Chapter LXVI

  The commander begins to resist the stranger grabbing him. But he must have felt the bde pressed against his neck, making him stop.

  On the other hand, the soldiers lined up slowly begin to realize what is happening. A wave of understanding spreads among them as soldiers signal to their comrades what is going on.

  The situation reaches its climax with a cry of “Commander!!” when Gravust finally sees what is unfolding before him.

  The lieutenant and some men step forward as if to come to his aid. But Fedor notices one of the commander's hands signaling them to stop—demonstrating exactly why he had been chosen for this mission. Commander Sampast’s ability to stay calm under pressure is almost legendary.

  A tense silence falls over the camp, so heavy that the sounds of animals fleeing the spreading fire and smoke can be heard. In the distance, though with some difficulty, Fedor thinks he can even hear the fmes crackling.

  All of this ends when a voice rings out.

  “Smart, though perhaps too smart.” The necromancer’s comment is calm, almost bored—probably annoyed that Commander Sampast has ruined his pns.

  Even so, he does not raise his voice. Not that he needs to, since everyone’s attention is entirely focused on him.

  “I can only try,” the commander replies. “May I assume, that you are the mage who set my camp on fire?”

  “Well, if you wish. I see no reason to oppose your assumption,” the necromancer answers. Though his words seem polite, the slight amusement in his tone reveals that he is mocking the commander.

  Even from this distance, Fedor can see Gravust’s eyes narrowing in frustration upon hearing this.

  “Then, I can also assume that your distraction failed? Considering our current situation,” the commander continues, speaking as if he were merely having a casual conversation with another noble gentleman.

  “Of course,” comes the reply. But the necromancer loses some of his composure, letting a bit of irritation slip into his voice.

  “Yes, of course. Do you know what your mistake was?” the commander asks, maintaining his cordial tone.

  “You’re going to tell me, aren’t you, smartass?” the necromancer responds, struggling to keep his irritation in check. If his life weren’t on the line here, Fedor might actually enjoy the necromancer’s frustration.

  “Oh, absolutely. The second fireball,” the commander replies calmly as if he were expining something to one of the soldiers under his command. And not speaking to a powerful mage who had just attacked his camp—and is now holding him hostage.

  The necromancer gives no reaction to what he has just heard, encouraging the commander to continue speaking.

  “The first fireball could have been a real attack—something to create chaos before a strike,” he expins for the entire camp to hear. His composure and control dissolve some of the tension, allowing the soldiers to start thinking.

  Fedor observes all this and wonders why the necromancer isn’t doing anything more. Perhaps he’s waiting for Fedor and the princess to begin their escape while everyone is focused on him. Fedor exchanges gnces with her.

  But she seems just as confused about what to do next.

  “The second, in a real attack, would only have come with an advancing force taking advantage of the confusion of the first fireball. Something that didn’t happen. So, it could only have been a trick,” the commander concludes.

  “Should we run?” the princess asks him. But looking around, Fedor sees no way to do so without being spotted. Several archers already have their weapons in hand, and considering that everyone knows the princess must not escape alive, he sees no way out.

  “Smart, but wrong. My mistake was believing Sorana’s nonsense about a buyer,” the necromancer mutters, drawing attention back to himself. What could he mean by that?

  “I see. So you are Sorana GrassStone’s mage,” the commander says as if he has just realized something.

  “Her mage...?! Damn it, you help out one annoying girl, and suddenly I belong to her or something?” the necromancer grumbles, not even bothering to hide his irritation.

  “I see. Don’t take it the wrong way, it’s just that I heard about you—from my brother,” the commander remarks, seemingly trying to calm the necromancer. A wise move, considering the bde that could slit his throat if the mage moved too much.

  “Brother?” the necromancer asks, confused.

  Meanwhile, Fedor turns to the princess and responds, “Yes.” Seeing no other option but to try to escape.

  “My brother Clem was sent to capture Sorana GrassStone—something I presume was you who prevented,” the commander says, revealing something interesting about the retionship between the necromancer and Lady GrassStone, though ultimately irrelevant now.

  Still, Fedor hopes it will be enough to distract everyone. “Ready?” he asks the princess. She responds with a slight nod.

  “Was it the loudmouth or the other one?” the necromancer asks, sounding intrigued.

  But Fedor cannot afford to waste this chance to flee. He signals to the princess to move.

  Unfortunately, as she gets up to run, Fedor has to grab her and pull her back behind the barrels—they now have a new problem.

  A figure has appeared just ahead of them.

  From his broad, strong shoulders and the bow he carries, Fedor quickly recognizes Tantor—possibly the best archer in this force. And judging by the arrows beside his bow, he is preparing for action. The only reason he hasn’t noticed them is that his focus is entirely on his target: Nero.

  “You’re not saying anything. So, I’ll just assume it was the loudmouth,” Fedor hears the necromancer’s amused voice say, still seemingly unconcerned with the situation.

  “We have to warn him,” the princess whispers. Fedor agrees.

  But Tantor is an excellent archer and hunter. The moment they reveal themselves, he will start shooting—and they will be among his targets. While Fedor is certain that considering his battle with Alcar the necromancer has defenses to handle this, neither he nor the princess share that luxury.

  “Wait,” he tries to instruct her.

  “Well, I don’t think that’s the most important thing right now,” the commander begins. “It just seems to me that you’re not entirely satisfied with Lady GrassStone.”

  Hearing no objections, he continues speaking. “Perhaps we could talk. I assure you that Figor can be very generous.”

  “A city can be generous? That’s a rather silly thing to say, don’t you think?” the necromancer grumbles slightly but continues, unbothered by the commander’s words. “But yes, I believe we can negotiate something.”

  This st statement makes Fedor and the princess exchange tense, worried gnces. They don’t really know the necromancer, but their survival depends on him right now. If he betrays them... well, Fedor doubts his treason would be forgiven.

  “I see. Then...” the commander begins, but he is interrupted by the necromancer raising his voice.

  “I want your total and unconditional surrender. Drop your weapons, and this all ends.”

  Fedor and the princess breathe sighs of relief—he is still on their side. Meanwhile, the forces of Figor stare in shock at the arrogance of this strange and bizarre young man.

  “I’m sorry, but my life is not worth that,” decres Commander Sampast. “Why don’t you surrender instead? I can guarantee you will be treated fairly.”

  Nero does not respond, allowing the commander to continue, his voice calm and certain. “Give up. If you harm me, they will attack. There’s no chance this will end the way you want.”

  “Oh! I get it. You think you’re a hostage...” Nero says, sounding amused. “No, no... You’re not a hostage.” His voice, calm and rexed until now, turns cold. “You are a meat shield.”

  "You know, to prevent the attack you mentioned. Or to keep the boys trying to fnk me from getting any ideas," Nero calmly expins, seemingly already aware of Tantor's presence.

  This causes a new wave of tension to spread among the men, as it becomes apparent that their pns to save their commander have been discovered.

  Although he doesn’t need to, Nero raises his voice again. "Let’s avoid any drastic solutions, at least until I’m done. You don’t want to start something that will end with a pile of dead bodies."

  Even though the comment is directed at Tantor and possibly others Fedor cannot see, the one who steps forward is Gravust.

  "Lord Mage. As the commander expined, there is no way you can win. Surrender and avoid this unnecessary confrontation," the lieutenant says. As he speaks, several of the men move to fnk him, showing their support with serious expressions and hands resting on their weapons.

  From the crowd behind them, a few shouts of support are heard. "That’s right!" or "For Figor!" or "Go get him, Gravust!"

  "It’s funny—at the moment someone sees a little magic, suddenly it’s all ‘Lord Mage,’" Nero comments nonchantly. Still, as Gravust steps ever so slightly closer, he pulls the commander a few steps back.

  "And that part about me not winning… you smell the smoke, right?" Nero continues, not allowing anyone to interrupt.

  "When this mess starts before your commander’s body even hits the ground. Your front line—where you’re standing—is going to be hit by two fireballs." To emphasize his confidence, Nero seems to be expining his battle pn.

  Gravust looks at the men beside him, lets out a small sigh, and says, "I understand." To then look Nero in the eye again.

  "Considering those fireballs, they’ll surely back down… right?" the princess asks, hopeful.

  To which Fedor can only respond, "No, they’ll fight."

  And he understands why. They are mostly experienced soldiers. Unlike others, they know this will be a difficult battle. If things unfold as they’ve been told, the front line will be decimated—six to ten good men will die right at the start.

  But they’re not that far from the mage. They only need to keep advancing, making sure to spread out, so the fireballs can’t hit too many at once.

  Even if the mage turns invisible to escape and attack from another position. They just have to keep spread out. Then, when the mage reappears to attack, they will close in on him.

  It will be a miserable fight, with many of their comrades dying. It’s likely, that almost half of them will never leave this pce. But in their minds, victory is possible—perhaps even certain.

  Fedor knows this because, if it weren’t for Gregor, he would be standing next to Gravust in the front line. Because if he survived, the glory would be undeniable—this would be one of those stories he could tell other soldiers with pride.

  But fate has pced him here. And knowing the truth, he whispers in horror, "It’s going to be a one-way massacre. They’re all going to die here."

  He notices the princess looking at him. But the truth he sees so clearly is inescapable.

  Gravust and the others don’t know something that changes everything. Something only Fedor, the princess, and the necromancer know. The fact that Nero is a necromancer. And that destroys all of Figor’s forces' pns.

  Nero can turn everyone who dies here into undead soldiers to fight against their former comrades. With every fallen soldier, the necromancer will grow stronger.

  And his advantage isn’t just numerical. Fedor and the other soldiers are skilled and experienced. They know how to fight undead.

  They know to abandon arrows and daggers, which will be useless. Instead, they will focus on swords and axes to hack the undead into pieces. While using shields and spears to hold in one position, so others can cut them to pieces.

  But the most crucial tactic is to close ranks. The undead don’t fight as a team. But the soldiers do and being able to count on their companions for help will be their great advantage in fighting the undead.

  Sadly that is the problem. The moment, the undead appear. The men will have no choice but to group together for support in handling the threat. And that is when they become the perfect target for the necromancer’s fireballs.

  On the other hand, if they stay spread out to avoid the fireballs, they become easy prey for the undead—who won’t tire, won’t stop, and are nearly impossible to defeat alone.

  Looking at Nero again, Fedor sees the truth. The young man isn’t a fool revealing his battle pn. Nor is he an arrogant braggart. He has already won this fight. He won the moment Lady GrassStone convinced him to help her. He could have stormed into this camp to free the princess from the beginning.

  The situation is so unbanced that Fedor can’t understand why Nero hasn’t unched his attack yet. Or why he used Fedor to infiltrate the camp. Yes, the risk to the princess would have been higher, but once his undead army was in action, chaos would have ensured her safety.

  By the way, why is he allowing this standoff? For him, the best decision would surely have been to unch a surprise attack as soon as he realized the commander had discovered his pn. But for some reason, Nero seems hesitant. Maybe… he wants to avoid bloodshed.

  The strange thought makes Fedor pause. A necromancer who wants to avoid unnecessary deaths. How ridiculous.

  Most likely Nero doesn’t want to be revealed as a necromancer. Especially one powerful enough to wipe out a force of forty men. That means disaster may still be avoided.

  Maybe the men he respects and has fought alongside for years could survive.

  That thought, and the mad hope it brings, makes Fedor jump to his feet and shout desperately, "Stop!!"

  At that, all eyes turn to him. From Gravust, who was about to give the order that would doom himself and his men. To Nero, who looks at him curiously. Even the commander, Sampast, held by the necromancer, turns to look.

  Tantor jumps in surprise at Fedor’s sudden appearance.

  With all eyes on him, Fedor hesitates. Even though he knows he must do something, he has no idea what that something should be.

  Should he warn them that Nero is a necromancer? And what would his response be, to that? Most likely, it would lead to the exact outcome Fedor is trying to prevent.

  As he thinks, Fedor looks at Gravust, who has a strange expression. He seems to be moving past the confusion of Fedor’s sudden appearance and is starting to grow suspicious. Perhaps he is even beginning to realize that Fedor has betrayed them.

  But none of that matters now. Fedor has to find a way to make them surrender—or they will all die here at the hands of the necromancer.

  Fedor looks beyond the gathered forces, toward the tree line not too far away. If only he and Princess Irina had made it there, none of this would be happening.

  Through the trees, a figure appears—something Fedor recognizes instantly, something that will likely haunt him for the rest of his life. A mule. And this time, he has no doubt that it is Nero’s undead mule. The very mule that had been left behind with…

  With that, Fedor knows what to do. The solution had always been so simple. So he points at the mule and shouts for all to hear, “Grint is here!”

  The veteran responsible for the princess’s security, leading an armed force. Now, Gravust’s men are caught between two threats. On one side, a powerful mage they might be able to defeat but not without losses. And on the other side, an armed force commanded by someone like Grint. The same problem of splitting up to fight one enemy, leaving themselves vulnerable to the other, arises again.

  Gravust and the others look where Fedor is pointing. But unfortunately, someone excims, “What Grint? I only see a mule.”

  How can Fedor expin this, even if it’s the truth? There’s no way anyone would believe that he somehow knows Grint is traveling with an undead mule.

  “No, look—there are more people. He must be right; those must be Grint’s men,” another soldier adds as two figures in dark cloaks appear beside the mule. Two figures Fedor knows to be Nero’s companions.

  “Gravust split the men and—” the commander begins to order when Nero covers his mouth.

  “Surrender. There’s no way you can win; you’ll only die for nothing,” Nero pleads. But Gravust hardens his expression and draws his sword.

  “Oh, come on. If your leaders would rather have you fight a meaningless battle. Then get new leaders. If you’re going to die, at least do it for something worthwhile—not to keep a girl locked up,” Nero continues, clearly frustrated with what appears to be Gravust’s decision. Gravust starts to raise his sword.

  “Look! More people!!” a voice shouts from the back of the forces, pointing out the appearance of more figures. And this time, there can be no doubt—it is an armed force advancing on the camp.

  “Please, Gravust. There’s no way to win,” Fedor implores, seeing the worst-case scenario beginning to unfold.

  “Damn it. Maybe this will knock some sense into you!” an obviously irritated necromancer excims. As he releases the commander, he drops his dagger while taking a step back and raising his arms in a cross shape over his chest.

  Fedor is standing almost beside them when the commander reacts quickly—drawing his sword and striking at the necromancer as he turns to face him.

  Nero lifts his arm to block the sword. But there is no way that the strike won’t at least cut off his arm. And most likely, after that, the bde will nd a fatal blow.

  As the impact nds, Nero lets out a scream of pain. But that is all that happens. His arm has successfully withstood the sword—leaving everyone stunned.

  “Son of a bitch. The archer was supposed to hit me,” the furious necromancer shouts. Stepping toward the astonished Commander Sampast, he takes the opportunity to kick him between the legs.

  Holding his clearly bleeding arm, Nero seems to murmur something before groaning in pain again and carefully examining his wound.

  Sampast stares at the necromancer with a look of pure terror. And when Fedor looks in the same direction, he understands why. The arm that had resisted the sword—though injured—is now completely unmarked.

  “If you want to die here. Then come,” Nero decres imperiously. Then, murmuring once more, he vanishes before everyone’s eyes—making it painfully clear what a threat he alone represents.

  As Fedor stares at the space where Nero had just stood, he hears a sound that makes him turn back toward his former comrades. It was the sound of Gravust’s sword falling to the ground, signaling his surrender. Once again, he had chosen his men’s lives.

  And behind him, weapons begin cttering to the ground, as his men follow his lead.