Fortress Al-Mir

Arkk stood at the edge of the encampment, his eyes scanning the rows upon rows of soldiers assembled before him. They stood silently, their armor immaculately shined and the tabards in solid black with violet edges. Each bore the crest of Company Al-Mir on their chests, shields, and banners. Their faces were determined, showing no fear… or much of anything else. There was an eerie blank look to every one of them if looked at a little too close.

Savren did good work. The ritual circle powering the ten thousand illusory soldiers was massive and complex, buried deep beneath what would soon become a battlefield. It utilized practically every glowstone of ritual quality that Arkk had collected.

An illusory army would hardly be worth it normally. As soon as the enemy realized that they were illusions, they would simply march straight through. A particularly ignorant army might divert course or even stop entirely, not wanting to test the realistic blades the illusions held, but Arkk was guessing that the avatar wouldn’t be so easily fooled. One of those golden rays would slice through the illusions with ease. Even if the avatar couldn’t blast the entire army, one little revelation would cause the entire effect to become nothing more than a waste.

Except for one small detail.

Arkk paused before one of the imposing figures. It looked no different from the others. The fleshy face underneath the metal helmet bore a thin goatee, furrowed brows, and a thick scar over its right eye, just like every other soldier in the line. It stared straight ahead, eyes failing to track Arkk or anything else.

Reaching forward, Arkk’s hand passed beneath the illusion with only mild resistance. His fingers felt cold, hard bone beneath. A shiver ran through him as he pulled his hand back.

Not every illusion hid those hollow eye sockets and grinning skulls. He didn’t have enough undead to make up an army ten thousand strong. Not unless he was willing to desecrate bodies that he had already sworn off. Let the Evestani fight themselves, dead or alive. He wasn’t going to disturb the rest of anyone else.

Besides, having only half the army be an actual threat might even work to his advantage. The front five thousand, the ones most likely to eat a golden ray and be taken seriously by the enemy, were fully illusory. Get them to let their guard down. And then…

Arkk’s eyes trailed over the blade in the skeletal soldier’s hand. It looked real. Just like every other sword in the army. Arkk shied away from it. Just thinking about what he and Zullie had done to it made him uneasy.

“Everything is established. We should swiftly skedaddle before our adversary arrives.”

Arkk turned to find Savren walking through a line of soldiers without even flinching. It was a bit strange to watch. Even knowing they were fake and knowing which had skeletons hidden within, Arkk found himself moving around them as if they were solid. It just felt… strange not to.

They weren’t real people. Most of them had never been real people. But they looked real enough, at least from a cursory glance.

“Thank you, Savren,” Arkk said, looking back to the scarred face of the false soldier. “It is a bit late to ask, but I don’t suppose you have any hang-ups about this army, do you?”

“Regarding the use of necromancy? None. Rather, I reckon it’s not nearly enough. Shouldn’t we seek to shatter them to smithereens instead of simply poking and prodding them?”

Arkk turned to the warlock with a raised eyebrow. “You think this army, their swords, the buried alchemical explosives, the bombardment rituals we’ve set up, and your illusions are merely poking at them? I wouldn’t be surprised if this decimates them.”

“Or falls flat, felled by the golden fellow.”

“Or falls flat,” Arkk agreed. “Frankly, if that happens, I’m not sure what we’re going to do to stop them once they get to Elmshadow again. Last time, we used the territory magic of the tower, ambushes, surprise attacks, a bomb directly underneath the avatar’s feet, and Agnete and Priscilla. Either he is prepared for all that or he is the biggest idiot in the world and I doubt he is the latter.” Leaning back, Arkk looked up into the sky, squinting into the distance.

There was a shimmer, almost invisible had he not known what to look for.

“With the Eternal Empire along for the journey…”

Savren didn’t say anything for a long moment, looking off into the distance along with Arkk.

“I’m hoping the bombardment magic Zullie invented for Elmshadow can take that thing out. Otherwise… Otherwise, we might have to get the Prince to summon his demon to help us out. Nobody wants that.”

“Indeed,” Savren said. “Are you absolutely assured we shouldn’t seize the situation to trial our tactic against the avatar?”

Arkk slowly shook his head. That was something that had come up in the dozen meetings they had over this operation. “Sylvara is trying to improve it still, make it a little more versatile. If the avatar learns of its existence… Well, I would try to find ways to mitigate its effects or find countermeasures. We shouldn’t use it until we’re ready or pressed up against a wall.”

Both, perhaps.

At the moment, they would practically have to touch the avatar with the little doll-like object. This was a problem not only because it meant that they would have to get close but also because, not unlike the ice marble, it affected everyone else in the vicinity. The one carrying it needed to be rendered immune somehow.

Shaking his head, Arkk started back along the rows of soldiers. Savren swiftly followed along, not offering any further commentary on the subject. To avoid traveling in total silence, Arkk cleared his throat and asked, “Have you had any luck finding ways to remove your curse?”

“You’ve kept me busy beyond belief. There’s been no time to tend to my personal pursuits.”

“Ah.” Arkk winced. “Sorry about that. I…” Pausing, Arkk turned back to Savren. The warlock halted as well, fingers curling through the tip of his goatee. “Honestly, I didn’t really like you… at all when we first met.”

“Likewise,” Savren said with a dip of his head.

“But,” Arkk pressed on. “You’ve been one of the most reliable employees I’ve got. The war is unfortunate and takes priority. After, however, once things calm down—”

“If such an eventuality even exists…”

“If it ever happens, yes, feel free to ask me for any resources you might need. As long as you’re not trapping a village in some mind ritual again, I’ll give you all the support you need to get rid of your curse. Whether that means funds or books or assistants. I’ve practically got full access to the Cliff Academy’s library as it is and Sylvara and Vrox might be able to help with their access to the Abbey’s archives.”

Savren pressed his chapped lips together and dipped his head. “I appreciate your generous gesture.”

“Good.”

Pressing his lips together again, Savren spoke quietly. “Under your employ, I’ve had an edifying enterprise that hasn’t been the most trying tenure.”

“Careful,” Arkk said, tone flat. “You’ll hurt yourself trying to force a compliment like that.”

“You kidnapped me from a cozy cavern filled with creature comforts, coopted my conspirators, countermanded my command, and cast me in confining chains.”

“I didn’t put you in chains,” Arkk said with a frown.

“Metaphorical manacles, manipulating my methods through threats and terror.”

“I… might have threatened you a little. In fairness to me, you had a village effectively held hostage. And were those mines really that comfortable? Better than Fortress Al-Mir?”

“No,” Savren said slowly, looking like he didn’t want to admit it. “The meals metered out might marginally out-perform portions provided by my minions in the mines… And the company is competent and classy… But first impressions impart an imprint.”

“Right. Well, sorry for threatening you.”

“Apology accepted on account of amends offered.”

Arkk let out a small snort. The words meant nothing, it seemed. It was all about the gold and magic. “Well, shall we see if your research paid off? Evestani will be here soon.”

The forward scouts had already seen the illusory army and were surely reporting it to their superiors as they spoke. Hopefully, they wouldn’t divert anywhere. Not that there was much room to make their way past this soon-to-be battlefield. All the previous roadblocks Arkk had put in Evestani’s way had served to direct them here for a reason.

Woodly Rhyme was a burg that Evestani had used as a staging location before their first assault on Elmshadow. It was strategically positioned as the perfect point to ready their forces for a final march. They would want to capture it if they wanted any kind of fallback point should things head south.

They would come. They would fight.

They would die.

Barin yelped as a pike punctured his shield, pierced his armor, and thrust deep into his chest.

It didn’t hurt. There was no pain. No blood. Nothing more than a slight pressure against his ribs. His armor didn’t have a hole in it and his shield was perfectly intact. That wasn’t to say that it wasn’t disconcerting, to see a blade embedded in his body, but it wasn’t real.

It was just an illusion.

He had to tell himself that a dozen times in the last hour.

Just an illusion.

Embarrassed by the yelp, especially after hearing some of his unit laughing behind his back, Barin channeled his embarrassment into anger and lashed forward with his spear. The scarred-faced soldier standing opposite to him shimmered and wavered as the spear slashed through him. But he didn’t vanish. Not immediately.

Instead, the soldier’s form began to contort. His rough features softened and his battle-worn armor shifted into something more familiar. Barin’s breath caught in his throat as the image before him transformed into the delicate figure of his daughter, Lurya. Her wide, tear-filled eyes locked onto his as she reached out a trembling hand, grasping onto his extended arm.

“Papa,” she whimpered, her voice trembling as if she just woke from a horrid nightmare. “Papa, please come home.”

Barin’s grip on his spear slackened and his heart ached. It was an illusion. Just an illusion. Yet, the sight of his daughter, the sound of her pleading voice, cut deeper than any weapon could. He wanted to reach out, to pull her into his arms and promise that he would be home soon, that everything would be alright.

“You aren’t real, Lurya.” His voice cracked as he spoke. This time, there wasn’t any laughter from the rest of his unit. “You’re not Lurya.”

“Please, Papa.” The illusion stepped forward, clinging to his arm. Great tears welled in her eyes as she leaned into him. “I miss you.”

Barin clenched his eyes shut. Keeping them shut, he shoved his arm, flinging the cruel illusion off his arms. He opened them just in time to watch his daughter go rolling through the dirt, coming to a stop with her legs twisted and arms bent and broken.

Lurya’s head turned too far then twisted just a little more, looking up at him. Her skin turned blotchy and ill. Those innocent eyes rotted and festered, leaving empty sockets behind. An evil smile spread across her face as her skin sloughed off her skull. “You’ll never make it home alive. Die for your false god and—”

“That’s enough of that,” Captain Vultan snarled, stomping a heavy boot down on the illusion, finally dispersing it for good.

Barin stumbled back, breathing heavily as sweat coursed from his brow. Just an illusion, he repeated in his mind. It wasn’t the first he had seen. The first had been his wife, not begging him to return, but claiming she hated him and had always hated him while proclaiming her love for Ming. That had been much easier to deal with… even if he felt guilty after.

This…

Barin shuddered. He had heard from some of the survivors about the magics their enemy used. Black magics that peeled apart soldiers into thin ribbons, fires that couldn’t be extinguished no matter the magic used, dragonoids and monsters and more besides. He had seen the unpleasant tactics for himself on the way here, watching some of his fellows fall into pits to be skewered on spikes at the bottom, bombs buried beneath the ground that exploded upon being walked upon, magics that caused soldiers to turn on one another…

Yet none of that had affected him quite as much as this.

The rest of his squad wasn’t faring much better. Those in the front were falling back after dealing with their own mental demons. One soldier’s illusion turned into an angry mother, berating them. Another turned into a comrade who had perished at the hands of their enemy. Yet another turned into His Holiness, looking around the soldiers with obvious disdain, disappointed in their performance.

One turned into a mass of spiders that swarmed over poor Yones. They had been dispersed quickly by his thrashing and flailing, but he was still shuddering on the ground, twitching every few moments.

“You’re all a bunch of babies,” Sydow barked out as he stepped ahead.

That had been their tactics thus far. While His Holiness searched for the source of the illusion, the soldiers were to clear it out manually. Just in case it couldn’t be found. A front row fought, dealt with the illusions, and then backed away to recover while another line moved forward.

Sydow, the big, burly man that he was, strode with confidence toward the nearest illusory soldier. He hadn’t been affected by the last illusion he faced, simply cutting into it with his curved sword until it vanished, uncaring of its form. “Come,” he barked, spreading his arms wide. “Take your best shot.”

The illusion didn’t acknowledge him. The scarred-faced soldiers never spoke or reacted. Battlecaster Wyn supposed that the illusions didn’t know how to act until they read their opponent’s minds in the first attack. So, it stepped forward, brandishing a black sword.

It thrust, spearing it straight through Sydow’s open helmet.

A hot liquid splattered across Barin’s face, making him flinch.

At the same time, Sydow’s arms lost all their strength, dropping to his sides. The sword ripped out of his face, spraying more blood across the field. Sydow’s hulking body collapsed, gushing blood, as the blank-faced illusory soldier turned to find a new target.

Screams and shouts started crying out all up and down the line.

Barin stood frozen, staring at the lifeless body of Sydow, disbelief coursing through his veins. The air thickened with the scent of blood and the cries of his comrades. Others fell, some fought back.

It was just an illusion… Sydow wasn’t dead. He was the strongest in the entire squad. He had never lost a spar to anyone else, not even solo against pairs. He survived the civil war with aplomb and—

“Hold the line!” Captain Vultan’s voice boomed over the chaos, snapping Barin back to reality. “Regroup and push forward. Don’t let them break us!”

Soldiers up and down the line had fallen in the surprise attack. Some hit back, slamming shields, swords, and hammers into their not-so-illusory assailants.

Barin’s hands trembled as he tightened his grip on his spear. He couldn’t let fear take hold. Not now. Not with so much at stake. He glanced around, seeing the fear mirrored in the eyes of his fellow soldiers. They were all struggling. He had to take action or they would all be overwhelmed.

He jolted forward, stepping over Sydow’s fallen body to slam his shield into the disguised skeleton just in time to keep its sword off Battlecaster Wyn. The older man shuffled back on his hands and knees while Barin jammed his spear into the soldier.

Pieces of the illusion fell away where his spear hit. The bladed tip was embedded deep within white ribs, chipping one as it slid between them. They were scrubbed clean of any flesh. There were no organs or skin. Just clean white bone.

For a fleeting moment, Barin hoped he was seeing another illusion. Whatever was under was fake just as the exterior was.

It was a false hope. Slamming his shield into his opponent again sent it staggering back. Ripping his spear out of its body jerked it back forward. The push-and-pull jerked it enough to dislodge the skull. It fell from the illusion, landing with a thump against the ground. The teeth clacked together in a chatter as the empty eye-sockets stared up at Barin.

Slowly, with almost deliberate gravitas, the illusion fell away completely, revealing the skeleton for what it was. It bent, hand grasping the top of the skull, before setting it back on its shoulders.

It grinned at him.

“U… U… Undead!” Barin cried out.

He slammed his spear forward, straight into the chest of the skeleton. But it just chipped off the bone, sliding right through the ribcage. The skeleton didn’t care at all. It stepped forward, raising its sword.

Barin put his shoulder into his shield once again, letting go of his useless spear entirely to put as much weight into shoving the skeleton as he could.

It fell backward, bones coming apart. But it almost immediately started trying to put itself back together.

“Wyn!” Barin shouted, turning his head. “Need magic!”

The battlecaster was on the ground, pinned down. Not by a skeleton. Not by an illusion.

Sydow’s hulking body was on top of the battlecaster, vomiting black sludge over the older man. The vomit slackened into a dribble and Sydow slowly craned his head to face Barin.

A gap split his face in two, straight between the eyes. The wound from the skeleton’s sword. With that kind of wound, he could never have moved. Yet there he was.

And his eyes… Gone were the whites, the colored iris, and even the dark pupil in the middle. It was as if someone had poured boiling tar into his eyes, melting the flesh until there was nothing left but the tar.

Something slammed into his back. It felt like a white-hot poker. With a grunt and a hiss, he turned, swinging his shield arm.

The skeleton on the ground hadn’t even finished putting itself together. It was one leg, the torso, and its sword arm. Barin’s shield slammed into the sword arm, ripping it out of his body and sending it flying across the battlefield.

He staggered away from the skeleton, arm clamped onto his side. It wasn’t a deep wound. He could tell that much. That didn’t stop the blood from trickling down over his fingertips.

Although the wound was hot, he could feel something else. Like something was wiggling and squirming inside him. He tried to take a step, only to stagger and fall. He tried to open his mouth to call for help, only to spew up black bile. His vision swam and wavered, even as he watched Sydow’s hulking form grasp ahold of another of their squad, ripping him away from fighting his own skeleton.

Barin sank into the ground, face hitting the prickly grass, as Wyn sat upright and started looking around with black tar in place of his eyes.

“Lurya…” he managed.

Barin’s vision went black.