The Outland Legion

by J.Logan

There is a mercenary company roaming the land. An entire legion of sellswords, but they don't ask for coin, typically. No, they ask for knowledge of events, even if only in the form of rumours, they ask for raw materials, and they ask for use of facilities with which to work those materials. In that order of preference. They are armed. They are professional. They are... lizardmen?

26. The Other Side - Echoes of Undeath

The Other Side - Echoes of Undeath

---

Aubentag, Erntezeit 25th, Outside the Drakwald

I never thought I would say such a thing, but a small part of me wishes that we hadn't left the Drakwald. Not to say that I enjoyed my time within that accursed forest, but at least we knew that we were in hostile territory, knew that danger surrounded us. There is a strange comfort in such knowledge. The trees might have hidden dangers from us, but they also protected us in turn.

Now, back in Middenland, in the open, there is no hiding. It should make me feel safe, but the openness has instead become a source of unease for me.

Captains Sigimund and von Eisling have us marching at a double pace, despite the appalling weather that greeted us on our departure from the Drakwald. It is as though the very gods themselves are screaming about the defilement of the Empire at the hands of the undead we hunt. There is no sympathy from the Black Knights of Morr; they are eager to purge the atrocities.

Villages and towns have been levelled, burnt to the ground, and defiled. But no bodies were to be found. Even after all the "recruitment" that the undead were doing within the Drakwald, it still was not enough for them. Still, the necromancer commanding them feels the need to foul the bodies and souls of loyal Empire citizens, perverting them to whatever cause this apostate believes he is fighting for.

It didn't take long for Sigimund to realize that the path of destruction was moving toward Middenheim. It is a bold move from the necromancer, for surely, regardless of how many abominations have been raised by their foul magics, the province's capital would be more than able to defend itself from any attack.

Maybe that would have been the case normally.

News from riders and travellers on the road don't paint a pretty picture of current affairs. The rumours we had been hearing of Chaos warbands before entering the Drakwald are no rumours. While we had been hunting for the undead, marauders following the Ruinous Powers have been raiding and sacking what settlements they could. Until very recently, this had been done with no reaction from the Middenland army. And now, to our north, a warhost marches. It hasn't all been bad news, however, for mercenaries, free company militias, and Empire knights have all been working to combat this threat. There are names involved in that conflict, names of renown, some of infamy, some not heard for some time.

The Grudgebringers, the Outland Legion, the Middenheim Border Patrol. The Knights Panther and the Knights of the White Wolf. All names which have come up from these travellers, all fighting to protect Middenland from one enemy, which unfortunately means they aren't able to help fight the enemy whom we have been tasked with hunting down.

While it is good to hear that at least the Chaos threat is being acknowledged and fought against, that still leaves us without any expectation of aid against the undead. And with news that the Graf of Middenheim had left the city not long ago with an army to help remove the Ruinous Powers, Middenheim is left in a rare vulnerable state. Not wholly defenceless, but as close as it will ever be.

Maybe fortune will smile, and the Graf will turn back in time to fend off the attack.

Captain von Eisling has a plan. We haven't the numbers to directly take the fight to the undead, not after the time they have spent building up a force. But if we can get the undead horde to split, to fracture itself, it will give the defenders at Middenheim a better chance of lasting long enough for more reinforcements to arrive. Every little sliver we manage to shave off the greater whole; the more time Middenheim has.

To that end, despite this weather, we are rushing toward the village of Dunkelwald. We will be too late to save the people, but by clearing out any lingering undead before the village's structures can be razed, and then looking as though we will be using the place as a staging ground from which we plan to strike at the flank of the enemy, the hope is that the necromancer will send a large force to try and remove the threat at their back. Every walker that turns to face us is one less that the defenders of Middenheim must hack to pieces.

We will stand our ground, and we will avenge the dead.

-Journal of an unknown soldier

---

Burke lowered the spyglass from his eye and handed it to the next person in line. Thwaite accepted the brass tube and immediately placed it to his own eye while Burke moved back, considering what he had seen.

The village of Dunkelwald was one of those that didn't have walls or palisades, a daring choice, but with how close they were to Middenheim, not unheard of. There was a common belief that proximity to larger cities meant that defences weren't so needed, for surely the city would sally out to help the villages within their shadows. Burke believed it a foolish belief; the proximity to the cities made it all the more important that even a basic palisade be erected—those cities were the targets that any invading army would be marching toward, the cities wouldn't sally out into what might well be a ruse to weaken the defences of the real targets.

A soft breath escaped his lips, and he shook his head and refocused his mind on the important details, not on his personal hangups with villages that believed themselves safe in the shadows of giants.

Dunkelwald was built alongside a river, the same river that the undead seemed to be following. The river itself was deep enough that fording it was impossible; the only way across was a single bridge. That made for a valuable chokepoint. Or it would have if the foe they faced were living, breathing creatures

Burke's mind brought up images of the battles he had participated in so long ago, slogging through Sylvania and facing the unliving. He preferred not remembering those days, but not remembering was a luxury that he could ill afford when facing such a similar threat. Oh, there were differences, Gerwin had been quick to point those out, particularly the absence of openly vampiric entities. But some things were the same, so he dredged those memories from the abyss he had thought to banish years ago. He remembered the tactics employed against the living men of the Empire, tactics only available because death was an advantage in war

In short, the bridge was only a chokepoint for them, not for the undead

Thwaite lowered the spyglass, frowning in thought

'Watching them skulk about… the way they move… feels wrong to the mind

Burke hummed in agreement. 'Like puppets in a festival play.' At the other man's hum, he continued. 'That's what those ones are, really. Puppets, controlled by the necromancer who raised them. No minds, no will of their own, just the puppeteering of the one who profaned their bodies.'

Thwaite shuddered at the description. 'When I die, if I can't be interred in a Garden of Morr, or somewhere with Morr's protections, cremate me. I refuse to be controlled by some maniac with delusions of power.'

Burke grunted an affirmation. With the loss of Feyerabend Keep and the catacombs beneath, Thwaite's request was a common one among the survivors of Efror. The late Count Feyerabend and his predecessors had gotten away with slightly higher taxes than was normal for a county that size, because of the promise that those who lived within Efror were also paying for their body's interment within those catacombs.

The secret of Efror's continued independence after the Mad Count, the promise of Morr's protection to those calling Efror home. Burke scoffed at the thought as it passed his mind. What was death but a bartering tool? Use fear of what comes after life to charge higher taxes, and the people automatically believed it a worthwhile trade.

He shook his head, then returned his focus to the village on the opposite side of the river.

'The way they're moving is a good thing for us, right now,' he spoke up. 'The marionette look means that they're mindless thralls. If any were moving with an unnatural grace, we'd be looking at undead who have their own wits about them and can and will think for themselves. Wights, I believe the priests of Morr call those ones.'

Thwaite shuddered, and pointedly stepped back, as though the single footstep was distance enough from the undead to be some significant protection from the unease that such foul concepts naturally brought to the minds and souls of righteous Ulric-fearing men and women.

Burke crossed his arms and stared across the river. 'Also, the way they're moving at the moment, not even what you'd call a patrol… Right now the undead in that village aren't being controlled. I reckon they were given instructions, and then left behind. But that they still stand means that the necromancer, or somebody they've empowered to sustain and command undead, is still nearby.'

'Why would a necromancer give somebody else the power to command their undead?' Thwaite asked.

'For the same reason an army isn't just a general and the soldiers he commands. We've seen that this necromancer has raised a massive force, do you believe that they have the ability to manage and control each one of those over a vast distance?' Burke shrugged. 'Just as a general needs his captains and his sergeants to better organise and command, so too does the necromancer need intelligent lackeys to organise and control in more manageable chunks.'

Thwaite stilled a moment, then guffawed. 'Huh, almost feels like it takes away the appeal of controlling an obedient mass of undead, if they still have to delegate command.'

Burke chuckled with Thwaite. 'Yeah, that bit of knowledge does take away some of the dread of the power of a necromancer, doesn't it? Kill the necromancer, kill his lieutenants—or whatever they call themselves—and the entire army crumbles and withers away.'

A footstep behind the two had them turn, and flinch back at the skeletal mask of the Knight of Morr who had managed to get so close behind them. The knight tilted his head, the mask's depiction of a skull's eye sockets boring into Burke.

'The problem that comes from exploiting that weakness,' the knight spoke up after he had drawn out the silence for an uncomfortable length, revealing himself as one of the very small number that hadn't taken the vow of silence to allow communication between the Black Knights and the rest of the Empire, 'is that necromancers are intrinsically cowards. It is rare for them to be involved in an actual battle.'

Burke shrugged, trying to hide his unease. 'My experience with human necromancers is limited,' he admitted. 'The battles I fought in, it was a vampire who was commanding undead masses. Vampires are more inclined to get into the thick of it.'

'Ah, yes, they cannot resist the call of their bloodlust.' The knight gave a single nod, then seemed to examine Burke more closely. 'You fought vampires before?'

'Seven years ago,' Burke huffed but didn't otherwise elaborate further. If the Knight of Morr was versed in the history of battles involving vampires, then that was all that was needed.

'Huh, your captain doesn't have experience with undead, outside of this horde.'

Burke shook his head. 'During that same time, he was fighting alongside the Nordland army against the Norscans.'

And that was all that Burke knew of the captain's activities during that time period. Sigismund was tight-lipped about his involvement, only sharing what it was like to fight Norscans, the wildlife of the land, or worse.

There was another pause. Eventually, it was broken by Thwaite. 'Do we know that this necromancer isn't a vampire?'

'We haven't seen any of the typical signs of vampiric influence,' Burke answered for the knight. 'No vargheists, no ghouls. Everything we've seen of this undead horde has been… risen locally.'

The Knight of Morr huffed. 'Find the necromancer, kill the necromancer, the problem should resolve itself.'

'Yeah, well… got to find him. And before that, we need to help relieve the pressure on Middenheim.'

Thwaite sighed and looked toward the village again. 'Have I mentioned that I do not care for this plan?'

'You might have mentioned something to that effect.' Burke felt his lips twitch, hid his own unease.

The plan had been altered slightly from the original intention of the entirety of the Efror Guard and the landsknecht attacking and then taking up a defensive position. Now, the plan involved a smaller force making that same attack.

It wasn't that Burke felt that the smaller number was insufficient, in contrast, the entirety of their force would have been overkill. The issue was that it felt like they were being tasked to make the assault with the bare minimum. The smaller the attacking force, the easier it was for something to go wrong, for them to be surrounded and cut off.

Especially with that bridge as their only route of retreat.

All part of the plan though.

Burke turned, inspected the Knight of Morr. About the only upside that Burke could think up, a not insignificant number of the Knights of Morr were going to be taking part in this fight. If Burke was going into that village, he doubted there would be any better than a couple dozen Knights of Morr to have at his back.

None of the dwarfs were going to be involved, and within the landsknecht, only the dwarfs were armed with handguns. Again, it was all part of the plan. But where the undead were concerned, Burke would have preferred that their ranged weapons be of the more modern gunpowder variety than archers.

Above them, the clouds briefly opened up, allowing a glimpse of the dark skies and a momentary reprieve from the rain. Not that it helped with the light; the sun had already set.

Well, if that's not an omen of some variety, Burke huffed. 'Get everybody ready, we'll march in half an hour.'

Thwaite knocked his fist against his chest once in wordless salute then turned to obey.

#

Happy stared at the warmbloods, head tilted. He and Tongue were far enough away that they weren't even altering the colouring of their scales; even if they were noticed, there was nothing that could be done against them.

'What do you suppose their plan is?' Tongue asked, not looking away from his musket as he carefully cleaned the barrel.

'With those numbers?' Happy eventually spoke up, 'I reckon they're trying to provoke a response.'

Tongue looked away from his musket. 'Provoke a response?' he repeated. 'What are they, us?'

Happy grinned. 'Yeah, they've seen the superiority of skirmishing.'

Tongue chuckled, packing away his brush. 'Might have seen us in the Drakwald.'

'That wasn't skirmishing,' Happy corrected. 'That was scouting. We didn't want them to notice us.'

'Not deliberately.'

'Well, no.'

They laughed quietly. As they turned to watch the human force marching on the bridge, Tongue asked, 'What would Sharpe's strategy be here?'

'Shoot 'em from the opposite bank,' Happy answered without pause. 'Line us up, present arms, open fire. Pointing and laughing at the stumbling dead shaking their fists in impotent rage is optional.'

Tongue grinned and adjusted his posture. 'Do the undead feel impotent rage?'

'Well, they aren't exactly virile, are they? Being that they're dead and all.'

Tongue answered dryly, 'Thank you for that wonderful mental image.'

Happy's body language shifted as he grabbed his musket, pointing. 'You seein' what I'm seein'?'

Tongue focused and spotted it. 'Undead centigors.'

Happy cursed softly. 'We knew that whoever this necromancer was, that he was raising the beasts. But it is very different seeing them out of the Drakwald.' He paused, then cursed again. 'Clever bastard…'

They watched as the centigor-zombies charged, the Efror warriors forming a wall with the Knights of Morr lowering halberds over their shoulders. Archers fired, slowing and staggering the undead before a final barrage finished them off.

'Not bad,' Happy mused. 'They didn't waste time.'

'Would've been quicker if they weren't dividing themselves,' Tongue noted.

Happy hummed thoughtfully. 'They have a plan. Let's leave them to it

'We staying to watch, or

'No, we're going to keep searching.'

With a low sound of acknowledgement, both disappeared into the night.

#

'This is suicide.'

Burke glowered at the one who uttered those words, not impressed. He then cast his eyes toward Allison, checking over her carefully. She'd largely recovered from whatever it was that she had borne witness to in the Drakwald, though there was still an uneasy edge to her, a tenseness to her posture and her eyes were more prone to roving, locking onto the slightest movement.

Fortunately, despite that, she hadn't shown herself to be any more prone to panic or nerves than she had before the incident, but thus far she hadn't been tested on how she'd react to hysteria and doom-saying from those she was to trust to have her back.

'Shut up,' he snapped at the pessimist.

'What?' the pessimist grunted back with a glower. 'We're a piddly little force, what do they expect us to do against the undead horde?'

'Captain Sigismund expects us to do our jobs,' Burke retorted angrily. 'We follow the plan.'

'I didn't join you to commit suicide.'

Allison grabbed the nay-sayer by the shoulder and twisted him around, making it so that she could express her opinion of his attitude clearly.

'No, you joined the Efror Guard for the same reason I did, to avenge our home! These are the undead responsible, so this is your chance to do just that!'

The pessimist tore his shoulder from her grip and opened his mouth to argue, but then seemed to recognise who it was that he was about to argue with and stepped back, the hand not carrying his shield raised in a gesture of surrender.

'Besides which,' Burke spoke up again, 'we're fighting alongside Knights of Morr. And you are really embarrassing me in front of such august company. And if I'm embarrassed, Gerwin is going to be embarrassed. And if Gerwin is embarrassed, you better pray to Ulric that Sigismund doesn't hear of it.'

That seemed to finally remove the last of the wind from the nay-sayer's proverbial sails. He shrank back and pointedly looked toward the bridge, which Gerwin and the Knights of Morr were just then reaching. Burke turned his own attention to the bridge—if there was a point where this venture was going to go wrong, it would be while they were crossing that stone bridge, unable to move properly while crossing that chokepoint.

Gerwin clearly felt the same way, having split their force into three smaller groups, organised so that the Efror swordsmen would go in front of a group of Knights of Morr, shields forming a basic wall while the knights would have their halberds over them, in a similar formation to how Gerwin had handled the undead centigor. And behind the Knights of Morr would be archers.

The three groups nearly managed to cross the bridge without incident. Halfway through the second group's crossing, another quartet of undead centigors seemed to emerge from the darkness and charged. Having managed to get close before being noticed—the lack of war cries from the undead made spotting them before they were close especially challenging at that time of night—they weren't felled by the arrows before reaching the hurriedly formed wall of shields. Fortunately, other than being somewhat shaken by the impact against their shields, none were hurt, and the last of the black knights of Morr were quick to obliterate the undead, halberds swung with a mastery that seemed beyond the means of most mundane soldiers of the Empire.

Once they had all managed to cross the river, the village was close. Without walls, it would be a simple matter to enter into the village. And if Gerwin's guess about the lack of a leading figure to guide the undead beyond rudimentary instructions was correct, this should be more of a battle of attrition than anything else.

'We split into three groups, the same groups that we were in when crossing the bridge. We'll attack from different directions at once,' Gerwin spoke once they'd gathered.

'Suicide.' The nay-sayer made his opinion heard again, though to his credit it was clearly not meant to be projected, having been a mumble that unfortunately carried.

Gerwin's eyes clearly locked onto the pessimist, brow creased into an angry frown. 'The majority of the undead in that village are basic walkers. Ignore the fact they were ungors or gors in life, in death they are thralls that can't think for themselves. They have no talent, they have no skill, the closest thing they had to an advantage doesn't exist in their current state.' He turned away from the pessimist and addressed the entire force again. 'Our biggest threat, right now, is the centigors. We don't know how many are roaming in the darkness. With that in mind, all of you keep your eyes looking back just as much as looking forward. If I hear any of you were killed because a centigor charged your flanks, I'll kill ya.'

There was a light guffaw from the assembled troops. Gerwin's lips twitched; he looked quite pleased with himself for the moment of morale-lifting levity. After a moment, he held his hand up, got their attention once again.

'In seriousness, we have this. They might outnumber us, but one of us is worth ten of them. I don't care if they bring out a bestigor thrall, even the weakest of us is more than enough to put them back in the ground. Am I understood?'

Under normal circumstances, Burke knew that the response would have been a loud cheer of riled-up warriors and archers. Due to the nature of the attack, nobody was about to test whether the thralls could react to something they heard. So the "cheer," if it could be called such, was more a whispered "oorah" than anything else. But, credit where it was due, the result was the same; it was clear that those of the Efror Guard were now ready for the attack. The Knights of Morr didn't seem to react, but that didn't shock Burke, not when nine out of ten of the black knights were sworn to a vow of silence. Their grim figures didn't show any sign that they were excited or eager.

But, Burke figured, it was a fight against the undead, the greatest insult to Morr imaginable, a spit in the eye of the god of the dead. They were the ones that needed such a push the least. They'd have likely charged in by their lonesome if they felt they had to.

With that, they split into three separate groups and rounded the village to find different points of entry. The undead in this village wouldn't know what hit them.

#

Morwen Blackshade. It wasn't the name he was born with; he had given that up long ago. Names were power, and when the man he had been had accepted the offer presented and become a vassal of the dark powers—dark, but not Chaos, for Chaos was the True Enemy—he had discarded the name of his former self. He was now Morwen, not the weakling he once was

He had been the first to accept the offer, the first to sign the pact with blood and soul. Together, they would ensure that the legacy of Efror, of true Efror, lived on. The signs had been clear, long before the events led to the city burning to the ground. Efror had never before had as strong a leader as the one who had raised Efror into an independent city-state during the War of the Three Emperors, and they would never again have a leader so strong. It was up to them; they would keep that spirit alive, even as these mockeries that claimed themselves to be the Efror Guard marched against them

Time had tarnished them so. These mockeries would never have survived as the Colour Guard of Efror in its height. They didn't even wear the armour of the Efror Guard; they wore the chainmail of the levies, of the militias that were there to bolster the Guard in times of battle. Where was the platemail? The proud standards that bore not just the colours but also the boar of the Adelbreckt family? That boar that Orwell Adelbreckt had slain with nought but his hands, and forever after marked him for greatness

Oh, the brief glimpses he had seen whilst the pretender guard stumbled through the Drakwald had shown that the boar hadn't been completely forgotten, its likeness painted onto at least half of the shields carried by the pretender guard. But where were the standards? The pride in their history

Maybe that reptile had done them a favour, burning down the city that had so clearly fallen from grace. Too bad there had been survivors to rebuild an inferior successor

The wraith who used to be the captain of the Efror Guard—the true guard, the colour guard!—twisted his—he was male before, he remembered that—head around and looked back the way that he had come, his senses tickling at him

Tickling… he vaguely remembered what that actually meant, what that felt like. It was one of those sensations that was unfortunately lost to him, the closest he could get was the feeling that now brushed at his senses

As he stared back the way he came, the feeling at the edge of his perception redoubled itself. So, it wasn't an isolated event. Something or someone had the audacity to attack the thralls held under his command. He could maybe forgive a few of his thralls being cut down; there were many and he wouldn't begrudge a traveller defending themselves when the thralls inevitably attacked them. An unfortunate result of their lack of intelligence meant that they had to be given specific commands if they were to act with any semblance of autonomy, but those commands also could not be complicated. If a command was given to kill any threats that might try to flank the horde, then it had to be all or nothing, even wayward travellers who were not a threat must also be killed.

But the tickling was intensifying, no longer felt like tickling; instead, it was almost a barrage of bee stings at this point. That meant this wasn't just some travelling warrior who had the ability to defend themselves. Somebody was making a concentrated effort to cut down the thralls around that village.

Morwen didn't have eyes to close, but he reckoned that what he did felt similar to closing one's eyes while he concentrated. He focused his senses towards that sacked village, felt for a suitable thrall that was under his command and pushed, inserting his mind into the thrall and taking control of the carcass as if it were his own body.

The only sign that the bestigor that had been standing on a hill overlooking the village was no longer a mindless drone was the way that the eyes changed, becoming blazing blue novas that leaked into the air around the changed orbs.

He had chosen his timing appropriately; he instantly became aware of a sword swinging in what would have been a decapitating blow for the bestigor thrall. Because he was now in control, he leaned back with a grace that should not belong on even a living specimen of this misbegotten race, allowing the blade to slice the air but not much else, and then surged forward, slamming the crude and heavy axe the bestigor had been holding into the gut of the one who had tried to decapitate this thrall. The swordsman fell, gargling and slowly dying of the fatal wound inflicted.

Morwen stared down at the body, feeling a stirring of anger.

The pretender guard dared? They actually mustered up the courage to bring the fight to them? To avenge this inconsequential little village? They should have remained in the Drakwald; they might have actually lived longer.

Another look around, another of these guardsmen cut down. The stinging at his senses peaked, then waned as the number of thralls that hadn't yet been cut down diminished. An arrow deftly dodged, and the axe was thrown with force enough to permanently lodge itself in the skull of the archer. Another look, and Morwen allowed himself to relax a slither, as it appeared that the three had been all that had come up this hill.

No longer at risk of being disturbed, he turned his attention down to the village. And with that, pushed aside his disdain for the pretender guard to properly assess what was happening. They weren't being stupid in their attack; somebody there had some mind for tactics. Small but mobile groups would circle around and either crush a group of thralls between two groups coming together, or they would provoke the mindless thrall into approaching, but slowly back away and let the archers behind them pepper the thrall with arrows to the point that the magics animating the bodies failed.

No, there was definite intelligence in their actions.

He continued to watch, even after his senses told him that there were no longer any thrall remaining in that village, curious as to what they would do next. Would they move on, would they withdraw to rejoin the landsknecht?

After an hour, Morwen saw what they were doing. They weren't just clearing out the thralls that had been tasked with remaining in the village as a warning in the event that the Middenland army tried to flank the horde. No, the pretender guardsmen were setting up basic defences, piling rubble to create barriers and setting up a camp.

They were turning this quaint little ruin of a village into a staging ground.

How bold of them. How daring. Though Morwen supposed that such daring might have more to do with the strange landsknecht that the pretender guard had joined up with. Easy to feel bold when backed up by a force that counted Morr's knights in their number.

It also did not escape his notice that aside from a small number of the black knights, the entirety of the force in the village below were from the pretender guard. Smart of the leader of the landsknecht, send the expendable and pathetic ones as a vanguard. If they did their job, good on them, if they died, no real loss. Unfortunately, it appeared that they had actually done their job and with minimal casualties. Morwen was tempted to grab the axe embedded in the archer's skull and start hacking at the three bodies nearby, or maybe even charging down to the village and causing as much death as he could before the thrall was capable of before a lucky strike downed it.

But instead, Morwen assessed the scene. If they were planning on setting up a staging ground, then they were clearly aiming to flank the horde while they sieged Middenland. If it was timed well, that could become a problem…

But right now… right there and then, it was just the pretender guard. The bulk of the landsknecht had yet to arrive. This was an opportunity to cut the threat down to size before it could become a true threat.

And if the pretender guard were to become replacement thralls to make up for those they had cut down? Well, at least that way they might actually garner a fraction of the true guard's might.

He released his hold on the thrall, leaving behind only a single instruction: run to the village and kill as many as it could. It might kill a dozen before a Morr's knight inevitably put a stop to it. But the thought of the pretender guard running afoul of the bestigor thrall was still enough to warm the cockles of the heart he no longer had.

Once his awareness was fully returned to his own form, he turned with a flourish of his cloak, and sent commands to a large number of his thralls. They were going to purge the embarrassment to the name of Efror.

#

Burke leaned against the stonework that had once been a wall and took a sip of water from his waterskin. Technically, it was still a wall he was resting against. It was even attached to two other walls, which were both then joined to a fourth. The problem was this wall wasn't supposed to be waist-high, and there was supposed to be a roof atop it.

The charcoal and soot were a rather good clue as to what had happened to the roof. Didn't explain the drastically shortened wall.

'What's the casualty count?' Gerwin asked as he stepped next to Burke, though he didn't rest his weight upon the wall, instead casting a suspicious look as though it would collapse the moment he were to try.

'Twelve swordsmen. Four archers.' Burke shook his head. 'The archers were caught by a flanking centigor. Three missing, two swordsmen and an archer. I told everybody to keep their eyes open. No fatalities on the black knights' end, though two were injured. Lucky blows.'

Gerwin grimaced. 'It's better than it could have been, but still more than I would prefer.'

'Even one casualty is more than you would prefer.'

Gerwin wiggled an open palm. 'Yes and no. I'm not stupid enough to believe we can get through every fight, every battle, with nobody taking an unlucky hit.'

'Not anymore, at any rate.' Burke let slip without thinking.

Gerwin's lips twitched. 'Definitely grown up from that wide-eyed boy in Sylvania.'

Burke huffed, but held back a full-on chuckle. 'So, you're cynical enough now to not have unrealistic preferences on casualty numbers?'

'Yeah.' Gerwin paused a moment. 'I'd have preferred we lose only up to eight. The numbers here weren't overwhelming, and there weren't any of the really scary undead we saw in the Drakwald—no cygors, none of the strange creatures… And we had the black knights backing us, and we had a plan. The archers getting flanked was a stroke of bad luck that shouldn't have happened, why were they so far from the guardsmen who would have moved to intercept? But discounting them…' He shook his head. 'We could have done better.'

Burke took another sip of water and then held out the still-half-full waterskin for the other sergeant. Gerwin accepted the offer and once it was in his hand, he gingerly lifted it to his lips.

'Crap luck can't be planned for,' Burke grunted after a while. And best not let any of the men hear you talking like that. They're actually in good spirits about the turnout.

'I know. So many of our number weren't properly trained, just conscripts given a sword or a spear and a set of armour. I should be praising Ulric that they did so well despite lacking that training.'

Burke's lip twitched. 'The archers we conscripted certainly seem to have it better than the swordsmen.'

'Well yeah, most of the archers were already trained and practised hunters. The only issues with them are formation marches, which I'm not overly fussed about, so long as they keep the pace up.'

'Think Sigismund sees it that way?'

Gerwin's expression clouded. 'He's been… moody of late.'

'He sees the undead as a failure on his part, of course he's moody.' Burke shrugged. 'The count is dead, Efror is now a ragtag militia with no county to call home. And the dying wish of the count was to find somebody, our only clue being a name that nobody seems to have heard before. Certainly not an Imperial name.'

'Pugna Textrix.' Gerwin muttered the name as if to remind himself. 'Do you think maybe it's the name of the necromancer behind all this?'

'How should I know?' Burke twisted his face in bemusement. 'That would be nice and convenient. Sounds too convenient though.'

'Yeah. Wishful thinking.' Gerwin twisted his lips into a self-deprecating grin. 'Maybe that wide-eyed boy isn't quite that grown up yet.'

Burke allowed his chuckle to actually escape his lips that time. 'Maybe not.'

Any further conversation was cut short when a startled shout caught their attention. Both turned their heads and were treated to the sight of a half-decomposed bestigor charging forward, axe held aloft. The undead beast turned its head, sightless eyes resting upon an Efror Guardsman, one who was barely more than a boy. The bestigor's forward charge shifted just slightly enough that now it was headed directly for that boy.

Burke pushed himself from the wall, hand snatching his bow from where he had rested it, while his other hand pulled an arrow from the quiver at his thigh. The string of his bow was hurriedly pulled taut and then the arrow released in the span of two seconds. His aim wasn't quite as true as he'd like to have claimed; his frantic hurry and the strict time limit if he wished to save the boy were not quite conducive to proper aiming and accounting for the drizzling rain, but it gave results that he wouldn't be arguing with.

Instead of the loosed arrow hitting the bestigor zombie in the head, the arrow went low and punctured through the shin, emerged out the opposite side and embedded itself in the ground. While the length was still impaled in the leg of the bestigor.

It wasn't a true pinning; the muddy ground was too soft for that, but it offered enough resistance that the undead stumbled and face-planted into the mud. A nearby black knight was quick to finish it off with his halberd.

Burke quickly pinned a stern look at a nearby cluster of swordsmen. 'Keep watch, we don't know how many undead are roaming around outside of the village proper. I don't want to see another zombie get so far into this village again, not unless it's on our terms.'

'Yessir!'

Gerwin frowned at the bestigor carcass, approaching it with one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, despite its head being removed and therefore unlikely to be under its power again, magics or no. He cast a look at the black knight who had dealt the finishing blow.

'Were there any bestigor thralls within the village while we were attacking?'

The black knight shook his head wordlessly, then absently nudged the head with the toes of his sabaton. The head rolled so that the hideous face was pointed upward, visible for all to see.

When both Gerwin and the black knight examined the head intently, Burke leaned closer to see for himself what had caught their attention. His nose wrinkled at the pungent odour, but his eyes locked onto the eyes of the head.

'Why do the eyes look like that?' he asked.

The eyes were a rich blue, not the usual milky cloud that the undead were graced with, and the sockets around them looked to be in a worse state of decomposition than the rest of the bestigor's body.

Gerwin grunted. 'I've seen it once before, it means that whatever had control over the undead here, they took direct control over this body for a time.'

'They can do that?' Burke didn't remember ever seeing something like that during the fights in Sylvania.

'Not often. Usually more effort than it's worth, at least according to the priest who explained it to me. Leaves the body of the one projecting themselves into the carcass vulnerable. And done for too long, leaves the puppet body unusable, as the foul magic just eats away at it.'

The black knight tapped his cuirass, and when both of them looked at him, he raised his hand in a gesture of affirmation, wordlessly confirming what Gerwin had said.

Gerwin sighed, then shot a tight grin at Burke. 'I think it is safe to say, the bait has been noticed.'

Burke huffed, then grinned wryly back at him. 'I'll go make sure everybody is ready to start withdrawing as soon as the signal is given.'

And with that, Burke turned to go and do just that

#

Morwen Blackshade moved with purpose, his form gliding silently over the uneven terrain. Behind him, his allotment of the horde shuffled and clattered, a cacophony of lifeless bodies driven by his will. The village of Dunkelwald lay ahead, its silhouette outlined against the dim twilight of the setting sun. And there, those pretenders were setting their staging post. So there they would die.

He stilled. Through some small irony, he was standing atop the very same hill that the bestigor he had possessed had also stood on, but hours before. He raised a gauntlet-clad hand, and the horde halted behind him, their glowing eyes fixated upon him with unblinking obedience, their wills no longer theirs.

There was a scent in the air. Morwen could feel it, could sense the fear emanating from the village, a palpable wave of anxiety that only fuelled his dark ambitions. He relished the feeling, drawing strength from their dread.

'Forward,' he commanded, voice a hollow whisper that carried through the ranks of his thralls.

The undead obeyed without hesitation, marching in perfect, silent unison. Repurposed beastmen, skeletal warriors, and rotted carcasses moved as one. Their footsteps created a rhythmic, unsettling thrum.

As they approached the outskirts of Dunkelwald, Morwen extended his senses, seeking out any sign of resistance. He felt the presence of the Efror Guard, their living hearts beating in a synchronised drumbeat of defiance. They were fewer than he expected—perhaps they had taken more losses than he had realised. Or the vanguard had sent a vanguard of its own.

No matter. He would crush them all the same.

With a flick of his wrist, Morwen sent a group of ungors ahead to scout. The beastmen loped forward, their twisted, mutilated forms melding with the shadows as they closed in on the village. Morwen watched with cold blue orbs—glowing spheres that had no physical form—scanning for any sign of the living. He was eager to see the look of despair on their faces as they realised the futility of their stand.

The village came into full view, and Morwen could see the makeshift barricades, the pretenders readying themselves for the inevitable assault. He raised his hand once more.

'Attack.'

The word was barely audible. It didn't even really need saying aloud, but even after all this time, some habits remained hard to truly rid oneself of—the urge to utter commands aloud felt right, felt like it gave more authenticity to the moment. It was a quiet word, but it unleashed a torrent of death and destruction. The undead surged forward, a relentless tide of rotting flesh and bone, descending upon Dunkelwald with a single, horrifying purpose.

There was a shout of alarm as a sentry noticed the surging horde. That shout of alarm set in motion other shouts in response, calls out from those pretenders lingering in their petty little setup.

They should have stayed away. That way, they might have lived.

#

'Undead coming. Here they come

The shouted warning was alight with urgency, thinly contained fear, and anticipation. Burke watched as Gerwin turned toward the edge of the village from which the shout had originated. Burke, in the meantime, began to corral everybody not at that edge of the village, herding them into the pre-planned positions.

The problem with a retreat intended to bait the enemy was that one couldn't be obvious about it. If the one controlling these undead took note, then it was all for nought. It had to look like a fighting retreat; it couldn't look too orderly, but they couldn't just tell everybody to break position and flee as it was every man and woman for themselves.

It had to look like they were being pushed back but still defiant.

They had to work to allow those at the front of the fight a chance to pull back without taking an axe to the back. The trick was to break without breaking. The bridge was going to be the real challenge though. They had to get everybody across without clogging it up as they all tried to cross at once. But it couldn't be too organised, as that would be the biggest hint that this wasn't a broken force trying to flee.

'Archers,' Burke called out, 'into your pre-assigned groups. Shoot only if you think you have the shot. I do not want to learn that we put any arrows in the back of the heads of our swordsman comrades.'

Under normal circumstances, that might have earned a chuckle or two—a joke that helped keep the morale up and nerves eased. The moment they were living was not such normal circumstances. They knew they were going to be outnumbered by a threat that did not fear death, for they were already dead.

Where it might have been a joke normally, this was a reminder that, more than ever, they could not afford any casualties. Even if it wasn't about friendly fire, this was a moment where wasted shots could cost a life just as easily as if they had hit their comrades. No shots were to be fired until the archer was certain that the arrow wasn't about to be wasted.

Nearby, swordsmen who weren't at the edge of the village from which the undead approached made appearances, forming up in streets leading to this main road, with the Morr's Knights intermingled within those loose formations. Let those at the front pull back, then they would emerge and take the pressure for a time, and then they'd slowly pull back until they were out the opposite side of the village.

The sound of metal clashing met Burke's ears, and he made out the backs of the swordsmen who were pushing against a wave of walking corpses. Burke pulled an arrow from his quiver and fired it off as he made out an opening. The zombified gor fell back as the arrow pierced through its softened skull. Whether it needed the brain beneath or not, Burke wasn't going to argue results—the zombie-gor dropped to the ground and was trampled over by the march of its fellows.

There were startled shouts, but some measure of confusion was also in the air when centigors charged a defensive line and were quickly cut down. The zombie-gors were more of a threat than the centigors, in that they weren't charging directly into extended weapons and shields with reckless abandon.

'Pull back,' Burke called after minutes of firing arrows into the zombie-gors pushing against the swordsmen. At his call, the archers all shuffled backward, still releasing arrows into the thick mob of undead, by now so vast that aiming was almost an optional duty, just point the arrows over the heads of the swordsmen and release.

The swordsmen carefully pulled back, backpedalling while keeping shields held high, drawing in the threat and switching places with still-fresh warriors. At the front, Burke could make out Gerwin, who was refusing to switch out, taking his rank and position within the guard as seriously as ever and not letting himself be led back to a safer place, so long as those he fought alongside were in danger.

Damnable fool, Burke thought, though his internal opinion was tempered by an exasperated fondness for the man. Aside from Captain Sigismund, there were few others that Burke would trust to lead the Guard.

'Keep pulling back,' Burke called out when a number of swordsmen seemed to falter after having withdrawn enough to not be in immediate danger. 'Keep moving, to the bridge, you fools.'

The shout sparked a surge of extra energy within them and reminded them that there was no safety at this place, not now.

A random guardsman was grabbed by the shoulder and pulled to face Burke. 'You, take a dozen men, you are the ones leading the way to the bridge. Keep any strays away from my archers, but move swiftly!'

The guardsman, pale of flesh, but with his face drawn into a determined glower, nodded once and moved, tapping his blade against his shield as he went. Burke didn't know if it was a morale thing, tapping blades against shields, an act to psyche oneself up, or if there was some other purpose—maybe to attract attention, to let people know where to find him by ear.

Burke didn't watch him go, his focus returned to one of the clashes between guardsmen and undead, and his bow was lifted up, arrow released after a moment of careful aiming. The arrow lodged itself into the skull of an undead ungor, the force of the impact enough to have the thrall stumble back and tip over, colliding with other thralls and disturbing what semblance of a formation they might have.

'Pull back!' Gerwin's voice roared.

'Maintain your formations!' Burke added to the shouted order. 'Fall back in good order, or so help me I will throw you to the thralls myself!'

Another arrow soared through the air and found its mark. Then another. Burke twisted his head, taking note of Allison, backpedalling with a retinue of guardsmen, loosing her arrows at a rapid, yet no less accurate pace. He turned to look again toward what counted as the front, carefully gauging how far back the guardsmen had withdrawn. A grim smile stretched across his lips, and the next arrow to be pulled free of his quiver was held to the nearest of the flames meant to light the village at night. The oil-soaked ribbons wrapped around this arrow eagerly took to the flame and ignited.

Burke inhaled, then pulled back the arrow against his bow's string and released it in a practised motion. The flaming arrow hit its mark, and the pool of oil erupted into a blaze of hot fire that spread along the carefully placed trail until it blocked off that entire street. It wouldn't hold back the undead for long, but it would serve to give the guardsmen a chance to fall back without getting struck for their trouble.

It didn't help with the flanking forces, but those were also smaller, more manageable as it was. Burke trusted that the guardsmen protecting their flanks would be able to manage.

'Move it, people, to the bridge!' Gerwin called out.

'You heard the sergeant. Move it, to the bridge,' Burke reiterated, making absolutely certain that all had heard the command. Others also repeated the order, so there was no chance that anyone hadn't heard it.

#

'There they are…' Tongue murmured.

Happy carefully aligned his musket. 'Ye certain?'

Tongue nodded. 'There is no face under that hood. Just those glowing orbs.'

Happy exhaled, watched the marching swarm of dead given purpose. Dark purpose, a perversion against nature, but purpose all the same. The muzzle of his musket was carefully aimed toward the one that Tongue had pointed to.

He didn't disagree with the other chameleon, but if they were wrong and the one he was aiming at wasn't the commanding force for this splinter of the horde, then the two of them were going to be living very hectic times.

They had one shot, it had to count.

It would be serving those warmbloods a benefit also, without a guiding force, the undead would revert to the most basic interpretation of the last instructions given. There would be no cunning, no strategy. Easier to out-think, to out-move and out-fight a mindless force that knew only to march forward and kill whatever they reached.

Really, those warmbloods should be thanking Happy and Tongue for the service they were about to provide.

Below, the horde chased after the warmbloods. Whether the guiding force was aware of it or not, it was clear to Happy that the warmbloods weren't broken and fleeing, this was a controlled fall-back. Whatever the warmbloods of the Efror Guard were planning, it was on them now.

Happy inhaled, felt the wind against his scales, and shifted his musket ever so slightly. He was second only to Sharpe in mastery of the handgun, and this? This was a shot Sharpe could do with both eyes closed. If Happy missed, he'd never hear the end of it.

Exhaled, then inhaled again. Pulled back the hammer.

Pulled back the trigger.

#

Sigismund scowled, watching the flecks of light that marked the Efror Guard's warriors, torches held by guardsmen in place of shields to provide valuable light in the darkness. It was an unfortunate detail that the torches that helped them to see also made it easier to be seen in the dark.

'They're coming up to the bridge,' somebody commented—Sigismund didn't bother turning to see who had spoken.

'Just as planned,' von Eisling mumbled.

'Are the undead in pursuit?' somebody else asked.

Sigismund nodded once, even if he had no way of telling whether the one to ask the question was even looking his way. 'My men wouldn't keep pulling back otherwise. If they are retreating, it's because they have the undead on their arses.'

Captain von Eisling hummed wordlessly and turned her head, made gestures toward other members of her landsknecht. In reaction to her wordless orders, a number of the rank and file moved away to perform the duties they'd been tasked.

'Here's hoping that we bought Middenheim some breathing room,' she finally spoke again, though despite her words, her tone was satisfied, with a trace of excitement for the coming hour.

Sigismund felt the corner of his mouth twitch into an agreeing smirk. Ever since learning of the undead and their perversion of his home, fighting them felt less like a duty, more like a satisfying hobby. Though that feeling of satisfaction was forever tempered by the memory of the Count Feyerabend's fate.

The first of the torches that was representing his subordinates reached the bridge, itself marked and illuminated by the lanterns at each corner of the structure. Despite the situation that made it look as if his subordinate had withdrawn from the threat—Sigismund had to remind himself that it was part of the plan, they had only ever intended to distract and divide the horde, not win an unwinnable fight—he still felt a flicker of pride that even in their retreat, they still maintained good order, still looked every bit the professionals that he had trained them to be.

A distant crack was briefly heard, like the call of thunder. Sigismund stared up at the darkness of the sky for a moment, concerned that a storm might be upon them, but when there was no other sound, no flash of light, he quickly forgot about the moment in favour of focusing on the issue at hand.

More and more of the guard crossed the bridge, whereupon they formed up a solid formation ready to stand their ground now that they had a true chokepoint in their favour. As the last of guard began to cross the stone and wooden structure, von Eisling made her move.

'Now,' her voice bellowed with the same volume as any of the great Empire generals.

And along the bank of the river, oil was set aflame, spreading the light from the feeble lanterns instead to a blazing inferno that allowed the landsknecht and the guard both to see the opposite side of the river, to take in the sight of the undead mass.

Sigismund, despite his eagerness to carve down any undead that he could reach, felt his breath still for a moment as it dawned on him how many thralls there were on the opposite side of the river. Regrettably, it didn't look as though any of the larger threats that had been seen in the Drakwald were visible. No sign of any wearing the colours of Efror either, which was an affront that he was especially eager to correct.

But even a mass of weak and expandable chaff was a dangerous force when in such numbers. How fortunate that they were now forced to be funnelled across a bridge. A bridge which was fortified.

And protected by that flame, the Imperial dwarfs of the landsknecht now had a clear sight of their targets. Mortars were fired, and when the thralls tried to cross the bridge, arquebuses were likewise fired at the vulnerable targets.

Had the undead a proper guiding intelligence, they'd have held their position on the other side of the river, and forced a status quo as neither force could have taken the other. However, Sigismund mused, the undead show themselves to lack the ability to think properly. Must have been given a command to fall back and deal with the threat to the rear, but weren't expected to actually need any tactical acumen. The necromancer must be an arrogant bastard.

#

Fenchel poured himself a drink, hoping that the cheap alcoholic beverage would ease his nerves.

News had spread rapidly across the city: an army of the undead, marching on Middenheim. Middenheim was officially under siege. Undead. Like those abominations that had tracked him down to a farm little over two days' ride from Marienburg—still baffling that he actually owed his life to being captured by over-sized rodents just moments before that attack. Rodents who had been hired by Sigismund.

Fenchel lowered the cup, his brow creased. That had been a point that his mind would constantly dwell on, in quiet moments. He had known the captain for years, had thought him to be unwavering and stern, holding back a lot of issues and anger. Fenchel recalled that when he was younger, he had wondered if the captain's anger was a result of his upbringing in Nordland before he had found a home in Efror. There were whispers about his heritage, or more specifically, about his father.

But rage-fuelled did not translate to being willing to consort with rats of an exceptionally large stature. Of all the things to have learned about the Efror Guard's captain, that had been... shocking. Almost a betrayal. Willing to follow orders that were potentially compromised by the chaplain who had infiltrated the keep, that was in keeping with what Fenchel knew of the captain, and his rigidity. But... where did hiring skaven to capture him fall into the equation?

After a moment, the cup was lifted to his lips again, the beverage sipped at.

Something told him, deep down, these undead that had emerged from the west were the same ones that had attacked Tallow Farm. That had apparently been formed from corpses taken from the catacombs beneath the Feyerabend Keep. They were after him. And he just could not work out what was so special about him. He was a nobody, a bastard born to the daughter of a Marienburg banking family, who had for whatever reason taken to working for Count Feyerabend, who had taken him in after she died of an illness when he was young.

Another large gulp of the beverage was taken as he remembered that his mother's family were all dead now. Hung at the gallows for crimes that made no rational sense. Maybe he still had a cousin or two somewhere, but they'd no doubt be in hiding.

But what made him so special?

A knock had Fenchel put down the cup and peer at the door to his small apartment. It was such a difference from life at the keep, but at the same time, he knew he had no place to complain. Graf Todbringer had allowed him asylum in Middenheim and given him the small apartment at no charge. He was safe. Or he was supposed to be.

He opened the door, wondering if it was Rauscher again. The courtier was a semi-frequent visitor, seemed to have deemed it his duty to keep an eye on Fenchel ever since he had arrived accompanied by the queer mercenary company.

It wasn't Rauscher. The hooded individual didn't have the broad size of the blond courtier, and the clothing was a far cry from the finery worn by Rauscher. Fenchel backpedalled, hand grabbing at a knife.

The hooded individual tilted their head, seemed to stare into Fenchel's soul, and then let out a huff of amusement. A hand rose up and calmly pulled back the hood.

Fenchel released the breath he hadn't realised was being held. Of all the members of the Efror Guard who had been stationed at the keep, he'd always gotten along with Cruniac the best. Something about the man had always put him at ease.

'Cruniac,' Fenchel breathed out. 'You...'

He stilled a moment and took in Cruniac's pallor. The guardsman was unnaturally pale, and his veins and arteries were visible, pronounced and looking like molten silver embedded in his flesh. His eyes carried horrendous bags, and he looked like he was exhausted and nearly dead on his feet.

'Fenchel,' Cruniac greeted in return, then began coughing, a severe hacking that sounded as though his guts were trying to forcefully exit via his mouth. 'I found you...'

'Cruniac, what's wrong? What happened to you?'

Cruniac stepped forward, pressing a hand against a wall to prevent himself from falling over. 'The truth... I found... the truth.' And he started hacking again, fist pressed to his mouth. When he stopped, he looked at his hand and grimaced in disgust before hurriedly wiping it against the inside of the cloak he was wearing.

'What truth?'

Cruniac lunged forward, latching onto Fenchel's jerkin with a frantic look in his eyes. 'About you. About why they want you so...'

It was a strange coincidence, given Fenchel's prior thoughts moments ago. But he didn't dwell on that, not when he might finally find out why he was so sought after.

'Why? What is so special about me? I thought for a moment it might have to do with my mother's family, but...'

There was a moment of pity in Cruniac's eyes. 'Not your mother's family. Your father.'

Fenchel's breast swelled with a surge of hatred and disgust. 'I am being hunted for the crimes of a man who forced himself upon my mother?'

But Cruniac was already shaking his head. 'Not to be punished. At least, not by all. The wish is to give you... inheritance.'

Cruniac began to heave, whatever ailment was wracking his body attacking him once again. Fenchel moved to the nearby pitcher, this one filled with water, and poured out a cup which he pressed into Cruniac's hand. Cruniac managed to gulp down the liquid during a moment when the heaving paused, and afterwards was panting as though gasping for breath.

'What do you mean? Inheritance?'

Cruniac giggled—and that had Fenchel still, because of all the behaviours Cruniac had ever expressed across the duration that Fenchel had known him, he had never giggled before.

'You are... the only one. The last,' Cruniac whispered, and the air chilled.

'The last what?' Fenchel asked, stepping backwards, eyes darting for the knife he had previously reached for. Except he found it wasn't where he had left it. A look back at Cruniac, he was twirling the blade between his fingers with a dexterity that was at odds with the sickly look he held.

Cruniac flicked the knife over his shoulder and lunged forward, hands grasping onto Fenchel's head with a pressure that was unnatural.

'The last of my line.' The voice that came from his mouth was not Cruniac's. It was deeper, more powerful, and held a regalness to it that did not belong.

And then the pressure shifted, no longer a physical pressing against his skull, but a piercing unnatural pain, and Fenchel screamed, feeling the tapestry of his mind unravel as if a loose thread were being tugged at, while a sensation of otherness filled his body.

An hour later, Rauscher entered the apartment, hand resting on the hilt of his messer as he took note of the open door. Inside, his eyes were immediately drawn to what could arguably have been called a body, if that body had been made of sand that was then hit by a wave of water, dissolving it while still keeping some vague recollection of the shape it had been prior. It was the clothing still worn by this wet sand-like mass that revealed it had once been a body.

Rauscher swore under his breath and exited in a hurry, calling for the city guards. Nothing would come of it though, the undead outside the city were still the most pressing threat, a manhunt for a missing person who might not even still be alive meant that few cared to look.

It would be deemed just another loss to the siege.

-TBC