-oOo-

  Chapter 18

  -oOo-

  Castel Lunii loomed over the city, its shadow made visible by the moon to their fore. Iulian walked at a quick pace, a team of demons behind. Sylvia and Gavin were forced to take fast steps just to keep up. The streets were winding. Curious and confused demons hung out on the path, forcing them to navigate around.

  “You said Helheim legions,” Nessa pressed. “Does that mean Helheim is here?”

  “I’m with tree girl on this one,” Gavin commented.

  “I’m not a tree,” Nessa scolded.

  “Yet, you have leaves growing out of your head.”

  “At least I’m not an ugly goblin.”

  “A Helheim Legion, not Helheim,” Iulian clarified, having no intent to explain further.

  Nessa tilted her head in confusion.

  “A Helheim Legion consists of one-thousand undead. Seven-hundred shamblers. Two hundred fighters. One hundred elite,” Sylvia said. “Helheim sells them. Think of it as a brand.”

  And quite a popular one at that. When someone referred to ‘the legions of Hell’ they were inevitably speaking of Helheim Legions. In fact, they were so oversold that their presence had distorted the world logic of multiple planes. This led to the rampant, and ironic, commonality of undead throughout much of the netherworld.

  There were even government programs dedicated to cleaning up the mess.

  “Miss Sylvia is, indeed, well-read,” Iulian complimented.

  “What might we run up against?” Elroy asked, his deep voice rumbling on the edge of a growl.

  “Shamblers are Class I, low-ranked phantasmal beasts,” Iulian said. “Individually, they aren’t much of a threat. Their danger is in their numbers and their cursed flame. The fire devours both ki and life. It isn’t powerful, but it is very stubborn, enough so that a hundred shamblers can easily drag down a warrior of the second consolidation.”

  The redheaded vampire stopped. A frown decorated his chiseled features.

  With the pause, Sylvia became aware of a strange gap. Though demons were still on the street, there were far fewer heading south than those traveling north. It was as though the traffic was draining away. The white werewolf put a hand on his hammer, golden eyes focused forward with wariness.

  “How many?” Elroy asked.

  “At least a score,” Iulian said. “We should be able to push through, if we rush.”

  “Wait a second,” Sylvia interrupted, raising a hand to stall. “I’ll get better numbers.”

  The silver-haired witch flipped open the merit shop. With quick thoughts, she purchased two new features: Observe Terrain and Track Threats. Four hundred merit points gone. Just like that.

  Sylvia felt a pain in her heart. She’d breached four hundred just a little bit ago. Now, she was left with sixteen. She wanted to cry.

  Would she ever be able to buy a blank skill book?

  Hurting inside, Sylvia tapped the butt of her staff against the ground three times to feign a spell. Observe Terrain. Track Threats.

  Sylvia’s System unleashed a wave of runes. Complicated chains were woven with fine perfection. Forty-five mana was devoured, fueling the magic.

  She had no causality ether to offset the cost.

  The first spell unleashed a pulse. Information fed back into her brain, filtered by the System. Vague shapes were consolidated into a minimap that appeared in the corner of her vision. The second spell followed the first. Creatures and persons flashed through her mind. Suddenly, her minimap was filled with red dots.

  Not ten or twenty of them. Hundreds of them, stretching across the streets in a thick stream. Ants scurrying along the breadth of her map. At the head was a dense bulge, a knife piercing through the city. This hammer was no more than two hundred meters to the north-east.

  “What’s it look like?”

  Sylvia’s dead, pink eyes fell on Iulian.

  “More than a score?” she asked scathingly. “Try two or three hundred.”

  “Th-three hundred!” Nessa squeaked.

  Iulian grit his teeth. “You sure?”

  “They’re cutting through the city west to east. Right now the bulk is to the north-east of us. We might be able to punch through, if we hit hard and fast. But there’s enough shamblers around that, if we’re a bit slow, ten could turn into a hundred,” Sylvia explained. “From the looks of it, they’re forming a blockade and grinding inward.”

  “So we move east and get ahead or go west and cut the chain,” Elroy considered.

  The young scion of the Codrin clan shook his head. “No. All the major roads run north-south toward Castel Lunii, like spokes on a wheel. If we go east or west we slow down. The more time we give those shamblers, the tighter the noose.”

  Sylvia spread her map, confirming what Iulian said.

  “South to the tower?” Elroy asked.

  “They won’t let anyone near it after what happened,” Iulian rejected.

  “Then what do we do?” Nessa asked nervously.

  “We die,” Gavin joked. The goblin crackled his knuckles then wiggled his fingers. “May as well make it bloody.”

  “Best chance is to hole up somewhere defensible. Thick walls. Stone, not wood. Shamblers will burn through anything holding an aspect of life. Shamblers aren’t strong and demons don’t go down easy. The centurion will be losing one shambler for every demon he kills in the city. More, if those demons fort up.”

  “We should alert the locals. Gather as many as we can,” Elroy rumbled.

  “Right,” Iulian agreed with a snap. “The centurion’s goal must be to flood the resurrection pool. If the price is too high, they’ll look for easier pickings. Lady Swallows, is it safe toward the wall?”

  Sylvia nodded. “Just don’t veer too far to the east or west.”

  “Then that’s our plan. Gavin, Elroy, you two head out and gather as many locals as you can. Nessa, with me. Lady Swallows, it was an honor.”

  This time, Sylvia shook her head.

  “If it’s just shamblers, I can leave anytime I want.” That was the beauty of a high mobility movement art. “You focus on grabbing anyone who will listen. I’ll find us a place to hole up. When I do, I’ll throw a couple flame shots into the air so you can find me.”

  “Thank you, Lady Swallows,” Iulian said.

  “Nn,” Nessa sounded.

  Elroy pounded his chest in recognition before taking off. Gavin the Black scurried behind him.

  “Ten soli we don’t make it to the day’s end,” the goblin called to his companion.

  Sylvia snorted. Day’s end? In the Timeless Beryl Wilderness, days never end.

  With that thought, Sylvia jumped. Powerful steps sent her sailing onto a tiled roof. The silver-haired witch flicked her wrist, enlarging the map window. The stream of red had faded into gray. Track Threats was a short-lived magic.

  Observe Terrain, however, was not.

  Or, to be more accurate, Observe Terrain’s duration didn’t matter. Not when Sylvia had the System to parse the data and store it on her behalf.

  Urrooohhh!

  A horn sounded, reverberating through the air despite the vast distance. Sylvia’s gaze was drawn to Castel Lunii. The silver moon bled red, a crimson hue washing over the celestial body. Spots flitted across the black sky, bodies illuminated by the ether.

  The first soldiers had sprung into action.

  The West Tower lit. A huge ball of flame flew from its turret before vanishing behind the city walls. There was a faint rumble when the projectile hit. The towers east and south remained silent.

  Sylvia wondered whether Orasul Lunii’s defenses would crack.

  North, toward the docks, her pastel pink eyes caught a glimpse of fighting. Flashes of light as arts and magic were exchanged. Sylvia’s thoughts turned inward. How were her fellow witches holding up? Were they still at Vallenfelt’s mansion, or had some been peeled away to face the enemy?

  At least she had no reason to fear for their safety. The noble district was near the castle and heavily defended.

  Sylvia set off.

  A scan of her map revealed three promising locations. The first was a smithy with walls of solid stone. The shape and the structure looked sound, but Sylvia dismissed it at a glance. Her starlight eyes revealed the flaw. The essence was thin and stretched. Against physical force, the building would hold as readily as any other. Against supernatural power, it may as well have been made from Styrofoam.

  Next was a shop. Sylvia approached only to be driven off by a zealous guard. No matter. The abundance of windows were already cause for concern. Rather than a fort, the shop better resembled a death trap. After warning the guard of the shamblers approaching, she left.

  As for whether he heard, she didn’t care.

  Sylvia suspected the slave felt similarly. Death was his master’s problem, and it was more forgivable to die carrying out his duty than to survive while abandoning the same.

  Heh. Since it was Men-Lux, at least he’d get paid.

  Which brought her to the final location. A temple.

  Demons were birthed from human souls and therefore had human desire. Love. Hate. Anger. Compassion. Though nether code might distort, that nature never failed to shine through. Religion had existed for as long as men had walked the Earth, so how could it be lacking here in the netherworld?

  One difference was in how demons were indoctrinated. Most entered the nether with mature souls. Though memory might vanish, reason remained. This meant priests couldn’t rely on brainwashing young, fragile minds. They had to take a different approach. This change resulted in faiths with a subtly different flavor than those seen on Earth.

  The most popular religion in Hell was, amusingly, the Church of the Benevolent Light.

  This temple, however, was dedicated to more ancient gods.

  The building was two stories tall, a bell tower adding a third. The frame was solid stone with open arches on the second floor. Dense essence filled the structure, deepened by decades of history and devotion. This accumulated recognition had transformed the building, rendering it part of the plane’s world logic.

  The temple’s doors were made from a bronze colored metal. Sylvia pushed inside, satisfied with their weight and thickness.

  She studied the interior.

  The temple’s floor was open space with the ceiling ten meters above. Wooden pews faced an altar. Three statues at the back showed the objects of worship. A matronly woman whose bottom half was wood emerging from a mound of dirt. An old, bearded man leaning on a staff and crowned by the sun. Finally, a four-armed man with a trident in one hand and a drum in another.

  Shiva. That was the only god Sylvia recognized.

  “Welcome to the Temple of the First Creation.”

  A demonic priest greeted her. The man had a head akin to an upside down octopus. The priest’s eyes were black and bulbous, while his skin was orange and puffy. Instead of hair, tentacles rose from his skull, suckers and all.

  Like many demons, the priest was big. A little over six feet in height, with a body that out massed Sylvia three to one. A warrior bloodline, she guessed. As for his specific species? Sylvia hadn’t the faintest idea. There were thousands of bloodlines scattered throughout Hell. She could recognize the common types, but that was about it.

  “Whether it is solace or safety, my halls are open to you,” the octopus demon said smoothly.

  The temple wasn’t empty. Four demons were in the pews. A succubus bearing an iron collar sat next to a vampire. A few seats down were two beast-kin, one bearing an insect ancestry Sylvia found unfamiliar.

  “Shamblers are overrunning the district,” Sylvia explained, eyes snapping back to the priest. “I’m looking for a place where people can fort up, and this temple is looking pretty decent.”

  “Shamblers?” The insectile beast-kin voiced in dismay. “Has the wall fallen?”

  “Don’t be a fool,” the vampire interjected. “We all heard the horn. The watch has been called. Any enemy will first have to pass through a horde of blood wolves. And, if it hasn’t happened already, the skies will soon fill with frost specters. The lords are in attendance and the army is at hand. There is no force on this plane that can take Orasul Lunii.”

  Clong.

  “Quiet!” the priest shouted.

  The octopus demon held a trident in hand. His simple, brown robes and green stole faded into mist, replaced by an armor of stone and wood.

  “If the dead are in this district, then we best make ready,” he said firmly. “Ciprian, search the nearby houses and bring back anyone who lives. Mufaru, head to the roof and let us know when you sense the enemy.”

  “Bako,” the vampire, Ciprian, interrupted. “I have a business. If I’m dead for who knows how many weeks or months, looters will ravage my property.”

  Bako, the priest, turned his bulbous eyes back on the vampire.

  “Then you best be quick. Our chances will be greater the more demons you gather.”

  Ciprian trembled, looking as though he’d reject, then he turned to the succubus who wore a demure uniform reminiscent of a maid.

  “Lea, remain here where it’s safe,” he said softly, kissing her on the forehead. His gaze rose. “You there,” he snapped, looking at the other beast-kin. “Yes, you. Don’t be a laggard. Make yourself useful and come with me.”

  Sylvia scanned the room. Moonlight filtered through the arches overhead. A beautiful mural was painted on the walls depicting an act of creation. The earth mother, collecting plants and animals from Origin. The old man, felling the giants. Shiva dancing, shattering rock and summoning storms.

  Soon this space would turn into a battlefield.

  “I’ll call the others,” she said finally.

  Then she stepped back out the door.

  -oOo-

  Dong! Dong! Dong!

  The temple’s bell rang. For Sylvia, who stood on the building’s dome, the toll was deafening. Throngs of shamblers rolled through the streets. They moved in waves. A pause and an ebb, then suddenly, the corpse men would surge out of one building to seize the next. Flaming men beat on doors, climbed through windows, and ascended onto roofs.

  Then, they would vanish inside and, for a moment, things would appear quiet again.

  Shamblers were not at all what Sylvia expected.

  A few sentences in a book didn’t do justice to reality. The phantasmal beasts were shaped like men. Rotting, charred flesh clung to their bones, making them look like starved corpses. Black flame smoldered on their skin, shedding a strange blue-violet light.

  Most importantly, they were fast.

  Rather than shambler, the phantasm might’ve been better named runner. The creatures moved with speed and agility akin to mortal men. When reading her tomes, Sylvia had forgotten something important. Demons saw the world through the lens of their own strength. To them, mortal speed was pathetic.

  In that sense, the appellation shambler was right.

  Elroy of Est Somber displayed this difference clearly.

  The white wolfman sprinted through the streets, Gavin the Black riding on his shoulders. Deathly hands reached out. The demon wove around them with a grace that belied his heavy armor. In mere moments, Elroy broke through the loose group, fleeing the more distant ocean of corpse and fire.

  When the werewolf reached the walls, ki surged beneath his feet. Elroy leapt. The warrior landed smoothly atop the temple’s roof.

  Reaching up, he helped the goblin down.

  “These walls are a bit short, don’t you think, miss witch,” Gavin said.

  “It was the best I could find,” Sylvia retorted.

  Gavin stretched, gazing out at the undead tide. The wave of shamblers broke on the temple, leaving a space a hundred meters wide untouched. Like a river, the flow swept around them. A rock protruding from the stream.

  The silver-haired witch frowned. Iulian was right. These shamblers were far too intelligent. A centurion was guiding them.

  “Thank you there, wolf man,” Gavin continued. “If I had to rely on my two legs, those things would’ve torn me apart.”

  “I don’t want to hear another word about me throwing you off the ship,” Elroy said roughly. His gaze switched to the witch. “How many did we gather?”

  “About fifty,” Sylvia answered evenly. “Thirty unconsolidated. Twenty in the first. The priest, Bako, is on the low end of the second.”

  Slave owners often kept their thralls below the first consolidation. This was motivated, in part, by control but also by cash. Cultivation required time and money. Time which could be spent working and money which could be kept in the owner’s pocket. Not only that, crossing a consolidation was risky. Many slavers would rather their property not take unnecessary risks.

  As for control? That was self-explanatory.

  In uncommon cases – as with Gavin and Leonid – they might be allowed greater strength. Combat slaves could be sold for a lot of money, especially talented ones. Bolder slave owners were willing to risk that gamble. In Nessa’s case, it was her ability to produce explosive fruit, not her military talents, that won her master’s support.

  Sadly, there weren’t many combat slaves to be found in these parts. They tended to live with wealthier demons and, consequently, in a different district.

  To say nothing of those who had already died in the preliminaries.

  One bit of good news was that combat was life in Hell. Most of the district’s denizens not only knew how to wield a weapon, they were carrying one with them. The only caveat was that most of these denizens were quite rusty and many of the slaves had no weapons at all.

  “There’s several hundred of those things out there,” Gavin pointed out. “I don’t think fifty is going to cut it.”

  “Five hundred is my best guess. They likely started with a full legion of one thousand. The numbers would’ve been worn away as they cleaned the district.” Iulian Codrin emerged from the bell tower, gazing out at the undead teaming the streets. He bowed in the witch’s direction. “Lady Swallows, your selection of fort is quite fortuitous.”

  The silver-haired witch tilted her head in the redheaded vampire’s direction, the silver moon ornament wobbling with the turn of her hat. Did this bastard really have to flatter her over everything?

  “Lady Swallows, Lady Swallows,” Gavin grumbled, voicing her complaint. “Why don’t I ever get praised like that?”

  “You’re not as good-looking,” Elroy explained with gruff tones.

  Fuck both of you too.

  “Can we win?” Sylvia asked.

  “It will be difficult. If we can fight them ten at a time, we can wear them down quite severely,” Iulian said. “However, five hundred to fifty is not good odds.”

  “I doubt those corpse men are going to let us fight them ten at a time,” Gavin pointed out.

  “We force them to,” Elroy said, firmly.

  “Quite right,” Iulian agreed. The redhead took in a breath. “I have good news and bad news.”

  “There’s good news?” Gavin quipped. The goblin wore a slimy grin.

  On this sentiment, Sylvia agreed.

  “There is,” Iulian answered, taking the goblin’s words in stride. “Fighting near the docks has ceased. Given our position and how our tower is intact, the army will most likely sweep east to west. Shamblers won’t last long against a proper fighting force, so we only have to hold for an hour. Perhaps half.”

  Elroy grunted in acknowledgment.

  “That sounds pretty good to me,” Gavin acknowledged. “Then what’s the bad news, ladies’ boy.”

  “The centurion has almost certainly been commanded to kill as many persons as possible before his destruction,” Iulian explained. “By now, the space outside our district has been fortified. That means, once the remaining houses are cleansed, he will turn to us.”

  Sylvia grimaced along with the others. So much for being a nut too hard to crack.

  “Those things can climb,” she pointed out.

  “And they’re pretty damn good at it,” Gavin reinforced. “They’ll go right through those arches even while filling the roof.”

  “I can seal the windows,” Sylvia said. “But only for half an hour. And it’ll take a lot of mana.”

  Earth bulwark was tailor-made for creating short-lived fortifications. It wouldn’t stand up against stronger foes, but it should hold readily against Class I phantasms. She’d need three casts to seal the building, which meant sacrificing 100 mp – earth ether accounted.

  The only wild card was whether the shamblers’ cursed flame would burn through.

  Mana was ether polished by the psyche. The psychic element fell within the domain of life. The fires born from a shambler feasted on blood and ki. Life was like wood and oil to those flames. While earth bulwark was primordial magic, there was a chance the shamblers’ fire would eat the mana underneath and cause the spell to unravel.

  “With two floors, they will be hampered significantly,” Elroy mused.

  “I’ve already brought most of the ranged fighters up here to trim the crowd,” Iulian said. “I’ll add a few warriors to delay them further.”

  “Recruiting a witch was wise,” Elroy concluded.

  Gavin let out a sneering tut. “Don’t look down on goblin magic. When the sweet smell of blood fills the air, I’ll show you how fast bodies can tear themselves apart.”

  “Any demon can learn runes,” Sylvia pointed out, annoyed at the excessive acclaim.

  Not only could they learn runes, most older demons did. Knowing a smattering of magic was no less practical than a mage practicing ki. Of course, not all demons were equally suited to it. Elroy would always struggle with spells, just as Sylvia had little hope of winning an arm wrestling match against the werewolf.

  Goblins, however, were built for magic. Albeit, their magic tended toward the natural.

  “I wasn’t born in an academy,” Gavin quipped. “I’ll leave the complicated casting to you, Lady Swallows. Me? I’ll stick to what I’m good at.”

  This was also a common attitude.

  The streets fell under a strange, deathly stillness.

  Eerie, blue-violet light poured from windows, twining with the white cast by the ether light lamps. In the deep alleys, shadows danced, empty and devoid of life.

  Then, a horse set foot atop a roof.

  Cold fire wrapped the steed’s hooves. Flesh hung on its frame, pitted and rotten. Its eyes were like pale, blue embers. On its back sat a knight. Black, rusted armor covered his frame, shrouded in a halo of spectral white. A visor disguised the phantasm’s face, but it couldn’t hide the red gleam behind.

  The hel centurion had arrived.

  According to the books, hel centurions were Class II, high ranked phantasms. Ten served each legion, commanded by a death knight. The beast below was a hel hestr, a Class II, mid-ranked phantasm with prodigious mobility and speed.

  Phantasms were not demons. They lacked both a soul and a mortal origin. Once dead, they were gone forever. Instead, they were birthed by world logic, having an existence comparable to a monster or an NPC.

  And not all of them were beasts. Centurions, at least when it came to matters of war, were no less intelligent than humans.

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  Sylvia had a sudden itch to snipe the undead general with a lightning bolt.

  She resisted the temptation. Without knowing where the centurion’s core was hidden, it was impossible to achieve a one hit kill. Nor was there any certainty that her attack would pierce the phantasm’s guard.

  Instead, Sylvia made herself useful by gathering ether. Her staff could only filter the elements wind, fire, and lightning. Water could be separated with the aid of her elemental palace. Earth ether, however, had to be concentrated manually, which made the process slower and more tedious.

  Elroy unholstered his hammer. The weapon’s head was as broad as the werewolf’s skull. The front side was blunt and flanged. On the other was a sharp pick.

  “The enemy is ready,” the werewolf rumbled.

  The redheaded vampire raised his voice. “All able fighters up top! Mages, pace yourselves!”

  “All able fighters up top!” Ciprian echoed.

  There was a bustle of movement. Nessa emerged from the bell tower’s stairs. The leaf-haired beast-kin was carrying a glaive half again longer than she was tall. Five vampires, a few beast-kin, and a werewolf followed after. As for mages, they were limited to the succubus – Lea, a dark elf, Gavin, and herself.

  Sylvia grimaced. They were sorely lacking in ranged firepower. The vampires, fortunately, were a mixed species and could pick up the slack. As for Lea, she didn’t inspire much confidence.

  The witch peered at the dark elf. Elves had no innate magics. Thus, the fey had to be a pure caster. Sylvia’s hopes, however, were dashed when she saw the elf with a book in hand, rehearsing his spells.

  There was nothing wrong with casting spells from a book. Outside of combat anyway. During a fierce melee, casting from a grimoire was just a fancy way of committing suicide.

  She prayed the warriors would keep the shamblers off the elf’s back.

  There was movement on the street. Shamblers poured out of buildings, filling the roads with rows and rows of flaming corpse men. Sylvia felt herself tremble. A cold, clammy nervousness tore at her core. Her hand tightened on her staff.

  It was one thing to talk about hundreds of shamblers. It was another thing to see them. An enormous wall of enemies that completely dwarfed their tiny crew.

  “We are not mortals to fear death!” Iulian roared. The courtly vampire held his sword high, calling all eyes to him. “We are proud demons of Hell, not cowards born of Heaven. These phantasms come seeking our lives. I say, we make them pay for it!”

  A few voices raised in cheer. Sylvia joined, thumping her staff against the roof in agreement. If victory was impossible, then she’d be that asshole floating a command center in the corner of the map.

  “Our enemy outnumbers us ten to one,” Iulian continued. “But I believe that we can still win. We are stronger than them. We have tall walls to protect us. And most importantly, it is they who must win this battle quickly. The king’s army fights at the East Tower. Soon they will reach the South. We need not defeat this feeble legion. We only need to hold until our allies reach our side.”

  “We will hold!” Elroy shouted.

  “We will hold!” More voices joined in.

  “We will hold!”

  The last came as a roar, echoed even by those still in the temple below.

  Now was a good time.

  Sylvia incanted.

  Runes gave form to mana. Mana melted into ether. Magic was spun to the witch’s intent. Stone groaned. Illusionary rock grew upon the temple’s surface, sealing the arches of the floor below.

  After three casts, the only entry was through the bell tower.

  “We will hold,” Iulian echoed one final time, giving the silver-haired witch a nod. “And even if we fail, I promise you that I, Iulian Codrin, will not forget your bravery. With my name I swear: every shambler slain will be a military merit to your account.”

  “By my name, Ciprian Frunze, I too shall act as witness to your courage,” Ciprian confirmed. “And Bako will also attest. Orasul Lunii will reward those who stand here today.”

  “They damn well better!” Gavin shouted.

  “Nn,” Nessa agreed with a nod.

  Beyond the temple, the undead army had gathered. The centurion raised his sword, the curved blade wrapped in a blaze of purple and crimson. Then it fell. Screams and shrieks filled the air. All at once, the great mass of undead began to run.

  “Don’t hesitate, kill as many as you can!” Iulian yelled.

  The redheaded vampire summoned up a spear of shadow, then threw it into the advancing mass.

  A wave of magic followed.

  From Lea’s hands flew a ghostly flame. The fires of passion landed among the mass, consuming mind and flesh alike. Black spears flew from vampiric hands, piercing limbs and torsos. This shadow sank into flesh, chewing through meat as though it were acid.

  “■■.”

  Sylvia swung her staff, casting a blazing ball into the fray. A bright orange flash banished the night. Flames of black were consumed by heat and fury. Charred flesh was reduced to scattered ash.

  Death filled the air. Her System opened its hungry maw, drinking the haze of essence.

  But not all of it.

  Ether whirled around Gavin the Black. With a deft hand, the redcap consumed the elements wood and blood and spun them into the aspect flesh. Complex strings of runes gathered between his fingertips, spun by his natural magic, before descending into the horde. Curses wrapped around phantasms. Where they touched, bones snapped and twisted. Shamblers doubled over, vomiting up their guts.

  Literally.

  Sylvia couldn’t help but scowl. The ether was fine, but some of that was her experience!

  It took mere seconds for the shamblers to crash into the temple walls. For the first few moments, the undead creatures scratched and screamed, flailing uselessly at the dense stone. A few climbed up over those in front, scrambling to reach the roof.

  Then, a wave of stillness swept over them. The shamblers closest turned, placing their backs against the wall. With two hands, they proceeded to boost their companions toward the top. Clawed fingers pawed at the roof’s edge. Some caught. Others bounced off Sylvia’s irregular bulwark, crashing back down into the throng below.

  The first of the horde pulled themselves up.

  “Kill them quickly!” Iulian warned. The young scion of the Codrin clan flashed forward, his broadsword slashing a shambler’s head from its neck. A second later, he stabbed, wounding the next. “We mustn’t allow them to gather in numbers!”

  The melee had begun.

  Elroy was a storm. His great hammer swung with inhuman force, crashing into shamblers with a meaty thunk. Heads were crushed like melons. Chests were caved in, ribs shattered, their owners flung like baseballs off the roof.

  Nessa, by contrast, was steady and stalwart. The tree-born beast-kin planted herself at the roof’s edge. Ki flowed through her body, forming a dense aura that matched her origin. Roots sank into stone. An ethereal trunk grew around her, shielding her from harm. Tall, illusionary branches loomed overhead.

  With enduring force, her glaive cut down, splitting any who dared to climb the wall beside her.

  Yet, her protective bark smoldered.

  The wave was relentless. More and more climbed onto the roof. At first, only two or three managed to stand. Then those numbers became four and five. Gavin reached out and twisted. A shambler exploded into a fountain of blood. Iulian flashed, his umbral sword hewing through a walking corpse. Flame crawled up his blade, feasting on his ki. With a twist and flick, he threw away his burning aura.

  Against the weak, shamblers killed with numbers. When faced with the strong, it was the shamblers' cursed flame that inevitably wore them down.

  “■■.”

  Sylvia flicked her staff, adding a wave of flame to the mix. This time the fireball dropped by the roof’s edge, incinerating the shamblers gathered below.

  A vampire wailed, in a moment’s mishap a burning corpse grabbed his ankle. There was but an instant’s pause. Then, instead of climbing the rest of the way up, the shambler fell back, dragging the vampire into the horde below.

  His screams lasted mere seconds.

  “… wa-mo-shi!”

  Grimoire shaking, the dark elf finished his slow incantation. Ether pulsed, thick and heavy. Then vines exploded from the roof’s rim. Green stems tore through undead flesh, ripping bodies apart. Seven shamblers were shredded in an blink. The thick bramble remained, forming a parapet that guarded the roof.

  But not for long. Corpses tried to climb, clinging to the wood. Where they touched, black flame began to spread, a festering fire feeding on the embers of life.

  The vines, however, were not dead wood. Like a living beast they twisted, tearing hands and slicing flesh.

  The dark elf quickly thumbed through the pages of his book, staff resting in his elbow’s crook. A few seconds later, he started a second chant.

  The image was as impressive as it was absurd.

  “These flames are irritating,” Elroy grumbled, waving his hammer twice before the black blaze was snuffed. “I don’t think we can hold for more than two hundred.”

  “Two hundred of these pests? I’m already running on half a tank,” Gavin muttered.

  “We will retreat down through the bell tower when the time comes,” Iulian agreed. “Lady Swallows, how do you stand?”

  “The walls are holding,” she said. Earth elemental magic ignored fire better than wood. “And I’m also around half. How many do you think that was?”

  Iulian grimaced. “A fifth, if we’re lucky.”

  They were eating their resources too fast. If things continued like this, they were sure to lose.

  “Bako is below,” Iulian reminded. “It won’t be easy to get past him or the rest of the fighters.”

  “… lo-rhu-phi!”

  The dark elf’s second chant ended their conversation. The thin, dusk-skinned fey swirled his craggy staff overhead before driving the butt down to crack against the roof. A new magic took hold, sharing the same ethereal hue as the first.

  The wood element, this time unleashed in a much more appropriate form.

  Burning vines melted. The wooden substance transformed into a caustic, green liquid. Acid poured down the temple’s side in a waterfall of destruction. Shamblers, still struggling to climb, shrieked and fell. Skin dissolved. Meat peeled from bone. Scores of shamblers were slaughtered in an instant.

  Then, the steaming acid pooled at the temple’s foot, creating an uneven moat that promised death to all intruders.

  “Can you do that?” Gavin questioned.

  Sylvia gave him an annoyed look. “No.”

  Just as warriors divided ki into realms, mages divided spells into levels. Basic magic. Advanced magic. High magic. Supreme magic. Those were the terms magi preferred.

  Unlike ki, magic had no clearly defined boundaries. A spell’s level was a subjective determination based on the spell’s complexity. The number and type of runes used in the casting. The techniques, elements, and aspects used to weave it into form. The combination of all factors had to be considered.

  A simple example of this was the spell lightning bolt. Lightning bolt consisted of thirty-one runes, enough to dance on the edge of advanced magic. But nearly all of those runes came from the Lesser Codex. The runic chain was a single thread that required neither braiding nor knotting. There were no contrary elemental components, like water and fire or wind and earth.

  Therefore, the spell was considered basic magic instead.

  In fact, all the battle magic Sylvia used was basic magic.

  There was no helping it. Sylvia knew the Lesser Codex forward and back but, of the Great Codex, she could only name a dozen runes at most. Without that foundation, grasping the higher level spells was an extraordinary challenge.

  Nor could she cast them quickly.

  That last obstacle, however, didn’t stop the dark elf. The fey fumbled his book, searching for the next spell in his chain. In a duel, such an act would’ve left him dead in a second.

  Here, on the field of war, he was a terror.

  But the hel centurion would have no more of it.

  Cl-clop. Cl-clop. Cl-clop.

  Their first warning was a horse galloping on the wind. Drawn by the sound, Sylvia’s eyes shot up.

  The hel hester flashed through the sky, leaving behind streaks of pale blue flame. She had only an moment to compute the new entrant before the centurion swept down in a blur.

  Whoosh.

  Purple crimson flared, cutting a long crescent. The burning plane tore through Iulian’s chest. Sylvia expected a spray of blood. Instead, the redheaded vampire faded back into a haze of shadow, leaving only his afterimage.

  But he was not entirely unscathed, either. Two meters back, Iulian stumbled, sizzling blood falling from his chest.

  Cl-clop, clop.

  Elroy turned, lunging with the help of an amateurish spring step. Too slow. The hel hestr moved first, taking to the sky with dizzying speed. The undead steed breathed out, exhaling a thick stream of yellow mist. A beast-kin warrior screamed as his skin began to rot and fester. Quick and agile, the horse traced a short curve, before touching hoof on roof once more.

  The centurion swung.

  The searing blade flashed through the night. A head rolled in the sky, a black silhouette against the crimson moon. The dark elf’s corpse flopped onto the ground.

  The hel hestr reared, lunging toward the sky.

  Ciprian was faster.

  The older vampire flitted across the roof in a shadowy mist. He thrust. Steel kissed the steed’s rump. The umbral edge sliced through the centurion’s spectral armor then cut deep into rotting flesh. Two more vampires dove in after, swords at the ready.

  But the hel hestr was already in the air, too high for their weapons to touch.

  Yet, he was still close enough for Sylvia’s strike.

  “– ■!”

  Brilliant blue flashed.

  The hel hestr was fast, but few things were faster than lightning. A jagged bolt erupted from Sylvia’s staff. Electricity streaked across the night, tearing through the horse’s chest. Ribs splintered. An arm’s length of sizzling meat exploded out.

  The phantasm stumbled. For an instant, Sylvia felt she’d won. Then the centurion vanished beneath the temple’s edge.

  Demons were screaming.

  The yellow mist breathed by the hel hestr spread in a cloud. Where it touched, bodies began to rot. The beast-kin closest was already on the ground, convulsing as his skin fell away to reveal the bone beneath. A vampire slightly further scrambled from the mist, his skin was covered in boils.

  Still, the yellow cloud was growing.

  Shit.

  Sylvia stepped off the air, letting her body rise. At the same time, she let loose a wave of wind ether, reinforcing energy with a few loose runes.

  “■ ■!”

  A sudden gust washed most of the mist over the edge. But Sylvia didn’t have time to tend to her allies because – Bang! A shock of fire and fury rang out. A wave of sparks and embers scattered. The silver-haired witch twisted in midair, catching a glimpse of the hel centurion circling the temple’s second floor.

  The knight’s weapon was ablaze. With one brutal swing he carved through illusionary stone. Already eroded by the cursed flames, Sylvia’s earth bulwark crumbled.

  “Fiddlesticks!” she cursed.

  In a storm of petals, the witch dashed past the roof’s edge. The centurion swept around, intent on cleaving the last of her protections.

  “■■ ■■.”

  Staff drained, Sylvia drew from her water palace. A sphere of transparent liquid formed beside her, soon joined by three others.

  “■■, ■■, ■■.”

  Water knives fell like rain. Sensing her intervention, the centurion veered, shield raised as protection. But though the rusted steel was broad enough to cover him, it couldn’t defend his horse. Pfft. Pfft. Pfft. Three out of four bullets punched through the steed. One ripped through its skull. A second through its neck. The third through its rump.

  The horse jolted then – crack – it’s neck suddenly twisted one hundred eighty degrees. On the roof’s edge, a grinning goblin had an outstretched hand.

  The centurion threw himself off his dying steed, crashing down into a horde of shamblers below.

  Sylvia dove after, sweeping from two stories above to cut off the centurion’s escape. Her staff drank ether, slowly refilling. A flame spell sat ready on her lips.

  “Stay high!”

  Iulian’s shout was a reminder. Sylvia glanced up to see Nessa at the ready, near the temple’s wall. Rounded objects flew from her hand. Cringing, the silver-haired witch leapt, casting a quick feather-light to stabilize her flight.

  Fruits, each the size of an apple, hit the shambler swarm like hand grenades.

  Boom! B-b-b-boom! B-boom!

  The beryl brightwood was a tree type phantasm found in the Daylight Forest. It had a tough body reinforced by a barrier of protective bark. Though it could kill by swinging its branches, the phantasm’s greatest threat was its exploding fruit.

  A single brightwood could carry hundreds of them.

  A pity Nessa lacked those numbers or the fight would’ve been a joke. The tournament’s judges had deemed Nessa’s innate ability a kind of consumable. To maintain fairness, they had limited her to ten.

  Those ten were already terrifying enough.

  Explosions ripped through the horde. Bodies were blasted apart, limbs flying in every direction. A few rattled the centurion before a wall of shamblers piled on top, shielding him with their undead flesh.

  B-Boom. Boom!

  The last fruits landed. Fat and muscle were flung hither and yon. A lump of flesh landed on Sylvia’s hat before dissolving into motes. Her lips twisted in disgust.

  For once, Sylvia understood Emily’s deep longing for a nice, warm bath.

  “Don’t let him escape!” Iulian shouted as the roar faded.

  Sylvia dropped.

  The centurion’s intervention was a massive gamble. If his blitz ended successfully, they would’ve lost their walls, their leader, and their most threatening mage. Without those defenses, they would quickly crumble, swallowed by an endless horde of shamblers.

  If Sylvia killed him here, the shamblers would lose something equally important. Their intelligence.

  His decapitation strike was only a half success.

  Sylvia intended to make hers a true one.

  The moment the centurion rose from his shell of meat, she struck.

  “■■■, ■■.”

  Earth surged, shooting from the ground in a stone flower. An earth spike formed a meter to the centurion’s fore. The undead knight stopped then backstepped, shield snapping into position. Clong! Stone smashed into metal. The rusted shield reverberated as though it were a gong.

  The centurion was blown off his feet.

  Just in time for her flame shot to crash into his face.

  Which, as it so happened, was where the centurion was hiding his core.

  Whoomph!

  Bright orange fire blazed in a pyre.

  The shamblers stopped. Charred corpses swung their heads, caught in confusion. Then the first of them sighted her. A shambler screamed. The first was followed by a second, then a third, then the entire horde. Flame wrapped men leapt, jumped, and scrambled. Shamblers climbed on top of each other in a mad attempt to reach her, stretching up in a growing pyramid.

  Sylvia pushed off air, striding higher on a stairway of petals. When the undead tower reached four persons tall, it toppled, but this didn’t leave the beasts deterred.

  Yet, the witch no longer had any reason to fear them.

  Sylvia walked back, passing through the air casually. To maintain her flight she clicked her tongue adding another cast of feather-light.

  “A glorious achievement, Lady Swallows,” Iulian Codrin praised as the witch neared the temple.

  “■■■.” With the wave of her staff, Sylvia sealed a row of arches. A portion of the undead had already climbed inside, but she felt the demons there could handle those numbers easily. “■■■.”

  “I’ll lead the bulk of them away,” Sylvia said, after casting a second earth bulwark. “I trust you can handle the rest.”

  Gavin ran his tongue over his sharp teeth. “I have enough left to tease a few of them.”

  “If they come in series, we can kill them no matter how many there are,” Elroy rumbled.

  “Then, I’m going to meet up with the baroness,” Sylvia answered. “■■.”

  Before she left, Sylvia flicked her staff down. A burst of fire incinerated the undead piling up underneath her. Shamblers screamed and shrieked. Those closest had their eyes drawn to her instead of the temple. With flitting steps, the silver-haired witch skated through the sky, dragging behind her a horde of screeching undead.

  “It was a pleasure, Miss Sylvia!” Iulian yelled. “May we meet again under better circumstances!”

  Sylvia raised her staff in answer. Without looking back, she vanished down Orasul Lunii’s broad streets. From time to time, a blaze fell onto the hundreds of corpses seething beneath her.

  -oOo-

  Temple of the First Creation

  The Temple of the First Creation celebrates three gods: Gaia, Viracocha, and Shiva. Like many netherworld religions, it doesn’t actually worship any god. Instead, it considers sacred the act of creating Duo Paca Ayu – Ayu for short – supposedly the first material world to carry life after Origin.

  According to legend, Ayu was created during the Age of Myths. Five other materials worlds eventually followed, all under the direction of Gaia. As this period predated recorded history, the exact means by which these worlds were ‘made’ remains a mystery. Of the sixteen material worlds nurtured after however, it is certain that it required centuries of effort by thousands of demons to render the planets fit for human life.

  Most historians, therefore, believe that when myths name these gods, it was in reference to their tribe or organization.

  Myth of the First Creation

  Five times did Gaia, beloved mother of the earth, bring the seeds of life from the world of origin. Five times did she descend through the frozen void to enter a world far from where men were begot. Five times did she sow her burden. Five times did she watch life wither, spoiled by the cold and dark. Doomed by the barren stone. Poisoned by the dead air. Parched by the dry fields.

  Loving and steadfast, Gaia ventured to Origin to try a sixth. There Viracocha, moved by her conviction, took pity upon her.

  “Earth mother, it is for naught. That rock knows only darkness. Only here, on Origin, can the seeds of life bud and bear fruit.”

  “Perhaps it is so. Nevertheless, I shall sow this world. I believe, should I strive, that one day these seeds will take root. Then the world will flourish, and many souls will enter the netherworld, bringing light to the empty planes.”

  “I admire your devotion,” Viracocha said, bowing to the earth mother.

  So he went with Gaia to the dead rock. From his quiver, he drew seven arrows. With each shot, a mighty giant was slain. Six bodies fell upon the world, blood pouring from their veins to form the lakes, rivers, oceans. The last he lit ablaze then threw into the sky. With this, warm light fell upon the land.

  “With this gift of sun and water, I hope that your seeds might grow.”

  And so Viracocha left. Pleased, Gaia sowed her seeds once more. This time, plants bloomed. Green leaves spread, seeking greedily for the sun’s burning warmth. Alas, like before, all life withered. For the earth was barren and the air poison.

  Yet, strident, Gaia was unchanged. She left to the world of origin once more, to collect new seeds and new life.

  This time, when she traversed the frozen void to land upon that rock, Shiva was there, waiting for her.

  “Earth mother, this is a land of death. Life will never take root here.”

  “Perhaps it is so. Nevertheless, I shall plant these seeds, for I wish to see life flourish,” Gaia said stubbornly.

  “I admire your devotion,” Shiva said with a bow. “If that is your wish, then let us destroy this world and create it anew.”

  So, Shiva sprang to his feet. Then, the great god began to dance. He danced for seven days and seven nights. With each turn of his palm, a storm stirred. With each stomp of his foot, the earth quaked and shattered. Oceans turned end over end. Rock crumbled, transforming into sand and soil. Rain poured with endless fury until the air was washed clean and made sweet.

  Clasping his hands, Shiva bowed again to the goddess. “I have done what I can, earth mother. Sow your seeds once more. Perhaps this time we will see life.”

  So did Gaia sow and nurture. For a thousand years did she tend to the smallest weed and the tiniest insect. Slowly, life stretched its limbs. The empty rock filled with a curtain of green. Pleased, Gaia ventured to the world of origin and brought back with her mortal men.

  “Let this land be known as Duo Pacu Ayu,” she said. “The second world of life.”