The wall. All roads in Valos's life in recent weeks led to this line of stone and mithril. Now he stood on its battlements, and the wind, smelling of ash and decay, whipped his hair. On the horizon, the orderly ranks of the undead were visible. Beneath him, the final stage of preparation was boiling, and the sight of this spectacle evoked in him a strange, chilling feeling he had not experienced since the day he awoke in a puddle on the outskirts of this world — a primal, animal fear.
His fingers involuntarily gripped the cold stone of the parapet so hard his knuckles turned white. A lump formed in his throat. This was not like the fear of his father or of failure. This was the fear of flesh before the inexorable millstone of war, which was about to be set in motion.
«Here it is, the moment of truth. All my cunning, all my deals, all this circus with signatures on papers — it all comes down to whether this pile of rocks can withstand the blow.»
He watched the orderly ranks of his men, the stocky, impenetrable squares of dwarves, the pitiful but disciplined remnants of Vigar's troops. The united army. It sounded proud. In reality, it was a handful of desperate souls, backed against the wall and preparing for the final strike.
— Everything alright, son?
Eldrid's voice was quiet, but it made Valos flinch. He hadn't heard his father approach. The Baron stood beside him, his straight back and calm face a living rebuke to Valos's own turmoil.
Valos tried to respond with some caustic quip, but the words stuck in his throat. He only nodded silently, unable to tear his gaze from the horizon.
— Fear is not weakness, Valos, — Eldrid said, looking in the same direction. — It is fuel. It reminds us what we are afraid to lose. You have prepared them. You have given them a chance. No one can ask for more.
— I am putting them in harm's way, Father, — Valos's voice came out hoarse. — All of them. Because of my ambition, because of my desire to survive…
— You gave them a purpose, — Eldrid corrected. His hand fell on his son's shoulder, heavy and firm.
— Without you, they would already be dead or wandering these fields as ash and bones. They are not fighting for you. They are fighting for themselves. And you… you simply showed them the direction. And reinforced these walls.
His father's words did not erase the fear, but they forged it into a cold, solid form of resolve. The trembling in his hands ceased. Yes, he was afraid. But he was not helpless.
At that moment, the Darkness appeared on the horizon.
At first, it was merely a shadow crawling across the ground. Then the shadow took shape — an endless, undulating sea of bones and contorted bodies. The necromancer's army. It moved silently, without drums or cries, and this silence made one's blood run cold. They marched in a steady, inexorable formation, and there were so many of them that it seemed they would cover the entire world.
The wall fell silent. Even the dwarves stopped grumbling. The air thickened, growing heavy as lead.
And then, from the center of the approaching army, a figure in tattered black robes rose. Nazrik. His face, hidden by a hood, was turned toward the wall. He seemed to hover above his troops, and a wave of soul-chilling cold radiated from him.
The necromancer slowly raised his hand, and his voice, amplified by magic, boomed across the field. It was audible throughout the city.
«Resistance… Hope… What a touching, but useless gesture.»
And then the ground truly shuddered.
From behind the lines of skeletons, from billowing clouds of black smoke, something slowly, majestically rose. Bones, bound by dark magic, formed a monstrous frame, larger than the tallest building in the city. Ribs like bent bridge arches, an empty skull with two green fires blazing in its eye sockets. Wings of interlocked bone plates unfurled with a clatter, raising clouds of dust.
A Skeletal Dragon. An ancient nightmare incarnated in bone. It spread its wings, eclipsing the sun, and let out a silent roar that made the stonework of the wall tremble.
A chill ran down Valos's spine again. But this time it was not fear; it was something else. Almost… respect. «Well then, Nazrik. Right to the point. No hint of subtlety.»
— It seems our guest has decided to skip the appetizer and move straight to the main course, — Valos said, his voice regaining its usual sardonic edge.
He turned to Corvus. He was watching the approaching dragon with the same expression he wore when looking at training dummies — appraisingly, without a trace of fear.
— The Fire Spear? — Corvus asked. Their main trump card, the artifact for which everything had been undertaken.
— Not yet, — Valos shook his head, his mind feverishly calculating options. — He is baiting us. Trying to make us waste our strongest argument on the first move. No. First, let Balin and the dwarves do their work. Show him that we have other toys.
Eldrid stepped forward, to the edge of the tower, so the soldiers frozen in terror before the flying nightmare could see him.
— TO THE WALLS! First rank, shields up! Archers, fire arrows — aim for the wings! Mages — ready the shields! This is just a big bone! And we have bigger hammers!
His words did not erase the fear, but they drove a wedge of discipline into it. The soldiers, trained by weeks of drill, obediently took their positions. The dwarves began chanting something in their language — a low, guttural song that seemed to make the stone grow harder.
The Skeletal Dragon let out a silent roar that echoed as pain in the bones of every living creature on the wall. It dove toward them, and it seemed as if the very sky was falling.
Valos stood, fists clenched. The first move was the enemy's. Now it was their turn. The game had begun.