"One against five. Are you sure you can do it?" Adarin asked, poking the knight prisoner with one of his root whips for emphasis.

  "Ja, ja." Rüdiger waved his hand dismissively. "You forget that I am an archmagister and professor of economics. Those are just some amateur adventurers. Level isn't all that matters."

  Several of the attending high-ranking necromancers and officers looked like they were about to disagree, but Rüdiger made a sharp cutting gesture.

  Adarin surveyed the war council. A few commanders were nervously indulging Rüdiger’s antics while their troops finished setting up the siege around the shattered outer gatehouse.

  Liora sat in a corner, hugging her legs.

  What she did to the knight—or what he did after—left her all shell-shocked. Adarin ground his teeth, dousing the spark of empathy in the cold waters of long-trained discipline.

  Again, he poked the man next to him. The cloth armor beneath his metal breastplate was still damp with water, and the rag Darren had used lay discarded near his head. His crotch was also wet for other reasons. And again, I’m happy I don’t have a sense of smell.

  Adarin’s attention flicked to a confused soldier who had wandered over, wearing a creepy smile and offering up a bundle of pliers, hammers, and knives—right after he’d told Rüdiger he planned to interrogate the knight.

  Adarin shook his head in the privacy of his mindspace. Why would I use invasive torture here? No matter the world, it’s only useful for spectacle or public deterrence—not for actual intel.

  But he was annoyed, pacing back and forth in his inner world. Twenty-one minutes. It took me way too long to extract all the information. If I hadn’t been this insistent...

  Liora’s eyes briefly met his. Then, as if tugged by magnetic shame, flicked to the knight and then down to her feet. I thought we were over some of this squeamishness. Fuck.

  Adarin refocused on the war council.

  The crucial intel: A party of five adventurers, around level 20. Without his intervention, they might’ve cut through their lines—or even caught Rüdiger off guard.

  Overall, I guess I should be satisfied, Adarin thought, nodding.

  Rüdiger was already striding around the clearing, gesturing energetically and barking orders to officers and quartermasters managing the supply train.

  "Adarin."

  His stomach sank as he heard the bored tone of the arch-necromancer's voice. "Yes?"

  "You are in charge of leading the assault. First into the breach and all that fun. Coordinate with..." He pointed toward the goblin and kobold fiddling with a blueprint. "Gavin and Devin. You seem fond of playing with artillery. So have fun."

  Adarin muttered a curse in his mental corner. "Yes," he replied curtly.

  "Oh—and Liora will lead the elite undead. Support her. And... well, you know."

  Adarin was about to ask for clarification when Rüdiger shot up into the air, trailing robes and sparks.

  An awkward silence settled over the assembled council. For some reason, everyone’s attention fell on him.

  He chuckled bitterly. This fucking lunatic... Well, as long as he gives me air support.

  Adarin exhaled a long breath and stepped forward. "Alright then. Let’s get to it, gentlemen and... woman. We have an enemy city to assault."

  With the formalities of dismissal complete, Adarin joined Devin and Gavin. Liora fell in behind him, shifting from foot to foot.

  He took a moment to visualize the battlefield in his mind: the open area before the walls, the broken-down gatehouse, the fifty-meter-long walled path leading into the city—the killing ground still held by the enemy. He noted how their musketeers exchanged fire from behind a cordon of zombie pikemen, while the melee at the gate had settled into a slow, grinding rhythm.

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  Then he looked over the motley crew. "Devin. Gavin. We have the noospheric link. I’ll advance with the undead into the breach. You’ll coordinate fire support. Whenever I call it, you suppress the enemy. I’ll take ground."

  The real question hovered. He eyed the two maniacs and their attendant mages—experts in inscription magic and artifact making, apparently.

  "Do you have the precision to not kill me while doing this?"

  Devin and Gavin huffed and sniffed in unison.

  Despite himself, Adarin chuckled and glanced at Liora. Are we two also becoming Rüdiger’s pets? Well, I definitely fit into the gallery of the strange here.

  The artillerists began to murmur between themselves. Then, almost as an afterthought, Devin gave him a curt affirmative gesture as they scrambled off to position the cannons with a clear firing arc through the gateway and into the city.

  Liora cleared her throat behind him.

  "What Rüdiger said about..." She swallowed hard. And here it comes, Adarin thought.

  She kept her voice low. "I get that we’re at war. But the camp followers and the injured... what he wants to do with the rocks. And after that. I just... I feel it’s wrong."

  Adarin pressed his eyes shut in the privacy of his mindspace. And you couldn’t have brought this up while we were with him in the war council?

  He let out a long-suffering breath—internally of course. His body remained composed. “Sometimes war requires sacrifices, Liora. They’re all enemy combatants. We’re outnumbered, and holding prisoners is dangerous.”

  Liora chewed her lower lip.

  Adarin pushed on. "Anyway. Are you ready? You have the skeletons and the swamp trolls. You’ll wait near the gate."

  "Yes. Yes." Liora forced the words out, but her grip on the axe trembled—echo of her earlier protest still clinging to her eyes. "I’ll wait. And when you call me in, I’ll coordinate the elite undead for the breakthrough."

  Adarin gave a satisfied nod. "Good." But he caught the haunted set of her jaw. The girl hadn’t buried her doubts—just locked them away for now. Maybe for once, this won’t be a life-or-death situation.

  He chuckled to himself—this time aloud. "A man can dream."

  With all preparations complete, Adarin peeked over the barricade one last time.

  Around him squatted three thousand zombies holding pikes—like a strange, forest in winter. The pioneers had scraped up a shallow hill—barely cover, but better than nothing.

  Adarin’s curiosity was rewarded with the crack of at least three muskets. The aerodynamically disastrous projectiles whizzed past his head.

  "Pathetic," Adarin muttered coldly. "Three shots and not one that matters."

  He sent out the signal through the noospheric link. ‘Fire.’

  The artillery roared. The first of five enemy barricades was torn apart by shrapnel and concussive blasts.

  ‘Charge. Charge. Charge!’ Adarin hurled the command, his voice a blade. The joy he felt stayed locked inside, cold and sharp. He vaulted over the barricade, leading the charge. The necromancers followed, directing their undead in a shambling wave.

  Nearly all the necromancers were involved in this push. Apparently, the fewer undead each necromancer commanded, the sharper their control. The shambling horde moved almost crisp for once.

  They scrambled over the splintered bricks and hill of rubble that had once been the outer gatehouse, pushing toward the first barricade.

  Men lay scattered across the ground—moaning, screaming. Wooden splinters had reaped a terrible toll. Despite their armor, they hadn’t stood a chance.

  The undead finished the job without hesitation.

  Adarin ducked behind the remnants of the enemy fortification, letting a few of his Rootwhips snap outward. A volley of musket balls and crossbow bolts hailed over them, tearing through a good portion of the zombies. But more surged forward. There were always more. The enemy might have guns—but we’ve got a pile of corpses.

  ‘Down!’ Adarin shouted mentally.

  The undead dropped, and again the cannons roared at his command. The second barricade shattered. Another charge. Another push.

  The third barricade broke—but this time it cost them dearly. Half the undead lay shattered in the rubble, the charge slowed to a crawl.

  Then came the next volley—artillery thunder that should have cleared the fourth barricade. Instead, blue magic flared and cut the shells from the sky.

  But the undead were already charging.

  ‘Fuck. Take cover!’ Adarin hissed.

  Too late.

  The enemy musketeers rose as one and unleashed a thunderous volley. Gun smoke rolled out in a solid wave. The first ranks of undead were torn apart, and the rest were forced to stumble through the blinding haze.

  Behind the dispersing smoke, Adarin saw it.

  Five mages stood in a circle behind the barricade—disciplined, focused, the real threat compared to the panicked soldiers.

  His eyes darted around. Undead were being cut down by coordinated attacks. The enemy surged across the barricade. Fuck. I need a distraction.

  "Devin! How long?"

  "Twenty seconds," came the curt, utterly calm reply.

  Twenty seconds. I can buy that.

  Adarin manifested Rootwhips, and with a battle cry amplified to max volume, shaking his very being, he charged the enemy mages head-on.

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