare. The Cinderblades had to turn their weapons on their own. The line wavered.

  "Hold!" Drakath bellowed, grabbing a fleeing spearman by the breastplate and throwing him back into the line. "Die fighting or die running! Choose!"

  The line held. Barely.

  With the flaming weapons and the brute force of the commanders, the Cinderblades finally ground the wave down. The last Iron-Borne fell, its legs hewn apart by Marcellus, its skull crushed by heavy hammers. The remaining infected were pinned and burned, their bodies twitching in the magical fire.

  Silence fell over the basin.

  It wasn't the triumphant silence of victory. It was the heavy, suffocating silence of a graveyard.

  Marcellus stood amidst the carnage, his black armor slick with gore that wasn't his. He was breathing hard now, the heat of the noon sun wrestling against his dispersion runes. He looked down at the body of the Cinderblade soldier who had turned, now just a headless corpse in ruined armor.

  Drakath wiped his blade on a dead cannibal's rags, his face grim. He walked over to Marcellus.

  "We lost twenty," Drakath said quietly. "Eight of them turned against us."

  Marcellus didn't answer. He looked at the tunnel entrances that dotted the camp, dark maws leading into the earth.

  Ignivar limped forward, the fire on the soldiers' weapons flickering out. He looked at the green-veined corpses, then at the terrified faces of the gathered force.

  "We cannot leave this," Ignivar whispered, gesturing to the dead.

  He turned sharply to the living, his eyes wild and searching.

  "Look at me!" Ignivar shouted, his voice cracking with command. "Does anyone feel sick? Does anyone feel a burning in their veins? Speak now!"

  The soldiers froze. No one breathed. They looked at each other, terrified that a cough or a twitch would earn them an execution.

  "Stand still," Ignivar ordered. "No one moves."

  The minute that followed was longer than the battle itself. The wind whistled through the tattered tents. The fires crackled. Ignivar walked the line, peering into eyes, looking for any signs, waiting for a spasm.

  Nothing happened.

  Ignivar let out a long breath, his shoulders slumping. "The transition during the fight was fast. If you were infected, you would be one of them by now."

  He turned to the commanders. "We are safe. For the moment."

  "Then we leave," Marcellus said, wiping ichor from his axe blade. "We burn the bodies, and we march back to Fort Magnus. We aren't equipped for a siege against an enemy that lives in the dirt."

  "No," Ignivar countered, stepping closer. "We must form ranks. We are investigating the camp."

  Marcellus stared at him, incredulous. "Are you mad? You saw what just came out of those holes. What if there are hundreds more waiting down there? What if the tunnels are rigged to collapse? My men are heavy infantry, Ignivar, not badgers. We don't fight in burrows."

  Ignivar didn't snap back this time. Instead, his expression shifted from arrogance to a cold, razor-sharp focus. He motioned for Marcellus and Drakath to come closer, glancing around at the soldiers clearing the bodies to ensure they weren't overheard.

  "Forget the tunnels for a moment, General," Ignivar hissed, his voice dropping to a hushed, urgent whisper. "Look at the evidence. The necrotic burns on the victims. The infectious nature of the blood."

  He pulled them in tighter, his eyes darting between the two commanders.

  "The odds of us dealing with a lich are extremely high. This is an unexpected resurgence."

  Marcellus stiffened, the color draining slightly from his face. "A lich? Here?"

  "We cannot keep this in the dark," Ignivar pressed, his hand gripping Marcellus's pauldron. "The safety of Cindercrest and Fort Magnus could be on the line. Rodric must be informed immediately. He can use the Ash Channel at the Fort to contact Emperor Ignatius directly."

  Marcellus held the mage's gaze for a long second, looking for any sign of exaggeration. He found none.

  "Drakath," Marcellus said, his voice grim. "Get a Cindercask."

  Drakath nodded. He retrieved the black iron cylinder, etched with glowing runes, handling it with the reverence usually reserved for a holy relic. He pulled a scrap of parchment from the kit, its edges waxed to resist the ash, and handed it to Marcellus.

  The General uncapped his ink quill. He didn't waste words. He scrawled in a hard, frantic script:

  Priority: Black.

  Evidence of advanced necrotic manipulation. Suspected lich resurgence mobilizing cannibals and demons. Highly infectious plague. Alert the Emperor.

  He rolled the parchment tight and slid it into the cylinder.

  Drakath took the Cindercask and knelt in the ash-covered dirt. He quickly dug a shallow mound, burying the cylinder until only the rune-etched cap was visible. He dusted the top with a pinch of emberstone powder from a pouch at his belt, then struck flint to steel.

  Flames swallowed the cylinder, burning with a silent, intense heat. In seconds, the iron casing dissolved into smoke, transforming into a stream of silver sparks that drifted upward, ignoring the wind altogether as they shot toward the horizon.

  "It will reach Rodric before we even secure the perimeter," Drakath said, standing up.

  "We must check the tunnels," Ignivar stated.

  Marcellus looked at the dark tunnel mouths, then at his battered line. He ground his teeth, a sound like stones crushing together.

  "Damn you and your curiosity," Marcellus growled. He turned to his captains. "Secure the camp! Set a wide perimeter, two hundred yards out. Archers on the tents. If the ground so much as trembles, you fill it with arrows."

  As the Cinderblades moved to secure the area, pushing the perimeter out, Marcellus turned back to the mage.

  "We go down," Marcellus said, his voice grim. "But small numbers only. I'm not marching a platoon into a choke point."

  Ten minutes later, they stood before the largest of the tunnel entrances, a crude, gaping maw in the center of the camp, shored up with bone and scavenged wood.

  "Drakath," Marcellus commanded. "You're with us. Grab three of your best shield-bearers."

  Drakath nodded, signaling three grim-faced vanguards to form up. They lit torches, the orange light dancing nervously against the darkness of the hole.

  Ignivar stepped to the edge, peering down into the gloom. The air wafting up was cold, smelling of stale blood and old earth.

  "Stay close," Ignivar warned, his staff glowing with a faint illumination spell. "And touch nothing."

  Marcellus hefted his axe, taking the lead. "Into the