09 - The Undead Legion

  When Elanil returned to their room after taking a bath, Nura was still sitting in the same position she left her, hunched over on the bed, her legs crossed. But now, in the palm lay her amulet. With the fingers of her other hand, she carefully traced its black stone. When Elanil noted that it was the same amulet, she didn’t mean that it was exactly like hers. Hers had an amber-colored stone in the center. But it wasn’t the similarity in appearance that mattered, rather the purpose of those items. The artifacts had an extremely close relationship with each other.

  Nura looked up when the door cracked and Elanil entered, not particularly rushing to remove her amulet from prying eyes. As Elanil came into the room and settled down on her bed, Nura’s gaze followed her.

  “So, how did you end up in the Sylvan Reserve?” she asked.

  Elanil noted how unusually quiet her voice sounded, vulnerable, she might even say. There was no point in speaking in riddles or half-guesses, but then, neither would it be useful to tell Nura that she was not from this world. After all, what practical use would this information be to her? Practical use. Elanil almost chuckled at the thought, clearly influenced by her companion’s way of thinking. It sure was Nura who approaching all aspects of life through the lens of their usefulness and applicability, not Elanil. It took a great deal of effort for Elanil to keep this observation from breaking out as a smirk or some other facial expression inappropriate for the moment. Nura would clearly interpret it in a wrong way.

  “I don’t know much about myself,” Elanil finally said. “I do have an idea of ??this world, and that I’m a Wood Elf, but not much more. I only understand that sooner or later I was bound to end up in the Sylvan Reserve. Considering how hard it was for me to withstand today’s fights, I assume it happened earlier than it should have. I have a strong feeling that something went wrong with me. That’s probably why I lost my memory.” After a moment’s thought, Elanil added, lowering her voice, “You know, something tells me—call it a hunch or whatever—that this world is changing. And it seems far from being for the better. Truth be told, I can’t yet figure out what exactly.”

  To her surprise, she realized she hadn’t been disingenuous at all.

  Even if she was one of the narrative designers, her knowledge of this world would not be comprehensive—they’d deliberately made it so big and unpredictable. For her, a humble texture engineer, many tricky details were unknown, she had much to figure out or relearn. She did know the general plot more or less, but so many choices that could have gone wrong awaited her.

  Elanil also remembered that this world was conceived as one where the Hero could fail the main quest simply by making the wrong choices. And the most insidious thing was that these fateful decisions could be made very early in the game. Therefore, she had to be extremely careful.

  Nura listened attentively, without interrupting, without her usual mocking expression.

  “I understand you perfectly,” she said. “I feel the same way. That the world is heading in a different direction than it usually does.” She leaned closer towards Elanil, as if they were sitting directly across from each other and their beds weren’t separated by several steps. She lowered her voice to a near-whisper. “Let me tell you the whole story of how I ended up in the Reserve.”

  “Do you think it’s not reckless? Telling your secret to someone you barely know.” Elanil couldn’t help but smirk at the irony of the situation. Nura was the picture of seriousness now, while she teased, undermining the importance of the situation. But Nura wasn’t bothered by her humorous tone; it seemed to have no effect on her at all.

  “Too much has happened today that can’t be explained by mere coincidence,” she shook her head. “The circumstances and the location of our meeting, the attack of those strange constructs, and most importantly…” she paused briefly, as if weighing the final decision whether to say it or not. “I saw the way you looked at my amulet. Ordinary people don’t look at such things that way. You clearly know something about it.”

  Elanil weighed her words, sighed, and instead of answering, simply pulled her amulet from under her pajamas. Nura’s reaction was entirely predictable. Her eyes widened and her mouth froze in a silent cry of delight.

  “I knew it!” she concluded, triumphant. “So you really are one of the Five!”

  “One of the five?”

  “Now let me tell you my story,” Nura suggested, gesturing for her to settle in to listen to her narrative. “I do come from the Red Dust tribe, and I am a scout. But I am also the daughter of the senior shaman. And I am a dreamwalker.”

  “You walk in your sleep?” Elanil interrupted. “Like a somnambulist?”

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  “No, I’m a dreamwalker,” Nura shook her head. “I can travel much further into dreams than others. Or rather, I dive as a whole into dreams, not only my consciousness. And once, I even returned with a gift from dreams.”

  “The amulet?” Elanil asked, her gaze sliding over the black stone.

  “Yep,” Nura nodded. “But like everyone who simply has dreams, I don’t always remember what happens in them. That was the case with that dream. I remember that something unusual happened. But that’s all I had left after waking up. I just woke up, and I had this amulet in my hand. My mother said that the finger of fate had chosen me. And that when my time came, I would have to set out on a long journey to find the other four owners of similar stones. And this morning she told me that day had arrived. She performed a complicated ritual, which resulted in a portal opening and transporting me... here. Well, you know the rest of the story.”

  Elanil was silent for a while, digesting Nura’s explanation. The puzzle of the plot and Nura’s place in it were beginning to come together.

  “And what will happen when you find all the other Four? Did your mother tell you?”

  Nura shook her head. “She said that when the time comes and I find all the others, then I’ll know.”

  “Oh, these riddles and omissions,” Elanil chuckled.

  “Every knowledge has its time,” Nura remarked. “Perhaps that’s why your memory has been erased—because you learned something at an inappropriate time?”

  “Perhaps,” Elanil agreed. “Well, let’s say you’ve already found one stone, my stone. But where should we look for the other three?”

  “I don’t know that either,” Nura smiled. “But I’m glad that the first day of my journey has already been so fruitful. I found the first of the remaining Four, and also... I found a friend.”

  “You consider me a friend? Aren’t you rather hasty in labeling yesterday’s strangers as today’s friends?”

  “The timing couldn’t be better. A true friend isn’t someone you’ve had a joyful drink with for twenty years straight. A friend is someone who will cover your back when needed.”

  A rather idealistic outlook on life, Elanil noted to herself. But she didn’t protest. Instead, she simply extended her hand. “Friends, then.”

  “Friends,” Nura smiled, shaking her hand with a firm grip. Then she added in a much more casual tone, “Okay, time for bed. Tomorrow we have a voyage to the merchants and blacksmiths—we can’t drag ourselves off in search of the other Three, loaded with rotting beetles and scrap metal.”

  Elanil laughed and, settling comfortably on her bed, blew out the candle. She thought that after such an eventful day she would not be able to sleep for a long time. But her eyelids soon became heavy and sleep overcame her. At first, she didn’t see anything unusual. A rather meaningless set of events and visions, the kind you would forget even before you would wake up. But then everything changed dramatically. The images became vivid and colorful. It was as if Elanil was watching a movie.

  Her vision carried her far south, like a migratory bird rushing to its winter quarters. Mysterious countries and enigmatic lands unfolded before her, one after another, until the vision stopped in the midst of a landscape that seemed the least worthy of any attention. Lost for the rest of the world, on the edge of a withered, dirty, gray-yellow steppe and rocky, treeless, and snowless mountains, a majestic fortress arose—walls robust and reliable, towers squared and menacing. Banners of a knightly order had flown from its battlements, their colors faded by the sun and dust.

  A vile and at the same time blood-chilling sound of a battle horn rattled over the steppe. In the distance, from the morning mist, one after another, the ranks of an endless legion began to appear. An undead army came out of the grasslands in silence. Then a clear and ringing response of another battle horn was heard from the high towers of the fortress. The defenders had answered in discipline. Paladins had taken the walls, shields raised, holy sigils burning along steel edges. Knights had formed reserves in the courtyard and the keep, ready to reinforce any breach.

  Then the bone archers advanced—deathly swamp-green flame flickering in their empty chests and eye sockets. They assembled in ranks beyond bowshot. When they shot, the sky filled with a swarm of arrows. A volley after a volley struck the walls, saturating parapets and towers alike. Shields up. The fortress withstood the first onslaught.

  From behind the archers, lich mages entered the field. They did not hurry. Floating above the ground, crowned with dark focuses, they extended their hands and released concentrated rays of necromantic force. Stone blackened and fractured where the beams struck. Defenders caught in their path withered in moments, bodies collapsing into ash or brittle remains. Protective wards rang from the magical attack, but hold on.

  After such artillery preparation, the main assault began. Silently and inexorably, the army of undead rushed across the steppes, painting it the white of their bones and the rusty color of their worn armor. The gates endured longer than expected. When they finally broke, the undead cavalry surged forward. Headless horsemen on corrupted mounts struck the flanks. The fortress defenders nevertheless regrouped and launched a counterattack.

  Suddenly, the sky itself had changed. From rapidly thickening lead clouds, bone dragons emerged—majestic and elegant constructs of ribs and joints held together by the spellwork of necromancy. Their lacy shadows glided over the castle walls. Necrotic breath had stripped archers on the towers to dust, while their powerful claws tore huge chunks out of the fortress and dropped them on the defenders below.

  By the time the banners fell, the flame of desperate resistance faded away. What remained of the fortress had been reduced to broken stone and silent ground, surrounded by an army that did not disperse, did not celebrate, and did not move on. In the distance, on a high hill, from which a good view of the fortress opened up, a cloaked figure observed the battlefield…

  Elanil woke up, her breathing broken. Her mind was gradually returning back to the inn room. She looked around. Everything was quiet—night reigned supreme, moonlight still streaming through the open window. Somewhere in the distance, night birds sang and cicadas chirped. Nura slept peacefully.

  Elanil leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “The Undead Legion,” she whispered soundless.