North of Monastery Hill
Light footfalls crossed the grassy plain as Gemma, the Saint's confidante, ran through the night. After two days of hiding in the secret tunnel, she had finally cleared the Monastery grounds and the hill, then slipped past the Lord's encirclement by vaulting a lightly guarded section where barbed wire and wooden fences stretched across the slope.
By now, she had already passed the second wooded stretch. She had gone far enough that the Monastery hill no longer showed against the horizon.
Ahead lay only open plains, broken by farms and orchards she took care to avoid.
Yet there was no sense of safety. An eerie dread followed.
No matter how often she looked back, she found nothing in the dark. No rider. No torch. No stalking shape. Yet the feeling stayed with her, cold and foreboding.
There was haste in her steps, and not without reason. Despite not knowing directly, she already knew that she was the last one left. The Saint was dead. Her brothers and sisters had likely lost the fight as well.
Although it was hard to believe that unawakened humans of impure blood could kill them, Gemma trusted her instinct. That was why the Saint had chosen her over the rest. Gemma was cool-headed and calculating. Even with power at her fingertips, she hid it well.
Clutching the wooden scabbard of the long blade, she fled everything she had known, moving through the tall grass and heading north, determined to escape the Black Lord’s domain. To do that, she would have to find her way to the Twin Cities of Lubina, likely a week’s journey on foot, perhaps longer even at her current pace. Once there, she would somehow have to slip inside, where the high walls should deter even the Black Lord’s Hunters.
Either within the city or perhaps somewhere north of it across the river, she would find a place to hide while slowly continuing the Saint’s research.
After all, it would be a waste for all the Saint had done to go to waste.
For that to happen, she needed to find a suitable source of blood and purify it. Young children would be perfect. Without the Great Gemstone, it would take longer, but it was still doable. She knew the technique well, and there was no doubt about her ability. With stores of pure blood, she would grow even stronger.
And when there was enough, the phylactery she carried could finally be released.
She would be with her Mentor, Mother, Saint again. Yet she would not dare bring her back into the world without enough pure blood for her to take.
Somehow, all that thinking made her lips curl without her noticing. She did not care deeply for her brothers and sisters. To Gemma, their absence only made things better. She would no longer have to share her Mother’s love with anyone else.
The Monastery was her Mother’s work, but hers had only just begun.
Thus, she ran with a speed that could easily match a horse across the plains. With the strength dwelling within her, Gemma felt she had the stamina to keep crossing the open land like this. Nor was her mind idle. It was already spinning lies. With her wits and the fine clothes hidden beneath her cloak, she had more than enough to pass herself off and draw men in if she needed to.
Still, after many hours, she had not expected something so minor to slow her down. Too much heat was building in her body. She rarely made journeys this long and now regretted not bringing more waterskins. Before leaving the hill, she had come across a narrow stream and drunk her fill, but she was already out of water again.
The feeling of being watched struck her so suddenly that she dropped at once, hiding in the tall grass.
Crouched low among the stalks, Gemma searched the dark with both eyes and ears, yet still found nothing.
But it had happened too many times, and she decided to hide for a short while, both to watch and to let her body cool down. When nothing came of it again, she began to distrust her own instincts.
Then a thought occurred to her. What if the feeling of being watched was real, not because something meant to strike her, but because it meant to stall her, to slow her down?
Gemma paused for a moment, tasting the last drop of water from her waterskin. Finding nothing on the darkened plains, she moved again, at first carefully and slowly, before building up speed once more.
Throughout the night, she felt that sensation several more times and reacted the same way each time. On every occasion, she found nothing. She began to dismiss it as a fit of fear. There seemed to be no other reason for it. She simply concluded that the loss had shaken her more deeply than she wished to admit, and that it was surfacing in sudden bursts of panic over nothing.
As the wind began to pick up, marking the approach of dawn, she started looking for a place to hide.
While the sun did not harm her, she needed rest. Somehow, despite all her enhanced physique, the sharpness of her mind still had its limits.
It would take years before she could be like her Saint Mother, able to remain active day and night without sleep.
Thus Gemma ran on, searching for an empty barn to hide in. She came upon a nearby farmstead, but it was occupied. So she pressed on and soon saw another wooded stretch ahead. Then she found what looked to be an orchard and left the tall grass behind. The orchard was overgrown with wild grass and looked abandoned, likely because of the war. She cared little for the reason.
Looking around for nearby buildings, she found several.
From the beaten path, she spotted the main house. It looked abandoned, with its door ajar, broken windows, and tall grass creeping up around it. Yet her attention was drawn more to the sound of a small stream running from the wooded ground behind it. She went there and risked a drink, and it was deeply refreshing. Still finding no sign of anyone around her, she refilled her waterskin.
With her thirst quenched, she walked to one of the nearest buildings. It was dilapidated, but the roof was still whole. Not bothering with the door, since that would leave signs of entry, she jumped to the second floor and slipped in through the window. Inside, she found nothing but rotten, moldy hay. There in the shadows, she peered outside.
It was quiet, and sunrise was beginning to break.
She kept watch for nearly an hour, but there was nothing except the chirping of birds and the hum of insects. With the sun stinging her weary eyes, exhaustion slowly caught up with her, and Gemma closed them.
High above, a hawk circled the orchard in silence before gliding north to perch in the wooded stretch.
...
As the sun rose steadily, two men and one animal approached the abandoned orchard from the south, moving at an easy pace, without haste in their steps. Dew still clung to the wild grass, and the morning light spread cold and pale across the neglected ground. No sound stirred except the chirping of birds.
At the edge of the orchard, the older man said, “In the first two hours of sleep, anyone, even a young lich, will sleep like a rock.”
“We do not know that yet. Could be a wraith or something else,” the younger man, Arnaut, replied, more cautious.
“The hawk with us is sharp and wise,” the older man said.
Arnaut didn't say a word and veered off the beaten path, heading north toward the wooded area. The older man and the lone animal waited for several moments before making straight for the suspected building.
The older man was the Hunter Guild Leader, and the animal with him was a special duck wearing a metal helmet. Though old, the man still walked with sure steps. He took a rope from the duck’s saddlebag, one fitted with an iron grappling hook, and draped it over his right shoulder.
Stopping in front of the door, he did not bother with stealth. He cleared his throat loudly, but got no response. He tried again, and still there was none.
He turned to the duck and found it already waiting for his gaze. “Well, meister Duck, she’s probably just too sleepy.”
The duck readily bobbed its head and massive beak in agreement.
The Guild Leader stepped up to the door and knocked twice. “Excuse us, we have an appointment with you. Would you be so kind as to come out and meet us?”
Still, there was no response, not even the faintest rustle.
With a grin, the Guild Leader turned to the duck and said, “I hate to barge in. Can you help?”
The duck drew in a deep breath, its broad chest swelling, and then erupted in a furious, “HONK!”
The door, its hinges, and the window shutters rattled. Even the timber frame and the roof seemed to tremble. At last, there came a sudden, panicked rustling from inside.
“My apologies for the disturbance, but we do have an appointment. Could you spare us the trouble and come out to meet us?”
Then, suddenly, the sounds from inside died away.
The Guild Leader added firmly, “I wish to end this without drawing blades. A former human like you should be able to converse in a civilized way.”
Instead of an answer, the Guild Leader sensed a spell forming around and within the building. Calmly, he gave the duck’s reins a gentle pull and stepped several paces back, neatly avoiding its area of effect. Then he undid his thick cloak and draped it over the duck, covering its chest while letting the hem trail low.
Fine bronze wires had been sewn into the cloth, running from the shoulders down through its length to the weighted edge, enough to blunt the worst of a lightning-based spell.
Feeling a sharp gaze on him, he looked up and saw something lurking in the shadows.
The man turned to the duck as he prepared a countermeasure and said, “Meister duck, do not give chase if she runs. Avoid it entirely. Just wait for me, or find Arnaut if I take too long.”
Without waiting for the duck’s reaction, he bent his legs and jumped to the second floor, entering where the lich had likely gone in. He had barely turned when a longsword flashed toward him. Calmly, he snapped up the grappling hook. Iron struck steel with a hard clank as he caught the blade on the hook.
The young lich tried to wrench it back, but he had already twisted the iron claws so they snagged near the tip.
“It seems there’s no reasoning with you,” the old man said.
The young lich gritted her teeth and abandoned the long blade, then jumped into the open space and landed on the ground floor.
In one motion, he seized the sword and drove it down into the wooden floor, where it quivered upright for a moment. Then he jumped down as well, landing a short distance from the lich.
“I got you now!” the lich cried.
[Static Shock]
A white blast momentarily swallowed the building, and a thunderclap cracked within it. But the old man simply stood and watched as the young lich shrieked in pain. Her porcelain-white skin, harder than a human’s, blackened in places and split with burns. She tried to move, but her limbs failed her. Before she realized it, ropes were already cinching tight around her.
The old Hunter held her fast.
Struggling against the ropes, breathless, she demanded, “Why doesn’t my spell work? What did you do?”
“You fail to understand its basic principle,” he said, keeping his aura so even lightning would sooner jump to her than to him. “Now answer me. What is your name, and where is the Saint’s phylactery?”
She refused to answer. That only made the man tighten the ropes harder.
He felt her preparing another spell, one meant to strengthen the body.
[Serpent’s Strength]
The old man simply snorted as he watched the young lich struggle against the ropes. After a moment, he yanked her closer, leaned in, and whispered, “Knowing the spell is only a small part of it.”
With that, he covered one of her delicate-looking hands with his own rough one, and even with gentle pressure, he cracked the fingers and bones within it. It earned him a frightened look from the lich. For all her power, healing bones still took a long time.
“Do you now understand the gap between our strength, lich?”
She quickly nodded, fearful and in pain.
“Now answer me—”
“M-my name is Gemma. I’m the Saint’s confidante.”
“Are you alone?” He released his grip on her hand, letting her recover.
“It’s only me.”
“The Saint’s phylactery?”
She seemed hesitant, but said, “If I gave it to you, would you let me live?”
To that, the old man said, “Do you realize what you are right now?”
That seemed to stupefy Gemma. “I am... human.”
“Tell me, Gemma, can a human store her soul in an object and, when she dies, be reborn from it?”
She could not answer.
“Do you think drinking blood is normal?”
Gemma was confused by the question. “Isn’t that what all strong people do?”
“Certainly not.” His voice grew cold. “You’re a healer. You should be educated. What kind of fell creature needs blood and stores its soul in a hollowed yet sealed object?”
Her eyes darted as she searched her memory, then recalled a creature from the yellowing pages of the Book of Fell Beasts, ghastly, serpent-skinned, and commanding the undead. She could hardly believe it, yet it all fit. That realization made her look down at her own skin and see how much it resembled scales.
“You did not realize it, but you are a fell creature. The Saint is the mother of the brood."
“No, it cannot be,” she snapped. “We are awakened beings.”
“The Ancients’ blood inside you did not awaken. It corrupted, turning you into something neither human, nor half-elf, nor Grand Progenitor. You are the very definition of a fell creature.”
“No!” she shrieked in panic. The truth, and the Saint’s betrayal of her, cut deeper than her broken fingers and burned flesh. But she found her voice. “What proof do you have?”
“Did you not see the undead the Saint unleashed?”
Her eyes moved rapidly. “It is what we have. We were cornered.”
“You truly believed a healer could raise and command corpses by the thousands?” he said, forcing her to look deeper within herself.
Gemma had no answer, and the old man let out a long sigh.
“It is not the end for you. I can feel that most of your soul remains within you. Have you made a phylactery of your own?”
His question made her narrow her eyes. “I have not. It would take years before I was ready for the ritual, even with the Saint’s help.”
“Has she never told you the price of making one?”
“The price?” Gemma frowned in suspicion. “There is no price. You speak of it as though it were some purchase.”
“Heinous acts of murder are needed to create it,” he said bluntly. “Dozens, through unspeakable cruelty.”
“Impossible,” she retorted at once.
“Think back. When the Saint awakened, as you claim, how many deaths occurred?”
Gemma was stunned. Then she recalled flashes of blood flowing over the altar, and herself taking part with a gleeful smile. She shuddered. “I... I see myself doing it. But I... I wasn’t in control.”
“You are her servant. She had power over your mind. But now she is dead. Her hold has weakened. That is why I gave you a chance.”
She met his eyes.
“Redeem yourself," the old Hunter said firmly as if a command.
“You’re not going to kill me...?” Her tone betrayed her surprise.
“I save who I can, and hopefully you have not yet crossed too far. That would mean your only crime so far is staying with the lich.”
“Then what will happen to me?” she asked, holding her broken hand.
The old man’s expression softened. “Tell me. Do you have a reason to live?”
Gemma searched herself, but did not truly know, so she shook her head.
“You are a healer, are you not? Why do you want it?”
Memories began to stir within her. She recalled the hardship of life with her poor family and her brother dying before her eyes. Her own eyes turned moist. “I want to help my parents. To keep others from suffering...”
“Lich or not, you would be welcomed among our ranks as a healer.”
“We?” she asked. “The Hunters?”
“Your new home would be the Ancient Forest. For as long as you draw breath, you will help us fight creatures worse than the Saint. In time, you might come to call us family. Others may even find a way to help you reclaim some of your humanity.”
“A forest? Then it is not freedom,” Gemma muttered weakly, a pout slipping onto her lips.
The old man snorted without loosening the rope. “It is a vast forest, with villages and towns within it. You will find enough there to keep boredom away.”
“And the price for this is betraying the Saint?”
He looked at her and said nothing, because she already knew.
Letting out a sharp sigh, Gemma said, “It’s the sword. Her soul resides in it.”
The old man skillfully cast the grappling hook upward, sending it over the wooden beam. He let it drop, then caught the line and gave it a hard pull. Gemma gasped as she was suddenly lifted halfway into the air. The rope dug into the patches of burned skin. She winced but endured it in silence.
With ease, the old man tied the rope off to another beam and climbed the ladder. He found the long sword and pulled it free.
“A clever design,” he muttered, acknowledging the Saint’s cunning.
Liches in the records hid their souls in hollowed gems, small enough to be worn as amulets or set into jewelry, so that even if one was defeated, the magical gem might pass unnoticed to another person. From there, the lich could slowly weaken its bearer and bend them to its will until it gathered enough strength to be reborn. But a sword was even better. A good sword would always find its way to blood, and through it, the lich would grow stronger and return faster.
He jumped back down, lowered Gemma to the floor, and headed for the door.
Outside, the helmeted duck greeted them, startling Gemma. “I-it’s going to attack me.”
“No, he’s not. Meister Duck is very smart.”
“Honk, honk,” the duck replied calmly, sounding amused.
Once they were outside, Gemma saw him holding the longsword and asked, as she poured what little magic she could still control into her broken fingers and injured skin, “How do you plan to destroy it?”
“What do the books tell you?” he asked, sounding more like a mentor than a captor.
“That simply breaking one will only unleash the soul, and it will seek out another hollow place to reside in,” she recited.
“Correct. The surest way is to cast it into a river or the sea, where the soul will eventually starve and destroy itself.”
As one of their kind, the thought made Gemma shudder.
“Remember that if you ever think of becoming a full lich. Power always comes at a price. There will be no Ancients waiting for you on your last day under the sun if you corrupt your soul.”
“I know. I just thought... what are you going to feed me?” She changed the subject.
He glanced and said, “You will take deer blood and mine.”
Watching the lines in his old face, Gemma decided to risk it. “Can I ask for someone younger?”
The old man laughed. “You will have to ask them yourself.” Then he walked to a nearby boulder and laid the long sword across it.
Gemma recoiled in alarm. “Wait, wait, what do you want to do with it?”
“Destroying it.” He raised his heavy, single-edged blade high and brought it down with thunderous speed and force. The blow struck hard enough to throw sparks from the steel. Metal rang when the sword snapped with a sharp, bitter crack, while stone dust shook loose from the boulder.
“No!” Gemma shrieked, feeling the Saint’s essence break free. “She’s out. She knows what I just did.”
“Fear not,” the old man said. “For I have meister Duck with me.”
“The duck? What can it do? Eat a soul?” Gemma blurted in panic as the Saint’s voice began whispering in her ears again.
Then, suddenly, the whispering turned into shrieks. The soul panicked. It was being dragged away. It was dying.
Gemma’s eyes widened. For the first time in a long while, her head felt clear. No voices. No haze. No presence. She blinked, almost unsettled by the sudden clarity. Then flashes of herself drinking fresh blood rose before her, and she doubled over and vomited.
The old man pulled a piece of worn canvas from Meister Duck’s saddlebag and wrapped the broken sword in it. He did not truly need to. He could already feel that the Saint’s soul was gone. The old records had spoken true. The method worked. Even so, the object would need to be studied by his Guild.
He then crouched beside Gemma and undid the ties. “Are you all right?”
“I heard her screaming, and then it was all gone,” Gemma said, shaken. “What did you do?”
The old man smiled. “As I told you, I have meister duck. Or more correctly, madam duck.”
The duck bobbed its helmeted head proudly.
“No, no, seriously. What did you do?” Gemma insisted.
The old man did not answer directly. He cast a glance at the sky, then started walking. “It’s a story for the road. Best if we start early.”
Driven by curiosity and by fear that the Saint might appear and harm her, Gemma followed the old man. She kept her cloak tight around herself, hiding her body while her skin slowly healed from the spell that had betrayed her. The sun climbed higher as the group headed northwest along the beaten path.
***
Campia Manor
It was noon on the third day after the Monastery’s fall. The manor house was not even a mansion. Aside from functional chambers like the kitchen and larder, it had only a hall that could fit a dozen men, along with a smaller living chamber for the family. It didn't even have a study. With the functional chambers being used by Mother Arryn and Gilly, Audrey used the hall for her small council, which consisted only of Lady Tanya, Squire Margo, the scribes, the local bailiff, and the guard captain.
Most of the House’s top retinue were still occupied with settling the issue of the Monastery’s capitulation. They had even sent Lord Robert of White Lake together with Dame Daniella to assist with the aftermath, as no one had expected they would be dealing with such a crisis.
They had expected fanatics, not an army of undead.
Currently, while they had won the war, they also needed to win the populace. As the news spread far and wide, the whole domain was in uproar over undead and liches in the Monastery. However, such news would be easy for the remaining fanatics to twist into their own narrative. For that reason, Audrey had allowed the Shogun Council in Canardia to summon back Omin, who had arrived at Ornietia not even a week ago. They needed his expertise in this kind of subtle warfare.
“What is our strength around Campia?” Audrey asked after they had dealt with most of the day’s issues.
The guard captain readily answered, “The battalion led by Armiger Karl is shadowing us from a city away. His strength should be around four hundred. Half are mounted.”
Audrey nodded. Karl had originally been on patrol to keep order. Now that the Monastery threat had ended, he had a second duty: to keep the Lord safe if a large gathering of men formed near Campia.
The guard captain added, pointing at the map, “To the south, the garrison in Ornietia is ready to act should you wish it.”
Audrey turned to the bailiff. “Tell me about the parade again.”
“My Lady, the parade starts at the Monastery, then moves east and circles through the large cities in the south before turning west. As approved, it involves former Saint Candidates along with evidences.”
Drawing a sharp breath, Audrey could only hope it would be enough to convince the populace.
Next to her, Tanya muttered, “To think the undead are real.”
Audrey turned to her and replied in a gentle voice, “Yes, it shocked me too. If not for your brother, we would have lost a great number of men. And we likely could not have maintained our hold.”
Tanya nodded, though she was clearly still burdened with many thoughts and worries. She had heard about the battle and the duel. Like many others in the House, she felt they had nearly lost Lord Lansius. It had been too close and too unexpected. That made it all the more real.
Noticing that, Audrey added, “As the Hunter said, the fell creatures’ greatest ability is concealment, and they nearly caught us. But in the end, we won, and their threat was ended before it could truly begin.”
There were murmurs among the staff.
“What will happen?” Margo suddenly asked, voicing his rare curiosity. “Can the undead take power?”
“It has a name,” the old scribe offered. “Necrocracy. Rule by the dead.”
At that, the door suddenly swung open, and the Lord Shogun entered, now whispered of by some as the Lichbane, though he openly rejected the title, saying it was not his to claim.
“Apologies for interrupting,” he said, walking with visible difficulty, as if in pain, before taking the nearest seat and gesturing for them not to rise for him. “Any important news?”
“Rest easy. It has all been taken care of. You can read the records if you want,” Audrey replied.
The Lord settled into his chair with noticeable stiffness and asked in his still-hoarse voice, “Any audience?”
“Mostly locals, which the council and I have already handled,” Audrey said. “There is only one audience you might want to take.”
He and the council turned to her. “Who?”
“Sir Reginald,” Audrey revealed. “I thought you would want to meet him despite the situation.”
“Indeed,” he said with a nod, stirring the others’ curiosity. “I would meet him here before going south for wintering.”
“I’ve arranged it. He should be arriving soon,” Audrey said. Then she asked, “What are you going to discuss with him?”
The Lord wore a smile that hinted at a deeper scheme. “Zero taxation.”
The hall fell into stunned silence.
***
PS: Another big chapter, just over 4.5k words!
So, more magic and duck stuff. Also, Lansius and Reginald are now thinking up an absurd tax scheme. And no, this tax part is not fantasy. It is actually based on history, and it worked for almost a century.🤗
Lastly, the chapter picture features the silver airship. I spent too much time editing it, but AI still cannot really handle propellers. So please imagine it having a basic wooden propeller in the open rather than an enclosed one.😅
A bit of history:
The airship shape is based on the USS Macon, a US Navy Akron-class airship from the 1930s. The original one (much larger in size) was designed with compartments for 5 reconnaissance or fighter aircraft. In other words, it was an airborne aircraft carrier.😱
It could launch and also retrieve aircraft using this mechanism.
I hope this picture helps put the scale of this beast into perspective. These things were truly huge and are now mostly forgotten history. I hope you found this bit of history interesting.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Akron-class_airship
As always, gratitude for supporting Horizon of War! 💎💖🦆