Dawn caught Stephan an awkward distance away—too near for him to grab some useful sleep, too far for him to simply climb the wall and observe the sort of misery the night had visited upon the attackers. Just like the ill-defined gray hour before sunrise, Cliffort’s losses were both a tragedy and a blessing. A bitter blessing, if such a thing existed.
A tragedy, for over two hundred and fifty people had died, sixty of whom were soldiers and guards on duty. A stroke of luck bordering on a miracle, for only two hundred and fifty people had died when the warlock had raised thousands of undead.
Stephan climbed into one of the wall towers. The chamber stank of damp wool, smoke, and old sweat. A small fire crackled in a brazier at the center, and the soldiers, huddled on benches around it, made room for him. His uniform was soaked through. Mud of the trampled graveyards clung to his boots. The fire’s warmth did him a lot of good, heat seeping into his bones. He didn’t even mind the smell.
“Sir,” Anita found him just as steam slowly started rising from his clothes.
She saluted sharply before beginning her report, starting with the obvious while the soldiers shuffled out, realizing too late who the grimy soldier was.
“The enemy attempted to attack us under the cover of darkness. Ernest ran into an army of conscripts when he went out to attempt his raid. They clashed, his men killed a dozen or two before returning and sounding the alarm. We fired three volleys from our trebuchets blindly. At first, some attackers screamed to charge while others called for a retreat. By the fourth volley, the screams and shouting stopped, and we decided to conserve stone.”
Stephan glanced up at her face and saw fatigue in her eyes, yet she stood straight like a rod. He nodded gravely, then filled her in on the battles in the city.
He stuck to the facts, not mentioning the grueling experience of fighting an endless tide of corpses while hands reached out of the ground to join them. And yet he failed to tell her everything before Silas arrived at the tower.
“How did this happen?” Stephan asked the Priest plainly, too tired to think. “How did a single warlock raise so many undead, or are there more of them causing havoc?”
Stephan didn’t know which scared him more. The warlock he and the Knights had executed was around level forty, and he commanded an army of the dead. Judging by what little he knew about warlocks, the one who had raised the dead of Cliffort must have been at least level sixty.
“They used a conduit to deliver their magic directly into the graves,” Silas spoke slowly, weighing his words carefully. “There are no signs of magic on the surface, but the upturned soil revealed traces of spirit. It’s hard to make definite claims for all the graveyards, but the ones belonging to the three temples saw about a quarter of the dead rise. Otherwise, things would have been worse. Another small grace was that we consecrate ossuaries weekly when we sing praises to the dead, so none may rise within them. Had we been lax, skeletal abominations would have flooded us. And that really would have been the end of Cliffort.”
Stephan’s thoughts flowed like mud; the pressure on him was building up.
I can stop this. I will stop this.
“Lord Silas,” he didn’t bother hiding his fatigue. “You or someone else will take me around the graveyards and show me the graves in question. Would consecrating them stop the dead from rising?”
“I will guide you myself, Sir. As for consecration, it depends; magic is blocked by various mediums, even air. Six feet of earth,” he shook his head sluggishly, “I don’t believe consecration will help. Warlocks need to exhume the dead to raise them. This is the first time I’ve ever heard of one commanding the dead to rise from the earth itself, and it’s either a skill or a trick the warlock had discovered on his own. An art previously unknown or unrecorded.”
Even though he was drowsy, Stephan easily noticed another explanation; his experience healing various wounds coming to mind.
“Or all warlocks can do it, but nobody’s ever seen them. Or it costs too much spirit to do without extensive preparation.”
Stephan had personally witnessed a warlock setting up a complex seal to raise a massive boar, and there were probably dozens of other explanations, but Stephan’s eyelids were constantly trying to slide down and the edges of his vision blurring.
The struggle to stay awake consumed too much of his focus.
“How are the people handling it?” His mind slipped to a more practical topic. “Are they clearing the streets?”
“Rest assured, everyone is doing their share,” Silas said. “The soldiers are patrolling, searching for undead stragglers, but found none so far.”
Stephan blinked, and when he opened his eyes, light trickled into the tower through the narrow windows. Silas was gone, and Anita stood nearby, watching over him.
He rose and inclined his head toward her. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She then led the way out and stopped on the walkway, taking in the sight beyond. Stephan joined her, and one look made his lip twist. Much like Cliffort’s fallen, the broken bodies littering the field evoked mixed feelings.
At a glance, Stephan estimated their number at three hundred. Pitifully few, if three dead villages’ worth of people could ever be considered too few.
He sighed. While his rest had been short, a part of the haze had lifted from his mind.
“The warlock is playing us,” he said. “One side against the other so that he could gain as much profit as he can.”
Stephan looked out towards the enemy camps, and another notion struck him.
“How many do you think used last night to desert?” he asked Anita.
“Probably a couple hundred, Sir. Some will make it back home; others will get lost and either fall prey to bandits or join them.”
Stephan could see it. If The Art of War had a third, incomparably weaker player, a hidden individual, their goal wouldn’t be for either of the strong sides to win. No, they would want to draw out the conflict and inflict maximum damage.
More people would have died had they reached the walls. Stephan noted he should thank Ernest and publicly commend his bravery. Had he not stumbled upon the enemy, the warlock’s victory would have been even clearer.
Stephan stopped himself from asking: What next? He was the leader, and it was his call to make.
“We’ll have another meeting at noon. Please ensure everyone is notified. I’ll go get some rest.”
Right, I wanted to check the graveyards. He thought as he was halfway down the stairs. I’ll do it after the war council; head out for a walk with Silas and we can discuss whatever I come up with about the warlock in private.
He had nearly reached the castle when he realized someone was following him. He glanced back and saw Gawain watching him, three steps behind. Stephan smiled at the Knight.
“I’m so sleepy I didn’t notice you.”
“That just means I’m doing a great job,” Gawain flashed a pearly smile back.
Sadly, the first thing on Stephan’s mind was Margaret. How she poked fun at Gawain and how she died.
A lot of people died last night. The smile vanished. We need to come up with a way to make it impossible for the warlock to raise them as undead.
By the time Stephan reached the keep, his legs dragged and arms pulled him to the ground as if he were shackled to boulders. Still, he stood strong and straight, revealing not a hint of fatigue.
He was near his private quarters when, like a missile, Lacy hit him with all her weight, and they toppled to the floor together.
“Thank gods you’re all right,” she squeezed him hard.
“Lacy, everyone’s looking.” Not to mention he was grimy from the night’s fighting.
“Let them.” She held him tighter. “There were alarms, and people were screaming so loud we heard their cries here. Everyone was so tense after what happened to Sir Dorian.”
She broke into tears, and Stephan put his arms around her, damn with the mud and onlookers.
“I’m fine. Don’t worry, nothing’s going to happen to me.” You’re the one I’m worried about. He didn’t say it. He didn’t even dare think about it, fearing the worst.
“I need to grab a few hours’ sleep—”
“Not before breakfast!”
Stephan burst into laughter. The warlock was trying to get them all; to play them into killing each other for his own benefit, and Lacy was fixated on him not skipping a meal.
“Fine, Lacy. Let’s have breakfast together.”
She stood and bobbed her head, looking stern and serious, and Stephan realized she didn’t care about the world burning. That was his job. Hers was to keep him fed and healthy, a mission Silas had entrusted her with.
So, he followed her and ate, barely tasting the food. Even the cornbread tasted like nothing at all. He failed to sense the texture, despite its roughness being his favorite thing about cornbread.
Still, the cheese and smoked meat were good for him, and by the time he finished the meal, his eyes were once more thin slips of wakefulness.
He went to his bed and started snoring immediately.
In his dreams, he was once more in Brighthollow. The tiny town had a huge cemetery with tens of thousands of graves, and a figure in black robes haunted him under the moonlight. Stephan chased after him as the dead rose from their graves. Lady Clara grabbed his legs and tried to trip him; Margaret slashed at him with her sword.
Stephan fought them all, even Dorian, who as a zombie moved with supernatural primness. He ran or fought, but never saw more than a black outline of his enemy, no matter how desperately he chased.
“Stephan!” Lacy startled him awake.
He gazed at her with wide eyes. “You all right, Stephan?”
He slowed his breathing. “I’m fine, I’m fine.”
Yet a still sleeping part of his mind draped her in a black cloak.