Chapter 1: Prologue – A Restful Peace…

"In southern Ur-Teros, in the fertile plains sandwiched by the tundras to the east, the tropical rainforests to the west, and the Massad-Al-Hadur desert to the north, lay the nations collectively known as the three lichdoms, where the necromancers and their undead ruled supreme, and all others served them as their slaves.

 

To the north west was Antemeia, where most inhabitants slaved away at the whims of the necromancer ruling class, whose wills were enforced by their mighty undead armies, where punishment for disobedience meant becoming part of the undead army themselves. Antemeia was ruled by a cabal of master necromancers, who all specialize in the working of dead flesh, and accordingly titled themselves 'Flesh Artisans'.

 

Junora lay in the north-east, and if most people in Antemeia were serfs, the people who lived in Junora could not claim even that. They were cattle, objects who belonged to their overlords, to be dealt with however their betters wished. The leader of Junora was titled the Spirit Servant, and it was said that whoever stepped to that position, had their spirit engulfed by the accumulated and merged spirits of their predecessors, who then ruled through them, while their spirit eventually merged into the congregation.

 

The trifecta was completed by Ptolodecca to the south. With the harshest terrain of the three nations, it nevertheless thrived the most somehow. Rumors and people from Ptolodecca always claimed that they lived good lives, where freedom and plenty were theirs to grab, and that they revered their necromancer master as guardians and saviors. Likely little more than indoctrinated propaganda from said leaders. Claims were that the Bone Lord who had ruled over Ptolodecca from its infancy had always been one and the same, another claim likely done for propaganda as everyone knows that there are no such things as a sentient undead.

 

A recent addition to the dynamics to the south is the newly risen Theocracy of Vitalica, which started from a peasant rebellion that ended up consuming easily a quarter each of Antemeian and Junoran land. The new theocracy, populated almost exclusively by human former slaves, was enveloped by Antemeia and Junora, and was rumored to be backed by Ptolodecca, who wished to destabilize its neighbors with their rise. Indeed, it was easy to see that wariness towards their other neighbors was one major factor on why neither Antemeia nor Junora has moved to crush the nascent nation that formed in their midst yet." - An Excerpt from "A History of Southern Ur-Teros'' by Padra bin Ismail, royal court Historian of the Hassid Caliphate, circa year 12 VA.

Southern Junora, near Antemeia border, approximately ten kilometers to the south of Vitalica's borders, sixthday of the third week of the ninth month, Year 34 Vitalis Ascendant (VA).

 

"To the left! Strike them down!" Yelled a young knight in black armor as he cleaved a walking dead - a revenant that hungered for the flesh of the living, with only hatred and hunger in its mind - in twain with his great axe.

 

Six of the eighteen soldiers who fought with him turned as one to the left as their compatriots took up the slack at the frontlines, and they went to work methodically on the undead beings, heavy axes severed limbs and heads, while heavy maces crushed skulls and bones. Every now and then, flashes of fire or light blazed from the hands of the elite soldiers and set undead alight.

 

Diarmuid Fiachna, nascent Dark Knight, and second son of Ciarran Fiachna, head of the Templar order in Vitalica, looked proudly at his soldiers. The eighteen men and women with him were elites, mages one and all, trained from youth by the best their budding nation - and their discreet supporter - has to offer, and served as both his personal guards, and loyal soldiers who would follow him on a trip through hell itself.

 

This trip was a discreet one, just a secret visit to Ptolodecca to deliver a letter from his grandfather the pope to the mighty Bone Lord of Ptolodecca, their discreet supporter and the man who was responsible for how Vitalica came to be, who also still insisted Diarmuid call him grandfather to this day.

 

While he might have done so often as a child, now that he was an adult of twenty-five he nonetheless felt some trepidation at his other "grandfather", his mother's master in magic, whose physical form was that of a skeleton with eerie green soulfire in his eye sockets.

 

Not that he had expected any trouble on these trips to be honest. He had made the trip twice yearly since he turned seventeen, always with only his entourage of eighteen - and in the past three years, nineteen as his little sister Aideen had tagged along after she too turned seventeen - and never had he ran into any trouble other than the occasional stray undead on the road.

 

What they ran into today however, was nothing short of a planned ambush. The first wave of arrows had injured half the soldiers, and he thanked Vitalis that his little sister rode with them today, as her healing magic quickly and easily healed the wounds as if nothing had ever transpired.

 

Diarmuid then had Aideen stay at the back, at the limits of her magic's range and well away from the horde of undead - he counted at least a hundred twenty, a necromancer probably somewhere behind them, hidden from sight - while he himself joined his soldiers in a charge towards the undead.

 

Unlike his older brother Faerghus or little sister Aideen, Diarmuid had not inherited their father's life affinity, but their mother's death affinity instead. Ironically, this made him so much better at putting down the undead, as a surge of his magic easily snuffed out the usually miniscule amount necromancers used to animate their undead puppets.

 

He beheaded another revenant with his axe, and removed the sword arm of another on his return swing, before his eyes caught a glance of a robed figure who hid behind the horde. Diarmuid was a decisive man, and he whistled to attract his men's attention to him.

 

"Squads one and two, form a wall, keep the revenants occupied and Aideen safe! Squad three, with me! We have a necromancer to slay today!" He yelled to his soldiers.

 

The men and women on the first two squads wore lamellar mail armor, and were armed with an axe or mace, and a large shield. They were trained well in shield wall tactics, so with Aideen's healing support he was certain they would do well at their task even while outnumbered greatly.

 

On the other hand, the third squad had plate armor like him, and wielded their two handed weapons with confidence. Where the first two squads were the shield, they were the sword, whose only purpose is to kill the enemy, or die trying.

 

With a roar on the top of his lungs, Diarmuid led his squad as he cut his path towards the necromancer while the rest of his soldiers closed the shield wall behind him.

 

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Aideen Fiachna watched with some trepidation, and yet also with some excitement as her older brother waded into the horde of undead, his mighty axe sending limbs and heads flying as he rampaged his way through. She waved a strand of her long, flame-red hair away from her face as it fell there, while she followed behind her brother's soldiers at a safe distance.

 

By now her brother had left her range, too far away for her to support with her healing magic, but the shield wall formed by his men fifteen meters in front of her was not. She concentrated on her magic, allowed it to permeate the soldiers and seek out any damage within.

 

One female soldier hissed under her breath as a revenant clawed her in the ribs with its left arm while its right clumsily struck a sword against her shield. The dead fingers cut deep, all the way to her bones, and the wound bled profusely. A surge of warmth enveloped her before it could go worse however, as Aideen worked her magic, and before long the wound was shut, with only scar tissue on the skin as reminders of its existence.

 

The soldier gave Aideen a quick salute with a raised shield before she turned back to her task, and they fought on with courage and purpose.

 

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Aideen smiled as she slowly walked forward as the shield wall slowly advanced. She might not be able to fight at the front lines like her brothers could, but at least she could be of help to them with her magic. She clutched the quarterstaff in her hands tightly as another soldier took a bad hit and quickly shifted her magic to heal the wound before it could take its toll on the man.

 

She might be no fighter, but Vitalis be damned if she wouldn't try her best to be the best healer she can be to aid those who fought.

 

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Nobody noticed when a few meters behind Aideen, the dirt shifted quietly, and a gaunt, emaciated hand rose from beneath the soil, found purchase, and pulled the rest of its body up. Had one of the soldiers - or even Aideen herself - noticed it, they would have beaten or slain the creature before it could leave the soil, but alas, none of them had their eyes turned that way.

 

The undead creature was a different ilk to the horde ahead. Where the horde were fleshy, often bloated creatures with rotting flesh, this one was gaunt, just skin over lean, hard muscles and bones, and unlike the horde that mostly were just instinct given a direction, this undead had far more purpose in its movements.

 

Most experienced soldiers in Vitalica would have recognized it as a soul puppet, a type of undead specific to Junora, rare and expensive to create, but powerful, and most importantly, allowed the necromancer to control it remotely using their own souls.

 

The undead creature's right arm morphed into a sword-like blade, its wicked edge sharp and with backwards-pointing barbs along the length of the blade, as it walked calmly, as quiet as death itself, and approached the nearest person to it.

 

Aideen.

 

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Aideen cheered along with the soldiers at the shield wall when Diarmuid slaughtered his way towards the necromancer in control of the horde, and slew the mongrel with a cleave of his axe. Her brother then joined his soldiers as he went and finished off the rest of the now mindless horde.

 

She was just about to run ahead and join her brother now that the danger had passed when a gaunt, bony hand suddenly covered her mouth. Before she could react, she felt a sharp pain in her chest, and stared in shock at the wicked blade with barbed edges that now protruded out of her chest, dripping blood to the ground.

 

Her blood.

 

She wanted to scream, but nearly choked on her own blood instead, and she had to grit her teeth to prevent herself from accidentally biting her tongue when the blade was pulled out, bits of her flesh stuck to the barbs on its side, only to be plunged into her body again, and again.

 

Aideen struggled, tried to heal her injuries with her magic, tried to break free and call for help, but the undead holding her was far stronger, and seemed to take perverse pleasure in her suffering as she gave her all to staying alive if even just a moment longer.

 

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When Diarmuid knelt beside his mortally wounded little sister, his heart was a wallowing maelstrom of self-guilt and anger. He was angry at himself, that he had not given his sister someone to guard her - even though he realized that the horde had needed all the manpower he had at hand - for this could have been prevented. Or that he had not allowed his sister to join the battle lines. It was risky, but at least she would have had the guards besides her.

 

Instead, he had bid her to stay well in the back, for her own safety, he had said. Fat lot of good it did, as now his sister lay dying before his eyes.

 

The soul puppet responsible for this had escaped the moment one of his soldiers noticed it, but by then the damage had been done. Aideen was the only true healer in their group, and while a couple of the light affinity mages had minor healing magic, it was far from enough. Her injuries were far too severe, and the only reason she still breathed was because she forcefully maintained herself with her mana, as she no longer had anywhere near enough to save herself.

 

It was the last, bright flicker of a candle flame that was about to extinguish itself.

 

"Forgive me, sister," said Diarmuid as he cradled his sister's hand, uncaring about the blood and pieces of flesh that covered the ground as he knelt on it. His voice almost choked with sobs as he went on. "I have failed… to keep you safe."

 

"Bro… ther… don't… blame yourself… please..." replied Aideen haltingly, as she coughed and blood flowed from her mouth. Strangely, at this point, probably the last moment of her life, she was no longer panicked, as instead calm took over. She was going to die, and there was nothing she could do to prevent it. It scared her, yet at the same time, it was not like anything else she could have done at this point could change the facts. "Please… tell mother… and father… that I love them… and… I'm sorry… for making them… sad..."

 

With those words, she closed her eyes, and as the last vestiges of her mana that sustained her life ran dry, her hand went limp in her brother's grasp, as her head lolled to the side and her labored breathing ceased.

 

Diarmuid screamed her name as tears ran down his cheeks while he cradled her body, but Aideen was no longer privy to that.

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