“For there to be betrayal, there would have to have been trust first.”

― Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games

Ivyander surveyed the group of soldiers and the few mages accompanying him. Not nearly enough to take a town. The undead were another matter entirely. Purely regarding their numbers and fighting strength, it should not be impossible, but their lacking intelligence and cohesion made them a deterrent for counterattack at best. He had taken them along when he found them wandering in the forest or the little deserted village they had passed, but more to overwhelm the group of fugitives he was chasing than for any kind of strategic reason.

And, he had to admit to himself, he was not as certain of the loyalties of the soldiers guarding him that he did not want some insurance for his continued good health. Without him to keep them docile, the undead would turn on the first target available which would be gratifying if he were not dead by then. So mutually assured destruction it is. He smiled.

From the small farmhouse he had requisitioned, he looked at the distant town walls and the dark spots moving along the parapet. Like poking an ants nest.

“Do we have a time for when the main army arrives?” Ivyander turned around, his pale hair grown much too long whipping around his sharp features.

“The messenger said it would be three days, four at most.” The young brunette woman swallowed at his piercing gaze. She wore the clothing of an apprentice army mage, long dark blue robes slit in front for easier movement reinforced with leather patches at the elbows, the shoulders holding the insignia of a sergeant, her relative rank, even as she was not able to give orders to ‘normal’ soldiers. That was something for the more accomplished full mages to do. No sense letting a young apprentice boss around an experienced soldier ten years his or her senior.

From the corner of his eyes, he saw another person approaching and turned to look at the dark cowled figure. Dazzlingly wrong in the expansive snow covering the fields and roads.

“Sable.”

“Ivyander. I was able to make contact and confirm that he wishes to aid us.”

The frost elf rubbed his cold hands before turning fully toward the woman. “The mistress will keep her word to him, but I don’t think he can even imagine what it means.”

“I don’t think he cares for anything other than keeping his miserable life.”

“Is he still able to do it?”

“At the moment, they don’t suspect him, that should be enough.”

The voices faded as the wind picked up, moaning around the rooftop of the farmhouse and outlying buildings.

A half-rotted corpse shook its upper body and screeched. The call was taken up by the multitudes waiting in the shadowed forest echoing eerily as the white sunlight burned down on them eroding the void energies by its sheer presence.

“It’s not right. It’s not.” The young watchman shivered, rubbing his hands together before grabbing the spear and leaning against the rampart. Outside, the snow-covered fields stretched toward the distant line of the forest. Stumps from cut trees dotted the grounds further out, and the risen dead stumbled along between the farmhouses.

“No, it’s not. And now those freaks are with us too. Have you seen that dead thing wearing a crown? Its eyes alone give me nightmares.” A woman, older than him by a decade, stretched her back before shifting the heavy mail she had squeezed into. “And if I heard it right, that white-haired slip of a girl summoned him. What is the world coming to if children go around raising undead.” Her face was wrinkled in disapproval like a dried prune.

“But without them lightning girl and that fire mage of theirs, it would have been really bad.”

“Don’t talk nonsense. Brecht would have made it right somehow, even without those meddlers.”

“They helped kill the captain.”

“Mh.” The woman spat over the wall. “Bastard stood there while we burned.”

A creak from behind them alerted them to a door opening.

“Ah, there you are.” A deep voice came from behind them, and Brecht held the door to a stairwell built into a tower. An old bowed man in rich robes, hands stuffed into the sleeves, exited and looked around, blinking owlishly. Walking up to the parapet, Brecht gestured toward the small encampment around the farmhouse bustling with Nordmark soldiers and the surrounding undead. “And that is what we are facing. Any ideas?”

“The old wards in the walls are in ill repair. If there is crystal dust, I could maybe fix some. That would certainly help against spells and the undead. Enchanting weapons would be too cumbersome. With time a worthwhile endeavor but without sufficient preparation a fool's errand.” The voice sounded scratchy and somewhat hoarse.

“Mh. Crystal dust can be found. How much do you need?”

“A barrel, at least.”

“That stretches our supplies but should be doable. So, will you help us then?”

“Yes, I will help you.”

Brecht turned, and the sun's glare blinded his eyes, so he did not see the malicious smile vanishing from the old face as quickly as a passing thought. He smiled his usual jovial smile and secretly rubbed his forehead when the old man was not looking. The old man was nearly reptilian in his expressions, cold and hard, and there were other things bothering him.

When they had come to solicit his aid, there had been no one in the mansion but him. The maid and the cook were rumored to have fled during the fighting stealing some of the loose coins and silver cutlery. But the old wizard had seemed strangely disinterested, not even asking them to apprehend the thieves.

“I will need the crystal dust as soon as possible. Bring it to my workshop.” Margramus the golden shivered as another blast of cold wind came over the balustrade.

The wight and the undead horsemen were standing just inside the town-gate in the small square. The blood stains from yesterday's fight were still visible on the stone steps leading up the wall.

Calvin was arguing with Rolf in the background, and Alyssa talked with Isolde.

Mireille looked at Cyrus, who had managed to ascend to the roof of the gatehouse, and proudly raised his head, tail whipping behind him.

On the wall, Brecht talked to the old wizard.

“We can’t have the living dead inside the walls!” Rolf shouted, followed by calm- and thus indistinct- words from Calvin.

Isolde crossed her arms in front of her chest and raised an eyebrow at Alyssa. “Can’t have them out in the open like that. We are fighting the good fight against the traitorous necromancer scum.” She had the decency to look a bit embarrassed at that. “We cannot have undead openly standing in the gate square. I myself appreciate your help and your…” she elongated her words as she saw Calmund turn his head, greenish flame flickering in his skull. “Ah, whatever. Hide them, make them invisible, put them in a warehouse for all I care.”

“But if we are attacked…”

“They are mostly mounted. Ever seen a rider defend a wall? You would use them for a counterattack or for fighting in the streets. And until that happens, there will still be time to get them out from wherever they hid.”

And shortly after, it was decided to bring them to the slaughterhouse where ‘normal’ townsfolk would never venture, and death energies were thick.

They had returned to the tavern after the night spent at Brecht’s requisitioned townhouse. And come evening, they once again sat around the table situated at the corner to the right of the bar.

Calvin listlessly stabbed into his stew before taking a bite frowning all the while.

“You don’t like the stew? I think it's perfectly fine.” Mireille eyed his portion. “Sure you are gonna eat that?”

“Yes.” Came the clipped reply.

“No need to be rude.” Mireille leaned back and sadly looked at her empty bowl.

Alyssa surreptitiously shoved her own toward her friend, who mouthed a ‘thank you’ and began to eat the leftovers with glee.

Cyrus wrestled with a large bone underneath the table, giving the impression of a strange dog. His powerful jaws splintering the tough material.

“What do you think of the wizard?” Alea asked into the silence.

“What of him? Some old coot that got his courage after everything was over?” Mireille swallowed a potato and continued. “Don’t like him.”

“He feels wrong somehow.” Alea fiddled with a button before consciously relaxing her fingers, laying them on the tabletop before her.

“How so?” Calvin was finally successfully distracted from his brooding.

“His life force is much stronger than it seems from his appearance alone, but it does not fit his soul.”

“Mh. That sounds a bit worrying but don’t think too much of it. There is some talk about rituals that can extend our allotted time, and Illimen, for example, was old when I was still an apprentice.” Calvin smiled at the thought but regained his seriousness soon after. “We should keep together and talk to Brecht about him. He seemed to be on decent terms with him as far as I could see.”

“Where is Iseret?” Alyssa asked.

“She mentioned she had something she needed to do,” Alea spoke up.

Sable had a split-second warning before a claw made of black ice slashed into the space her head had been in as she dodged desperately.

The night was lit by red-tinged moonlight, and the cramped alleys were full of possible hiding spaces.

Vanessa cursed under her breath before she concentrated, and the demon bound to her shadow elongated grotesquely over the wall behind her back. The half-elven spy spread her hands, and glyphs glowed in a line between them before a burst of bluish energy blasted forward, hurling Vanessa backward and into the wall. She hit with a crunch, plaster spiderwebbing from the impact. Grimacing, the smaller vampire pushed off the wall and jumped to the side, her leg straightening with a sick crackling sound as unnatural energies forced the bone back into shape.

Long stilettos appeared in Sable's hands, waving before her in a figure eight. Mesmerizing in their perfect motion.

A sudden slight whisper was the only warning as a dagger flew from a rooftop to the side, burnished black and barely visible, cutting into the left arm of the cowled half-elven woman.

With a muffled curse, she turned to flee while parrying another dagger, causing sparks to fly from the impact.

“Who is there!?” Cried a sentry somewhat inanely, causing Vanessa to roll her eyes in exasperation before hurrying after her departing quarry.

Glyphs telling of time and the spaces between seconds burst into bright life around the fleeing half-elf, and with a desperate effort, she escaped beyond the walls, her left arm dangling uselessly, dripping blackened blood.

“Don’t.” Iseret made a stopping motion toward Vanessa as the two came to a stop on top of the wall.

The cowled figure retreated toward the forest, seemingly slow compared to the magically induced burst of speed.

Vanessa tensed to spring forward as a featherlight touch on her shoulder caused her to hesitate.

“Wait.” Iseret’s yellow eyes glowed under the reddish moon Ioreth.

The figure slowed and turned before crumbling to the ground.

“Your mastery of poison is better than mine,” Vanessa murmured, barely audible over the moaning wind.

“She who is many and one graces my blood with her divine venom.” Iseret’s voice was without emotion.

Another figure, taller than the woman, rose from a shadowed recess beside a farmhouse, and with a gesture, hundreds of undead in various states of decay rose from the snow and shambled closer, standing around the two protectively.

“I feared as much. Everything about that reeked of an ambush.” Iseret remarked quietly.

“The spy is still down, should we…?” Vanessa seemed conflicted.

“No, I think we should be careful.”

The larger person invoked a few spells, and the smaller figure stumbled back to her feet.

Standing quietly, Iseret sighed, “So much for my vaunted poisons, but I think she will feel the sting of my bite for days and days even as she might no longer die from it.”

Someone on their right began to shout, “Alarm!”

“I think we should go before we have to fight or, worse, explain ourselves.” Iseret made an inviting motion toward the town proper. “After you.”

With an amused scoff, Vanessa turned and jumped to the next rooftop, rapidly gaining distance to the commotion on the wall, closely followed by Iseret.

Margramus the golden.

His name was not only a play on his wealth or capability to wield and transform metals, once it had stood for his golden mane of hair. He had been quite fond of it and a bit vain, as he would be the first to admit. Small vices were for public consumption, while the larger failings had no place in the light.

His hands moved as he cut the heart from the younger maid. She had long, blonde hair. Just like him.

Once upon a time.

Perhaps he would have it once more when he rose again. He laughed under his breath.

Dripping the heart blood on the crystal dust, he grimaced. The void energies suffusing the air in larger and larger amounts made his heart stutter for a moment as they flowed along the more useful- for him- unaspected mana.

Blood crystal.

What a crude and vulgar concoction. But very potent nonetheless. Draining the heart's blood and infusing alchemical substances with more and more power, the former blue crystals darkened and developed reddish-black splotches. It would not suffice to turn the whole barrel into the notorious drug, but it would be more than enough for his purposes.

He grinned mirthlessly. And even if they killed him afterward, they would hardly have the time to sufficiently degrade his body to hinder his second birth.

His gaze roamed over the scroll with the silver clasp. He had followed the instructions to the letter. If everything went well, he would die and then rise again as a greater undead. And if, for some reason, he failed in this endeavor, the Heartstealer herself had promised him a place in her court.

He closed his eyes and suppressed his doubts. He had gone too far, risked too much to turn back now. With the incriminating evidence in the hands of Sable or her masters, it would be childs play to turn the town against him.

There was no way but forward.

Another day passed.

Rolf drilled the militia.

Brecht made the rounds and spoke to his men.

Isolde organized supplies and gathered what was left of the populace.

Calvin drank more than was good for him.

Alyssa and Mireille talked and rested quietly while Alea tinkered with Butler One.

Cyrus slept deeply after eating more than was healthy or prudent.

Another night passed without incident.

From the great road leading northwest marched column after column of soldiers the banners of Nordstrom under the great flag of the von Nordmarks.

And with trepidation and dark faces, the defenders stood upon the walls, the rising sun at their backs.

“I don’t think they will wait us out?” One large journeyman-smith said into the silence.

“We inside our houses with the supplies meant for a population three times our size, and they in the abandoned farmhouses in midwinter? What do you think?”

And as the murmurs grew in volume, someone shouted. “There is a rider. They want to parlay!”