He turned his attention to his new personnel.
The two wargs were the size of small trucks. Their fur was a mess of gore and black blood, and their eyes held an empty, hungry stare—the apparent signature of Mara's work. One still had an imp's arm stuck between its teeth. At least they come pre-fed.
The two undead elites stood at a stiff, unnatural attention. One was the archer Corbin had nailed. The bullet had gone in one side of the helmet opening, an impressive feat of marksmanship. They had recovered its bow, a nasty-looking piece of laminated horn and sinew, and a quiver of arrows fletched with what looked like bat wings. A long, vicious knife was still strapped to its leg. The other held a heavy, single-bladed axe that looked like it could chop down a small tree.
Then there was the colossal. It just stood there, a nine-foot-tall monument to bad decisions, its club resting on its shoulder. The holes David's spear had punched through its iron chest plate were still there, dark and dry. It didn't seem to mind.
Completing the set was a single imp, shambling in a tight, twitchy circle, missing one of its arms. The runt of the undead litter.
Son shuffled over, his face pale and clammy. He cradled the stump of his wrist against his stomach, the skin perfectly healed but the hand just gone. "Hey," he said, his voice shaky. "Thanks. For... you know. The whole not-dying thing."
David gave a short nod. "Don't mention it." Kid’s thanking me for the service of not letting him bleed out after he got his hand chopped off for the team. The standards for gratitude here are refreshingly low.
"Stay here," David said to Son. "If you feel faint, sit down before you fall down."
David turned his attention from Son to his final acquisition.
Standing slightly apart from the corpses was his new thrall. The elite he'd enthralled. It was alive, breathing, its dark eyes watching him with a sharp, focused intelligence that was now chained to his will.
It stood a few inches taller than David, maybe six-foot-five, and was built like someone who took "functional strength" very seriously. It wore a light steel breastplate over a shirt of chainmail. Its main weapon was a broadsword, the blade about as long as David's leg, and it had a selection of shorter knives strapped to its belt and thighs. Assassin type. Probably. All the gear for getting in close, doing the work fast, and getting out. That would explain how it handled three of us at once before we ganged up on it. Aside from the whole kung-fu freakshow routine, of course.
David looked at the thrall. It stared back, its expression a blank slate of readiness. I could ask it to teach me how to fight. A few private lessons from a demonic swordmaster. But who has the time for that? This isn't The Karate Kid. I don't have weeks to wax cars and learn life lessons. Mr. Miyagi here is a six-and-a-half-foot green monster from hell. I already have weaponry. You don't ditch a perfectly good gun to learn how to use a knife from scratch.
His own strengths were his skills. His Battle Sense, his energy manipulation. A better idea clicked into place. I could use it to train my skills. No learning required. Just... fight it. Let my Battle Sense get used to predicting something that moves like water and hits like a truck. Advance the skill level through practical application. No montage required.
David focused on the tether to his new thrall. The elite hobgoblin's emotions were a quiet pool, not like Corbin’s constant awareness. There was resignation there, a deep acceptance of its new state. There was battle lust and excitement too, as well as a thread of resentment running through it and a flicker of cold ire, but it was nothing like the seething fury he felt from Mara—it was buried under the weight of an apparent understanding. It felt like the creature knew exactly what enthrallment was, and saw resisting it as pointless. It had accepted the defeat in battle and its new life.
Weird. Is that a warrior's code, or is getting enthralled by a stronger demon just their version of a handshake? I really hope it's not a handshake. I don’t need a culture where getting mind-controlled is just the polite way to say ‘good game.’
He tried to push a question down the line.
The thrall’s head tilted. It made a series of rough, guttural sounds, a language of sharp clicks and growls that meant nothing. But through the connection, David felt an impression. Vastness. A sense of sprawling, uncountable numbers. And layered over that, a heavy, cold feeling of inevitable defeat. It was ready to die in battle, and proud to have the chance. It was looking forward to a… warriors death—a certainty without fear, as if the thrall believed that it, David, and everyone with them were already dead, they just hadn't stopped moving yet.
Okay. So we need to teach this guy English. And self preservation. And positivity. Or I need to level up the thrall skill enough that we can have a proper two-way chat. One where he can tell me exactly how screwed we are in words I understand. This emotional charades thing is not going to help our murder wingman operation.
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Its presence on the other end of the tether was a coiled spring of lethal skill, resentment and curiosity waiting for a direction.
Jamie stumbled over, his face still pale but his eyes wide. He stared at the undead archer, then up at the colossal. "So... these are our guys now?"
"For now," David said. "They used to be their guys." He gestured at the silent, monstrous forms. This is what we're up against. And this is just the stuff they sent on a simple capture mission. They could have a hundred more of these back at their camp.
Jamie stared at the thrall for a long moment, his eyes wide. "Is it... can it talk?"
"Not in any language you’ll understand. Don’t ask it about the weather."
Rhea limped up next to Jamie, her arms crossed over her injured ribs. She gave the undead swordsman a long, assessing look, her gaze lingering on the axe. "It's strong. The armor is thick. Their weapons are real." Her voice was flat, factual.
"Yeah," David said, his voice flat in the post-battle quiet. "Seems to be the M.O. around here. They probably have a whole factory that makes them." He looked at Rhea, who was watching him with that unreadable, assessing stare of hers. "We need to get a lot stronger, fast."
David watched her go for a second. Me. I need to get a lot stronger. The thought was a cold, clear center in his mind. The statement he’d made out loud was a useful lie, a piece of group morale management. The truth was a straightforward thing. Having strong pawns is a useful. But what's the use of being surrounded by strong people if you're the one who ends up alone? Strong pawns are a great strategy until the chessboard flips over and scatters all the pieces. Having backup is a path, not the destination. Personal strength is the only thing that doesn't get left behind when things go to shit. This isn't the Avengers. It's David and his gophers on a chessboard where the only goal is to kick hell in the balls.
He looked over his little collection of tools and acquisitions. Son was sitting up, cradling his newly-healed wrist, staring at the spot where his hand used to be—Chloe had focused on saving lives over full repair. Completely healing it would require reopening the injury later. That won’t be fun for Son, not even a little bit. The undead monstrosities stood in their grim silence. Jamie was experimenting with a new, thicker ice block.
Better pawns would help with surface level issues. Numbers vs numbers. I need to make these ones a lot more useful. He thought it through.
I could enthrall them all, David thought. He pictured it. Level up the skill. Get more slots. A whole group of people with that same mental leash he had on Mara and the hobgoblin. But then Chloe's healing is useless. She can't heal someone who's enthralled. The demonic energy in the thrall link blocks it. Unless I lower the energy, but then what's the point of the leash if I’m working overtime?
He considered the other option. Unless I enthrall Chloe herself. Would that turn her healing into something else? A demonic healer. Someone who fixes you up with the same energy that makes the monsters. That's an interesting thought. A really interesting thought. Something to try out later, when I have more slots to work with. For now, they just need to level up and not die. It makes my job easier.
The logic was solid. The path was clear. He just had to walk it, and make sure everyone else walked it with him. Or over them.
Rhea looked thoughtful, then just nodded at his earlier statement of their need for strength, her jaw set. She understood the math. Jamie looked from the undead to David, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Does this mean we get to keep them?"
"We're borrowing them," David corrected. "From people who are going to be very upset when they find out."
David walked back toward the wreckage. The temporary quiet had broken into a low, tense argument. Harris stood near the torn fuselage, his business shirt stained and ripped, gesturing broadly. "We cannot stay here! It's a tomb! They know where we are! We need to move, find defensible ground!"
A few others muttered agreement, their faces pale with fear. Evans stood slightly apart, his hand resting on his holster, watching the debate with a tired expression. David walked up to him. "Having fun?"
"Not even a little," Evans said, his voice low. "He's not wrong. But we can't afford to split the group again. Not after that."
David nodded. Splitting up is what almost got everyone killed. But sitting here is just waiting for the real party to arrive. He looked over the scared, exhausted faces. Half of them look like they'd fold if a squirrel hissed at them. We can't fight an army with this.
David thought about the people who weren't around anymore.
First there was Levi. The animated armor turned him into a pretzel. One down.
Then the ogre. It smashed Robert and some girl. Three. It also pulverized Emergency Exit, the guy who was leading the charge to get the hell out of the clearing. Four. Then it just scooped up four others and left. So that's four dead and four kidnapped.
The hobs. Their first squad grabbed a couple. Their second team took two more. Another four for the collection.
Then they shot metal-head dead.
Three people ran into the woods and never came back. Missing. In this place, missing means dead until proven otherwise.
Chloe, the healer, was captured, netted—but she’s back; I can see her in the wreckage, just sitting there. Chloe had a skill that made her critical to keeping the others alive, and David had put in a lot of effort to keeping her with them.
That left fourteen people by the wreckage. They'd lost half. With 3 missing and 8 captured.
Better to just write them off as dead than kid myself that they’re having a grand old time in the monster woods. Thinking the missing ones were alive was a good way to get your throat cut by optimism. If they did survive and show up again, it would be a free bonus. They’d probably be useful if they lasted out there alone—hard to kill. If they didn’t? It wasn’t a loss.
"We go," David said, his voice cutting through Harris's next point. "We all go. Right now. We hunt. We level up. Two groups of seven sticking close. The zombies," he gestured to the silent undead forms, "go with both groups. Their job is to keep the weak ones alive long enough to stick something with a pointy end. The numbers will help if we run into anything insane. He scanned the crowd, his gaze flat. I don't care if you've got a walking stick or a pacifier. You find something weaker than you, and you kill it. That's the deal. "That's the deal."
Harris looked startled, then relieved. Evans's face was a mask of conflict, the marshal in him wrestling with the survivor. He finally gave a tight, grim nod. "Alright. We mobilize. Now."
Good, David thought as people started scrambling, grabbing makeshift weapons, their arguments forgotten in the face of a direct order. No more sitting around waiting to die. If you're breathing, you're fighting. Even if you're terrible at it. He watched them prepare, a grim parade of survivors, scared tourists and shambling corpses.
Let's see if we can make this work.