adversary launched his attack. With a swift movement, he parried the youth's thrust. His slash was swift and precise. The young robber fell to the yellowing autumn grass. Scarlet blood gushed from his severed arteries. Writhing in agony, he bulged at the inconspicuous hooded figure who had dealt the blow that would end his life. The hood fell back slightly, revealing the stranger's face. He was utterly pale, with bags under his eyes, a sign of fatigue likely stemming from a long day's journey. The figure smiled, and his perfectly white fangs gleamed in the pale sunlight. Now he knew. The figure was a vampire. The robber's body gave a final spasm, then he departed for the afterlife. The vampire smiled.
"Yeah... That's what happens when you don't know who you're going to rob. They'll make an example of the bastards." "He muttered to himself.
A few more miles and I'll reach the village," he thought, and continued on, leaving the still-warm corpse in the middle of the road.
******************************************************************************************
The outlines of small, thatched-roof village huts slowly began to appear. They weren't particularly sturdy, as the local villagers often had to abandon the village to flee Undead raids. Despite this, the vampires enjoyed considerable respect among the human rulers, having cooperated for years in repelling the Horde's attacks. Unfortunately, as was usually the case, the peasants knew nothing of this cooperation and hated vampires as much as the other undead. He could expect respect after killing, for example, a few of the most cheerful braves. "
Screw respect. I'll only stop here to take care of business." I thought aloud, something I often did after long, lonely journeys. It took me a few minutes to reach the tavern, a hub of activity in a backwater like this. A scratched sign reading "The Fat Piglet" hung over the dilapidated door. "
Their little minds couldn't come up with anything more original, damn it," I growled.
I had to push the door harder, and only then did it open, creaking unmercifully.
Inside, it was just like any other inn. At the puke-stained tables, dirty peasants were guzzling cheap piss. A few were playing dice, and a fat prostitute was milling about. At the bar, stained with dried food, a haggard old man stared glumly at the bottom of a bottle. Simply put, it was an inn. Nothing more, nothing less. I confidently walked up to the bar.
"Do you have a clean one?" I asked the sleazy innkeeper.
He didn't answer, just glared at me.
I repeated the question, this time louder. The drunks must have heard it too, because a dead silence immediately fell over the room.
"Fuck off," the bartender finally managed, slamming his fat, hairy paw down on the counter. With a flick of my wrist, I deftly pulled a short, wide-bladed knife from my sleeve and pinned his hand where he'd struck.
"Aaaarghh!" he howled. There was a general commotion among the stools. The locals debated whether to defend their own people or simply ignore the situation. They chose the latter, and it was a good thing, because I didn't want to leave a trail of corpses behind them.
A thin trickle of blood ran down the bar. I stared at it for a moment, pretending I couldn't hear the fat man's pleas. Only when it became bothersome did I ask again,
"Do you have a clean one?"
"Yes! Yes! I'll give you one on the house, just let me out." His pleas sounded more like the squeal of a pig.
Slowly, severing a few extra tissues in the process, I removed the blade from his hand. Weeping, he ran to the tavern for a bottle. He returned with a bottle of the finest Arkhian vodka. Hehe, maybe I'm just lucky? I took the bottle with a seemingly indifferent expression, suppressing a fit of laughter. Only then did I notice what I was looking for. In a shadowy corner of the room sat a short man in a tattered hood and the dangling remnants of what had once been a cloak. I approached him.
"Hello, Shemnon. I'm waiting here, and you're messing around with the peasants, eh?" he said, not looking away from his half-empty mug. "
Hello, Eric. As grumpy as usual?" I said, grinning wickedly
. There was a moment of awkward silence, then we both suddenly burst out laughing.
"Would you like a drink?" I asked.
"What else?"
I pulled the captured bottle from my breast pocket and took a huge swig from the neck. Eryk took a canteen from his many pockets and poured himself a portion of firewater. From another hidden pocket, he pulled a small pouch of herbs, took a pinch of the mysterious spice, and poured it into the canteen.
"What's that?" I asked him. "
Starflower. It makes vodka taste better and twice as strong. It's generally used to cure goats," he said, and I burst out laughing.
*********************************************************************************************
We chatted frivolously for a few more minutes, but it was time for business.
"So what brings you here?" I asked
. "I don't know what the client wants, but I think it's the usual dead to kill."
"Strange." "
I thought that was normal in these parts.
" "Yes, but the Inquisition recently decimated these areas.
" "Hmm?"
"Haven't you heard anything about that?"
"I haven't been keeping up with the latest news lately. Besides, there are more and more attacks on royal messengers. Tell me about the Inquisitor's intervention."
"Oh, so the Church sent an inspection here. After a while, they discovered some necromantic activity. They sent de Jaqelie as the chief inquisitor for these areas...
" "De Jaqelie?? That piglet!?" Erik interrupted.
"Yes, unfortunately. Too rational. The stakes burned for seven days and seven nights before they found the necromancer's hideout. Without further ado, they quietly dispatched him in the basement of the count's castle. In the morning, at dawn, after the execution, they left for the Inquisitor's headquarters. Knowing how things are, their spies are constantly hanging around here. I'm surprised I haven't noticed any yet.
" "So that's it. But I still don't know why the Guild sent me here. I can only guess.
" "Hmm? Is there something I'm missing?"
The Mercenary Guild, to which Erik belonged, was the most renowned organization of its kind in the entire Kingdom. It accepted only the best. Of the ten applicants, one survived, while the rest fell along the way in various tests prepared by the Guild. Erik Her'Hamorn was a sharpshooter who specialized in exterminating the Horde, and he hated them. And he had good reason to. His brother, deceived by the Necromancers, joined them. They exploited him and transformed him into a lich in their experiments. Erik put an end to his suffering. That day, he volunteered for the Guild. He passed every test unscathed. He was twenty years old then. Now he's fifty, with dozens of scars and a wealth of experience behind him.
"I didn't want this assignment. There's a major war brewing in the east, and that's where I wanted to be. Unfortunately, my employer wanted only me, no one else. I don't know what's going on in this backwater yet, but if the Church is involved and someone very wealthy wants me here, then something's not right.
" "I think so too..." I said, scratching my chin thoughtfully.
***********************************************************************************************A richly dressed page entered the audience hall. Red tights contrasted with the blue and white tunic currently fashionable among the nobility.
"You have a guest, sir. Cardinal Volderiere has arrived," he announced
. "Let him in." The aged king replied in a tired voice.
"Yes, Your Highness
." The page silently opened the large door, decorated with a portal depicting battle scenes from the time when the Kingdom of Tarite was at the height of its glory, and left.
With a quick and decisive step, the cardinal strode in, dressed in the purple garb befitting priests of his rank. "
Greetings, Gorbere," he said, panting. "It's difficult to reach you here. Excessive security?"
"Greetings. What brought you here in person?" the ruler asked, ignoring Volderiere's question.
"I believe I've found a solution to your concern." I'm talking about the problems at Wilshire.
"So?
" "I've brought Her'Hamorn and Shemnon to the scene.
" "More clearly?" "
Eryk Her'Hamorn, a sharpshooter in the Mercenary Guild, a hammer against the Undead. The latter, Shemnon, a vampire, an excellent swordsman, also a mercenary, but not a member of the Guild. He's skilled in necromancy. I've used his services a few times privately, though I acted anonymously. This time I brought him there through Erik. I vouch for him.
" "And what solution will that be, man?"
"They're brilliant. I haven't told them the gist of the matter; that will encourage them to investigate. They might learn much more than our spies, which will allow us to proceed. "
The king smiled. His face was scarred, yet majestic.
"I don't know what you're planning, you cunning fox, but if it works, count on your reward," said Gorbere.
*** ...
"Fuck! Fuck these rural conditions." I was a regular visitor to such places, but somehow I never adapted to these "luxuries." After a moment of complaining about my pitiful state, I fell into a deep sleep, unbroken even by the sting of insect bites. My dream visions were no better than reality. Fiery pentagrams swirled before me, dozens of zombies, already rotting, often without heads, arms, or legs. I see death. Luminous reflections on the water, blood dripping from a wound on my forehead. I touch my head with my hand, and beneath it I feel an arrow embedded in my skull. Ripples appear on the water, droplets of blood spreading in the life-giving fluid. I collapsed to the ground, sobbing. Agony. Death. Suddenly, a change of scenery. I appear incorporeal above mountains, valleys, and rivers. I stare at it all in awe, admiration for the birds around me, for the beautiful yet imperfect world beneath me. I fly on like an eagle, full of pride and glory. A true moment of rapture. I descend, spotting a small speck against the green. It's Wilshire, the center of the county. I fly lower and lower. Wilshire is burning, living corpses slowly stalking the streets, driven by the power of Necromancy. Terror, pain. From around the corner of the palace, a ragged woman, covered in blood, runs screaming. Her hair, caked with blood in a dried crust, her face scarred by claws. It's a run of desperation, a fight for her life. A frantic run; a loss of strength. She's fallen; it's over, she's lost. More and more of the dead emerge from the buildings, drawn by the scent of life. They walk slowly, bloodlust in their eyes. She doesn't rise; she's clearly lost consciousness. They pounce on her, fighting among themselves for a piece of fresh, still-warm meat. With claws and teeth, they tear it to shreds with superhuman strength. Every scrap will be eaten, nothing will remain. I fall down and down. I can't stop. Wave after wave of fear rips through my being. I hit the ground. The end. Death.
***************************************************************************************************
The Cardinal headed for the palace exit. He was exceptionally pleased with himself. He trotted lightly across the stone floor of the hall. The hall was filled with statues of ancient kings in triumphant poses. He studied the oldest of them, the statue of Kirmort, founder of the Kingdom. A shadow flickered behind the adjacent statue, but Volderiere paid it no attention. Today, nothing could stop him. He took a few more steps, then suddenly fell with a thud. An arrow protruded from his neck. The Palace Guard reacted a moment later, but it was too late. The assassin vanished in the blink of an eye, before they even noticed the priest's fall.
***************************************************************************************
It's been a week since I arrived here. Despite what Erik said, I haven't noticed the slightest movement from the Horde. And that's even more strange than their abundance. Why? You might ask. Because the Undead hanging around here is an everyday occurrence, a routine. Perhaps it's the calm before the storm? I wasn't eager to do any work, and earning money by drinking at the inn suited me. The same dream has haunted me every night since I arrived. Every night, euphoria turns to pain. Could something really be happening here that even the ruler doesn't know about? Because if he did, he would have sent redoubled forces, wouldn't he? I don't know, but it's strange, to say the least. Suddenly, my friend interrupted my thoughts as he entered the room.
"Duty calls, mate. I'll finally have some fun," he grinned.
"Nooooo." "And I thought this was going to be a blissful night," I groaned with resignation. "Get
your ass moving, stop complaining," he growled.
I threw on a light chainmail shirt and strapped a long sword scabbard to my belt. Truth be told, I was completely covered in iron, but it was carefully hidden in the depths of my clothing. I just checked to make sure the chainmail shirt was well oiled, put on my traveling clothes, and left with Eryk, who was already prepared. He wore light leather armor, a well-worn bow and quiver on his back, and a short sword at his side. A small pistol crossbow with a whole assortment of bolts of various kinds was strapped to his belt. We slowly walked down to the bottom of the inn, where, unusually for this time of day, there was no one there, and it was slowly starting to get dark. News travels fast.
"That bad?
" "Apparently so." A large group of zombies, most importantly, under the command of, if you could even call it that, a lycanthrope.
"Damn," I muttered .
We briskly left the inn and headed toward the forest where the cemetery, our potential target, was located. A fairly wide, well-trodden path led deep into the forest. And probably dangerous, as the forest around the path was terribly overgrown with various bushes and ferns. Halfway there, we heard the moans of the dead. It's beginning.
"They're here," whispered Eryk.
"I can hear it," I said, and unsheathed my sword.
The zombies, contrary to appearances, were very fast on the attack and possessed superhuman strength. The only thing they lacked was intelligence. And even that lack was compensated by the presence of an intelligent representative of the Horde. We hadn't considered that.
"I hear you now," I said, and drew my sword from its sheath, just in time to impale a zombie that suddenly leaped from behind the reeds with an inhuman roar.
"Fuck! Ambush!" I screamed, and gutted the next one that lunged at me.
Despite his age, Eryk performed miracles with his short weapon. With a deft whirligig, he severed the heads of the first two, impaled the next on a blade, and kicked them back. His sword flew as if by magic, steadily slaughtering his opponents. Meanwhile, I slashed in step with him, and more corpses and limbs adorned the lush lawn. I quickly reared back and stabbed the attacking Undead in the chest. His blood spurted in a thick stream across my face. He gasped for a moment, then collapsed. Even as we cut down each opponent like a log, more and more appeared.
"Eryk, we're retreating! There are too many of them, damn it!" I gasped as Eryk decapitated another Undead. "
We can't retreat! We're surrounded!" he shouted in response. "
We have to break through!" "They're the least crowded there," I yelled, pointing to a branch of the path leading straight into the thicket. "
Let's go!"
We began running, weapons raised, in the indicated direction. The circle of dead around us was slowly closing in. If we didn't break through now, we would die. I pulled a small knife from my sleeve and threw it at the forehead of a zombie blocking our path. The dagger pierced exactly where I aimed, and the enemy's brains began to leak out of his ears after the impact. With a scream, we plunged into the ranks of the Undead, slashing left and right. We barely managed to keep up. One of them bit into my thigh, sending terrible spasms of pain through my lower body.
"Arrrghhh!" I groaned, "he hit my leg!"
I felt hot blood trickling down my legs, straight into my boot; the pain seemed unbearable. I ran, limping. Age had taken its toll on Her'Hamorn; now he was barely catching up with me, breathing heavily. One by one, they fell dead, and we were growing increasingly exhausted. Finally, we broke through the hordes of the undead, unsure what to do next.
*****************************************************************************************************
A council was underway in the count's chamber. The three commanders sat with the count, all in full armor. Swords, sabers, and armor gleamed intermittently in the warm light of the fireplace. All were well over forty, bearing numerous battle scars.
"Let's not even think about a frontal attack," began the man sitting on the left side of the table. "We won't break through this living wall..."
"Perhaps we should take them in handcuffs? Short raids with light cavalry, then surround them and let the knights advance?" asked the one on the right
. "No." Don't expect them to be easily boarded. At least five Necromancers lead this army, their "commanders" are liches and lycanthropes. We need the support of a larger army. How many men do we have on hand?" the one in the middle spoke up this time.
"About five hundred infantry, two hundred light cavalry, and two banners of fifty peasant knights of the Sire," the one on the left replied.
"Okay, so Nugget, do you think these troops can handle a group of fifteen hundred Undead?"
"Are there that many, Count? My men reported there are around fifty thousand," said the one on the right. "
Yes, fifty thousand are already near Wilshire. But a few miles away, more troops are approaching from the north in Hernystir."
Suddenly, the chamber door flew open, and a panting messenger ran into the hall. Sweat dripped down his face, and his clothes were caked in mud.
"Sir! Another army is approaching from the west. We don't know how many there are yet, but at least fifty thousand. It's a horde of ghouls, sir." He drawled with difficulty.
"Damn," Nugget cursed.
"Gentlemen. The situation is even worse than we thought. We won't make it without help. Messenger, you may leave, but tell the chamberlain to come here immediately," said the count, barely concealing his nervousness.
"Yes, sir." "He said and left.
A moment later, the chamberlain, a man of courtly attire, appeared in the chamber.
"Yes, Count?" he asked
. "Order to send several messengers to the counties of Ferny, Nerfield, and the king, asking for help. Tell them we can't handle an army of two thousand men on our own. Immediately!" he shouted.
"Yes, sir," the old man said, confused, as he left
. "Well then. We can't even engage them openly in the field. Hernystir, you will send light cavalry to keep them away from the castle as long as possible, while also making short raids to finish off any lone units they encounter. Order the townspeople to be armed; every additional weapon counts. We are waiting for outside help. A siege could break out, which would be our best option, but it must be delayed as long as possible. You, Nugget, prepare archers and infantry to repel the attacks. We have about half a day to prepare. Now go."
"Yes, Count," they said, and quickly left, their faces grim.
******************************************************************************************
We stood back to back, surrounded by the living dead, who, despite our efforts, easily caught us. Splattered with blood and exhausted, we waited for the moment they would pounce on us.
"It's better this way. We've gained some distance from them. Now I can use magic," I said.
"Fine. Just hurry with it, damn it!"
I nodded and began muttering incantations.
"Hameto ghando, mortus, khare…"
"Faster!" Eryk urged me, rightly so.
"Ghando hameto, khare, mortus!" I shouted the last verse of the dark mantra.
Corpses slowly emerged from the sodden earth, often rotten, sometimes just skeletons.
- Are you sure they will listen to you? - asked Her'Hamorn
- No
- Aha...
The skeletons and zombies I'd summoned, the entire group, turned to face me, or rather, what remained of them.
"On them!" I growled.
They obediently turned and descended in a wave of human remains upon our opponents. The others, disoriented, were getting a good beating until they received a clear command from the creature leading them. Now it was too late for them. I wanted to join the fight and try to break through the horde again, but using Necromancy exhausted me completely. I collapsed to the ground and leaned my back against the decrepit stump of some old tree.
"Shem, what's wrong with you?" my companion asked
. "Nothing, I need a moment to rest."
I then ordered the remnants of my little warlord to scatter and run in all directions, aiming to draw off the "evil" zombies. Surprisingly, they succeeded. Finally, of the group of roughly two hundred, only fifty remained. Every now and then, Eric would "draw" one of them off his bow, and I would use simple spells to debunk those that approached us. But even now, the undead were dangerous; the remnants could get close enough to attack. When my strength ebbed to the point where I couldn't cast the simplest recall spell, I stabbed them with my knives, disabling them. Suddenly, my ears picked up a familiar sound. Hmm... Was it the clatter of hooves?
*********************************************************************************************
From the Egyptian darkness of the forest, a column of armed horsemen, thirty strong, emerged.
"There they are!" one of them shouted
. "Hit, kill the corpse!" the others shouted unevenly, and a cavalcade charged at the attacking zombies. They were armed with long lances, and it took them only a moment to dispatch our tormentors. Blow after blow, they pierced the living dead, thinning out their already small group. Only when the chaos of battle had passed did they notice us, crouching in the fern fronds. Their leader stepped forward and rode toward us.
"Who are you?" he asked
. "Mercenaries, warrior. Don't fear us." I deliberately concealed our identities, unaware of his intentions.
"How on earth did you survive?" he asked in surprise.
"We were lucky
." "That's rare these days." After these words, he ordered us to get a horse, and we set off towards Wilshire Fortress.
It took us several hours to reach the castle, during which we had to fight our way through the fields of minor battles. We reached the gate, and the group leader dismounted. Immediately, the gates opened, and we rode into the castle courtyard, where armed inhabitants were thronged. We all dismounted, and Erik and I were taken to the field hospital.
The young nurses soon attended to us, tending to our wounds and bites. Exhausted after the night's fight, we immediately collapsed and fell asleep. The dream began to torment me again, and as you can see, it has a chance of coming true.
****************************************************************************************************** The sound of the door opening woke us. Our savior from yesterday entered the hospital room.
"Hello. How are you gentlemen?" he asked
. "Not bad." I replied. "And you, sir..."
"I'm Garwick. I wanted to know something about you, am I interrupting?"
"As I said, we're mercenaries; our task was to protect the village from the harassment of the Undead. I'm Shemnon, as you've probably noticed, a vampire, and my friend is..."
"Eric Her'Hamorn, a member of the Mercenary Guild," my companion finished
. "Who sent you here?"
"You know the Guild never reveals who the client is," said Eric.
"True, I forgot.
" "Now I have one question. What the hell is going on here!?" I asked.
"The Dead are preparing for an assault. As far as we know, the entire country is at war." He said sadly.
"But how!?
" "We don't know how powerful Necromancers could have created such an army. According to the king and the Church, it's beyond human capabilities...
" "How did the Inquisition react?
" "They're defending themselves, barely managing.
" "Is it that bad?
" "Unfortunately.
" "Give us weapons, we'll go defend the fortress. Do you have any mages here?" I asked.
"No, we don't.
" "I can help with something like that, I know a little about Necromancy.
" "So, go to the armory, get what you need, and wait.
" "No need. Our equipment is enough, just tell us where it is.
" "Ask the nurses about that; they were the ones who took care of you." I'm going, and you should slowly prepare for the next fight," he said as he left.
After our guest left, we got out of bed, dressed, and went to the Mother Superior to ask about our weapons. When we finally received them, we went to familiarize ourselves with the people and the castle, which took us a few hours
.
The count stood on the walls with his commanders. He was devastated that help wouldn't arrive. All the counts were busy defending their territories. Now the battle was shaping up to be far worse than expected. The liches began constructing siege engines, something they hadn't expected at all. Ballistae, catapults, and trebuchets were slowly being built around the castle. Ghouls, more intelligent than zombies, instructed by the liches, could now independently set up and operate the massive machines. The stench of rotting flesh emanating from the Undead was palpable everywhere.
"When will it begin?" asked Nugget
. "Soon," replied the count thoughtfully
. There was no point in saying anything more. The three leaders exchanged glances and dispersed to their regiments. The thick walls of the castle were lined with archers firing flaming arrows, swordsmen and halberdiers, mangonels hurling rubble, and ballistae. Two engineers stood above the gate, heating a cauldron of oil. As dusk fell, the assault began. The first stones fired from catapults and trebuchets rained down on the city, shattering walls and roofs. A wave of zombies crashed into the walls using siege ladders. Confusion reigned, as archers ignited successive hordes of Horde cannon fodder. Although most of the ladders were toppled before anything reached the castle, the infantrymen had plenty of work to do on the walls. The next wave was filled with ghouls, skilled in weapons and wearing armor, unlike zombies. The ghouls charged the gate, where they were met with an unpleasant surprise: several hundred hectoliters of boiling oil, which the engineers threw at them. The archers reacted immediately and ignited the oil, creating a veritable hell on earth. The undead groaned as they burned alive, uttering inhuman screams of pain. This lifted the defenders' spirits considerably. They repelled subsequent attacks with greater vigor, raising a great commotion and shouting battle cries. The first castle tower fell under siege fire, and dozens of men perished in the collapsing colossus. Mangonels rained down rubble, annihilating dozens at a time with a single shot, thinning out the enemy forces. However, the Horde had the numerical advantage; their army numbered around three thousand, not the two thousand the count had thought. The walls slowly crumbled under the constant fire, and the defenders barely held their ground under the onslaught of attacking zombies and ghouls. And soon the inevitable happened: the walls crumbled completely in many places, giving the attackers entrance. The zombies and ghouls burst into the castle courtyard, where dozens of pikemen blocking the passage, and archers stationed on the palace balconies and walls, awaited them. More and more undead troops ran towards the breaches in the wall under a hail of flaming arrows. It was getting worse.
************************************************************************************
We were hacking away at hordes of the dead on the walls, the stone floor littered with corpses of both Undead and our own. One lunged at me from behind, but one of my comrades warned me just in time, and with a powerful swing, I cut the assassin in half with a nasty crack. He only tried to hold back his steaming entrails, then split in half and died. Whenever I could, I devoured the Undead from a distance, avoiding direct combat. Eryk joined the archers, who admired his skills. He taught the younger ones to shoot accurately and quickly. He stood near me, among the dead archers. He killed with ferocity; his hatred will never fade, of that I am absolutely certain. I killed two more who had scaled the walls, piercing one with a well-aimed spear and calling the other back. More men fell, often becoming fodder for the ever-growing crowds of the Undead on the walls. Of the four Mangonels stationed on the towers, only half were operational; the other half had been destroyed by the relentlessly firing Undead machines. Now the worst lay ahead – the attack of the lich commanders, who would easily deal with whatever they encountered. Liches were beings transformed into what they are now, while still alive, not after death like zombies and ghouls. Their intellect increased, their strength became superhuman, and their eagle-eyed vision could see anything in the darkness. These were near-perfect creatures in terms of warfare, capable of many times greater destructiveness than their human rulers. They wielded two swords, one in each hand. An ordinary man couldn't lift one with both hands. The swords had blades approximately two meters long, crafted from the nearly indestructible metal mithril, mined in several places around the world. One such place is the Bay of Yrren, ruled by the Necromancer. One fundamental question – where do Taric Necromancers get mithril mined hundreds of miles away? Certainly not from Yrren, for the Taric Necromancers do not recognize the Yrren black hierarchy established by Jenova, ruler of that state on the bay. I interrupted my thoughts, alerted by the arrival of liches, additionally escorted by ghouls. So we have a problem. A Big Problem.
******************************************************************************************
There were over two hundred liches, and they rushed into the breaches in the walls. Archers unleashed a hail of arrows on them, but they only bounced off their mithril armor. The brave pikemen in the breaches stood no chance against the one-man armies that are the liches. The ghouls finished the job, and in a short time, the lich generals had breached the count's palace. The numerous palace guards were powerless, and the count's defenders were falling like flies. Before some of the troops could descend from the walls to defend their own lord, the Undead had captured the lord of Wilshire. The count was stabbed several times with swords and left to bleed to death. Wilshire Castle fell
...
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