Anser rode his horse up to a high ridge, reined in, and looked back.
The undead that had chased after them were scattered and clearly lacked coordination, while the main undead force was surrounding and attacking a team of fairly strong adventurers.
He guessed it should be the group of Amn people they had encountered during the day. They were breaking out toward the camp, and their current position was only a few hundred meters from it. Whether it was coincidence or a deliberate attempt to shift the trouble onto someone else.
After that burst of holy light, the undead had suffered heavy losses, but those killed were all low-tier undead. The Amn people's situation had not improved.
"Anser, look over there." Bratt caught up, sweat beading on his forehead, his breathing still fairly steady.
Anser followed his gaze. The undead were already about to catch up to Emon and the others, and a battle could break out at any moment.
It was not that the undead were fast, but that there were too many elderly, weak, women, and children from the Stonemasons' Guild who could not keep up. Emon could not bear to abandon them and had been lingering behind to help.
Bratt pressed his lips together, his expression tormented. The hand gripping his longsword was deathly pale. He did not want Anser to risk himself, yet he could not stand by and watch Emon march to his death.
Emon had his own resolve, and Bratt had his own moral bottom line.
"I'm sorry, I have to go help—"
"How are you going to do that?" Anser raised a hand to cut him off. He reached back, unfastened his pack, and threw it to the ground. "You and Finn take the packs and keep heading west. Pay attention to maintaining your condition."
"I'll go help him. With Nornoth around, those undead won't be able to catch me."
Before Bratt could reply, Nornoth let out a shrill cry and suddenly charged down the slope, heading straight for the mass of undead.
After a full day of practice, and with the aid of the saddle, it could finally pick up speed. Overjoyed, it ran faster and faster.
Anser raised his hand and cast Light on his staff. Nornoth had darkvision out to about 18 meters, but he did not.
The motion was so practiced that it unconsciously reminded him of that dual-wielding berserker Gandalf—light up, swing the sword, and kill.
A few hundred meters vanished in a blink, and the figures of Emon, Alva, and the others came into view.
Seeing Anser arrive, Emon felt grateful, but this was clearly not the time to talk.
He and Alva stopped at the same time, drew their weapons, and turned to face the enemy. Letting Anser alone cover the rear was something he could not bring himself to do.
"You go. I'll fight a guerrilla battle," Anser waved them on, his tone resolute.
He was not showing off. With Nornoth there, he could fight and run without restraint. Adding two more people would only slow him down.
Emon and the other hesitated for a moment, then chose to trust him. Still, they did not run too far, staying behind the crowd from the Stonemasons' Guild so they could provide support at any time.
Anser focused his mind on the undead. The dice trembled slightly, then quickly revealed their information:
[Skeleton, Undead, Challenge Rating 1/4]
[Zombie, Undead, Challenge Rating 1/4]
The fast ones were skeletons; the slow, shambling ones were zombies. The types were very monotonous.
Not very strong, it seems.
However, undead did not tire and did not feel fear. They moved in groups at the slightest provocation, and their bodies were nothing but bones and rotten flesh. No one wanted to fight them; if they could avoid them, they would.
Anser raised his staff, preparing to test their quality first.
"जादुઈ विस्फोट
Sorcery Burst — Fire!
The spell's light tore through the night, crossing dozens of meters at extreme speed and striking the chest with precision.
Boom—
The skeleton did not dodge at all. It was blasted over by the sudden eruption of flames, a swath of ribs shattered. Yet it did not wail or roar. After scrambling up a few times, it continued the pursuit.
[You cast Sorcery Burst on Skeleton… Skeleton is hit and takes 6 fire damage. Current Hit Points: 9/15…]
Nornoth turned and sprinted several steps, opening the distance again.
As soon as it steadied itself, Anser cast again. Another Sorcery Burst smashed straight into its face. A critical hit triggered a chain explosion, blowing the skeleton apart into scattered pieces.
[You cast Sorcery Burst on Skeleton… Target dead. Gained 45 experience points.]
This is way too easy. Anser's eyes lit up as he looked at the sparse undead still chasing after him.
No dodging, no need to waste Magic Missile. Weren't these ideal experience fodder?
With that thought, he hesitated no longer. He had Nornoth run a bit farther ahead to open the distance and repeated the tactic, blasting the second skeleton to death with three Sorcery Bursts.
[…Target dead. Gained 50 experience points.]
The experience from each skeleton varied slightly, but not by much.
Anser did not get greedy. Riding Nornoth, he fought while retreating, always keeping a safe distance and only targeting the one at the very front.
Throughout the entire process, he used only Sorcery Burst. This was the Sorcerer's signature cantrip, and among all offensive cantrips, only the Warlock's Eldritch Blast could reliably outclass it.
Thus a strange scene emerged: dozens of humans fleeing in a long line through the night, with Anser behind them, and behind him, scattered undead slowly giving chase.
These undead were practically rushing to their deaths—one went up and one died. Even at their closest, they never closed to within fifty meters of Anser.
Anser was having the time of his life. In a short while, he took down four skeletons and one zombie.
Only today did he truly realize how important a mount was to a spellcaster.
There was no need to stand still and channel damage, nor any need to worry about close-range threats. Mobile casting—fire once, change position—meant that monsters with inferior movement speed simply could not touch him.
If only his riding skill were better. The jolting made it impossible to maintain focus and precision. Otherwise, casting spells while mounted would have made him a true mobile artillery platform.
By now, there were not many undead left behind them. Under the cover of night, only a few zombies were still shambling along at a leisurely pace. The distant village and the mass of undead were no longer visible.
Anser did not stay behind to wait for the zombies. He continued withdrawing together with Emon and the others, unwilling to take risks for a bit of experience.
He now had a deep appreciation for the chaos of Faerûn. Experience, after all… would come knocking on its own.
...
Meanwhile, on the other side, the Amn squad looked at the empty camp ahead and the figures that had already vanished into the night, their hearts filled with despair.
He had planned to use those forty-odd people to share the pressure and seize the chance to break out, but he had not expected the others to be so alert and to leave early.
Staring at the holy chalice in his hand, he felt a surge of regret. If only he had held back a little longer before using it.
"We are a slave-hunting team of the Nashival family," he shouted to his surroundings. "I know you—the attendants of the Lord of Bones. We are not enemies…"
"Yes, we are from Amn, Esmeltaran…"
"Lord Nashival is not far from here. Think it through…"
The surviving team members also came to their senses and began shouting in turn.
Yet no matter how they called out, the undead assault did not weaken in the slightest.
In the shadows, two mysterious figures in black robes embroidered with white human skulls remained silent, anger flickering in their eyes.
They had only been gone a few days, yet their lair had been taken over. The aura of the holy relic, bloodshed, and death had stimulated the reanimation array, prematurely awakening the slumbering undead horde.
Not only had the undead not reached the required strength, many had also fallen out of control. Years of planning had been ruined.
One of the black-robed figures looked westward. The night there was deep, yet the image of that knight wearing a Holy Symbol on his chest still lingered in his mind.
"A follower of Tyr," he said gravely.
"I've got eyes," his companion replied hoarsely, in a foul mood.
Followers of the god of justice loved meddling in others' affairs. Once word of what was happening here spread, waves of followers and paladins would soon come knocking.
Their current situation was already bad. Most divine spells could not be cast, and no matter what they did, they could not obtain a response from Myrkul, the god of death.
At one point, they had formed grim suspicions and were forced to hole up in the wilderness. Only these undead gave them even a sliver of security.
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