Rüdiger floated ten meters above the ground, the elder spider in the midst of a web of twisting necromantic control threads. Liora’s clasped hand was stretched out toward him, attracting the threads, trying to wrestle control from him.

  The undead encircling the prisoners shambled and shivered as if their instructions were unclear.

  From below, Liora’s control web spread out stronger, brighter than that of Rüdiger’s. But it was obvious to Adarin—the thickness of her threads was brute force, overwhelming but clumsy. If she won here, the prisoners’ lives bent to her mercy; if she lost, the rebellion would ignite instantly.

  Other necromancers had dropped their threads. Some had gone to their knees, moaning as their control was ripped from their minds.

  The two thousand prisoners began stirring. Some were picking up weapons again. Others were furtively looking around. They were looking for an exit. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Do something. Otherwise, we have a rebellion on our hands.

  Adarin studied the rest of the scene. On the conquered market square fires were going out or consuming the remnants of supplies that hadn’t been secured by the musketeers. The cold morning air and the blue hour of the distant habitat lights would still provide some cover when they advanced on the forward operating bases.

  Distantly, Adarin saw Mathilda and a few elder necromancers studiously ignore the power struggle, etching runes into the dirt with mechanical precision—building the ritual circle as if nothing else existed. At least someone here is doing their fucking jobs.

  Liora and Rüdiger stared at each other. If looks could kill, this would be a suicide pact. Sweat ran down Liora’s face and she began panting as more and more threads converged on her, forming a star of dark magic in her hand. The threads twisted around her, finding their way to her necromantic cores from her control node in the hand. Given what he just did to the adventurers... what she’s doing... he’s right. She has enormous potential.

  Adarin reached out and felt what he expected: the coldness. The specter that was Yara. The specter that wanted Liora’s body. Why is she supporting this if she’s from my world? Senior Cadet Yara would’ve never saved prisoners. She was loyal.

  Adarin sighed. Very well, someone has to be the damned adult here.

  Adarin reached out to Rüdiger. ‘Rüdiger, you're losing this. I can knock her out cold to prevent this from going further. To prevent the prisoners…’

  ‘There is no need, Adarin. This is a great spectacle. Setting up a savior figure for our prisoners, and she has to learn her own lessons. I’m merely fulfilling my role here.’

  He heard the smirk—and shivered. ‘This... this is just a show. Oh.’

  Adarin cut through the noise—Liora on the table, trolls flanking, prisoners murmuring. One spark, one wrong move, and the mob would explode.

  Then Rüdiger gasped in the sky, touching his heart, and sank down several meters. He took a long breath in and shook himself.

  “This is not over.” Each word a statement. “This is your responsibility, Priestess. Take your new followers and ensure that they don’t fuck our plan up.”

  Rüdiger floated from the sky, lowering himself next to the ritual circle beside Archmage Mathilda.

  Liora slumped, sweat still dripping, but a smile cracked her pale face. “I… I won,” she whispered, as if saying it aloud would make it true.

  Bitter bile welled up in Adarin’s throat. You think you won, girl? You’re just another pawn Rüdiger moved across the board.

  The prisoners calmed down. Adarin heard several prayers to Mother Ishna, and the looks at Liora had changed. No longer was she the hostile warlord. She had protected them from the big, bad, scary wizard.

  It was all a lie. But he could at least appreciate the craftsmanship of the presentation. I need to watch out if I ever go against Rüdiger. He’s not just powerful—he is smart. Maybe too smart for his own good.

  Liora jumped down, seemed to want to touch Adarin, but thought better of it. ‘What... what next?’

  ‘The plan still stands. Our prisoner gave us the position of the most important forward operating base: the main market square. The town hall. You have to take it before the sun is up. Gather your undead.’

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Adarin spoke up louder. "Assault team leaders, gather your undead. Make sure the formations are being led by those wearing good uniforms."

  He looked around. “Strip the dead, re-outfit the living, and put the stolen uniforms on the zombies. Every corpse becomes another disguise.”

  He looked at Liora. "Make the prisoners help. They can at least be useful."

  Liora swallowed, but Adarin had spoken—so it happened, and with surprisingly little resistance. Beat them down. Defend them. Give them something to do. Good combo.

  Soon, Adarin was advancing down the main avenue of the city behind the cover of a column of now loyalty-adjusted Marholian and Seaguardian soldiers.

  A third of the way down the street, Liora walked beside him in an ill-fitting Seaguardian officer’s jacket—bloodied, torn across the back, barely holding together at the seams. Even from a distance, anyone with eyes could see the disguise wouldn’t stand close inspection. They advanced with over two hundred and fifty pikes in front of them, two hundred and fifty behind, and a hundred musketeers in their center. The undead trolls were at the back of the formation.

  Our heavy hammer, in case everything goes to shit as it usually does.

  Suddenly, Adarin heard an outcry at the front of the formation. What’s going on now?

  He scurried forward and Liora followed. The formation had halted its breakneck pace. A female necromancer Liora had worked with during the creation of the Hollow Ones stood looking between what she had found and the approaching commanders.

  “Sir Adarin. Lady Iskara. Priestess.” She shifted from foot to foot, then straightened up. “We found those two just playing in the street.”

  Two children, maybe five at most, babbled happily—tiny hands prodding at the arm of a zombie like it was some curious animal instead of a corpse. “They’re not afraid. What’s wrong with those kids, then?”

  Adarin spun around. Noises in the house behind him rose up slowly.

  “Come out. We have the kids and they will not be harmed. But you have to come out. Show yourself.” He heard a muffled conversation in the house but couldn’t make out the words. Then the frail grandmother, leaning on a cane, left the house.

  “Greetings,” she said. “Say... those lads with you don’t look too healthy. Is it some sort of sorcery?”

  Liora looked at her. “Milady, those are undead.”

  “Ha! I ain’t no milady. Born a peasant, proud and strong. Please give us the kids back. We’ll tell you everything you want to know.” Two musketeers walked up to them, both murmuring greetings and inclining their heads to the woman. The grandmother returned the smile politely.

  “At least you haven’t dragged the children off or stormed the house for the girls. Given the company we’ve suffered lately, that’s already a blessing.”

  Adarin swallowed. And I was about to feel bad for killing our allies...

  “We’ll do no such thing,” Adarin said aloud. “And if I hear of anything like that, find me. Tell one of the mages. I will see the perpetrators punished.” He made a wide gesture. “With extreme prejudice.”

  One of the musketeers—Adarin recognized him as one of the guards of the war council—shivered. Yes. You’ve seen what I did to our prisoner. Good. If the rumors spread that we’ll hopefully protect some people... He refocused on the grandmother. “If you wouldn’t mind, could you tell us about the situation in the city?”

  “Situation in the city? Ah. It’s been shit ever since the green filth came in.” She spat a yellow ball of phlegm onto the ground. “And now it’s war this, war that. Only we suffer. Me sons—the elder ones—been drawn into the militia by the orcs, and then they rounded up everyone else. Holding them hostage, they are, so the citadel doesn’t get conquered.”

  A shard of flint entered her voice and her eyes grew hard. “If that’s the price they have to pay to see the green bastards finally dead, so be it.”

  Liora bowed her head. “Thank you for sharing that with us.”

  The kids scurried over and grabbed the hem of the grandma’s robe. Her eyes grew soft, then hard. “What did I say about running out of the house? You both will get a spanking for this.”

  The kids whined, but the grandma’s hands shot forward quickly, grabbing their wrists.

  “Good luck killing the greens,” she said, scurrying back into the house and locking the door. Appreciates us enough to talk. Distrusts us enough to bolt the door. Sensible woman.

  In silence, their party moved on down the street.

  Soon they reached the marketplace, and a lookout waved to them. Two mages whispered a spell, and the eyes of the lookouts grew dazed. They said nothing as the undead horde marched past them. Two musketeers detached and—with quick and practiced stabs to the throat—bled them out, preserving their bodies optimally to be revived.

  Adarin saw that process starting right as he was leaving. Bleed them out like pigs. Use them to kill their allies. Simple. Efficient.

  A small detachment of the most presentable musketeers—Liora among them—with backing from some of the better-looking undead, marched forward. Two men and one woman left the town hall.

  Adarin assessed the market square: a large fountain with banged-up statues, barricades keeping the main road, manned by soldiers tired in the morning hours, huddled up to campfires. The light band was rising over the horizon, and details became more visible—but they had made it in time.

  The three officers stepped forward, and Liora saluted in the Marholian fashion—holding her arm at a right angle and stretching the fist up in parallel to her head—until it was returned.

  Then the oldest of the soldiers cleared his throat. “Senior Lieutenant... the state of your uniform—”

  But before he could continue, the woman frowned. “What is the meaning of this? We were not expecting reinforcements. And the sounds of battle at the gates... Has the assault already been repelled?”

  But the senior sergeant completing the trio narrowed his eyes. He took a deep breath.

  “Something smells.”

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  by SneakyFrog

  David died, broken in more than one way.

  Come and see how exactly the abyss might stare back.