Chilly autumn wind blew down the hills and planes of Aleshat, carrying with it a faint smell of rot.
Three hundred and fifty men marched down a dirt road in rough formations. But even without them, it was easy to separate the people into three distinct categories.
In the front were people in the most colorful clothing. Many of them wore armor polished to a shine and wielded shields and spears. Some had other weapons, and some were on horses. A few even carried large banners, the main of which carried the green and red coat of arms of Baron Arstain. The men under these banners were the best fighters of the count and his allies.
Near these people, but aside, were men in white, wearing symbols of the Church of Light. Anyone could tell that they were templars.
And behind these all, with carts of supplies but mostly on foot, were much poorer-looking soldiers with only spears in their hands. Many of them looked like yesterday's farmers… And they were.
In total, there were a hundred elite soldiers, fifty templars, and two hundred drafted spearmen.
And on the horizon, they could see a silhouette of an old fortress standing on top of a hill.
At the sight of this, the count, who was riding on a horse in front of the army, shook his fist covered in a mail glove.
"The Mirkhill Fort! Your predictions were correct, Justicar Esvan. The cowardly spawn decided to burrow itself here instead of facing us in an honorable battle. It's just as they say—shit sticks to shit, forgive me my crass language."
Justicar Esvan was riding next to the count. Now he made a sign of the holy star in the air.
"No need to apologize, what you said is true, Count," he said sourly.
Next to each other, the count and the justicar made quite a contrast. The count was a stout, wide-shouldered man in plate cuirass and mail. Opposite of that, the justicar was tall and narrow-faced. His armor was full plate, with only the helmet taken off and hanging off his saddle.
"No matter," the count continued. "The fort was in disrepair for decades. It won't protect the necromancer. We will take the spawn's head and hang it on top of Oakdale's temple of Light!"
"I'm shocked you don't want to hang it in your castle. Especially after gathering so many people for this expedition," the justicar replied with even more sourness.
The truth was, Samuel Esvan didn't ask for Danit's help. But Danit was the owner of these lands, and Samuel couldn't refuse when he insisted. Although the justicar was sure that his current force of templars would be enough.
He took everyone under his command for this, after all!
"I don't want such a cursed thing near my home and children. It will be good enough to give eternal rest to the villagers slaughtered by the monster."
Samuel winced. He already took the failure to stop the necromancer in time as a personal failure. Even his witch-hunter assassins went missing in action, and Samuel prayed for their souls.
It was those losses among villagers that made Samuel's current army so large. Enraged by the necromancer's actions, some free companies of mercenaries and even some of his peasants have enlisted in the gathering army, creating their own holy crusade against the evil.
"By the Light, we certainly will have justice for the victims," Samuel promised. "First, we must send scouts ahead. I don't want to climb this hill if the necromancer isn't actually there."
Soon, a pair of templars advanced toward the hill on horses. One of them was a cleric, able to sense the Dark magic from a distance. The fort didn't react to their approach, and within half an hour, they returned with a report.
"The gates are closed—it looks tight, but they are rotten through and through. The walls are old, but still hold—and we saw undead on top of them. It looks like they are preparing to fight off a siege. We couldn't see the necromancer himself, but his aura was there. A vile thing…"
"A siege?!" the count exclaimed. "If is a siege they want, we will give them one! By the end of this day, my men will bring here a battering ram!"
"Then so be it. And in the meantime, my clerics will bless more holy water. Our men will need a lot of it to clear the miasma of this place."
The army made camp at a safe distance from the necromancer's magic, and some men went to cut a tree for the battering ram. The work really went quickly.
The next morning, a dozen men carried the ram toward the fortress's gates. Near it marched even lines of men on foot—the entire force of the gathered army.
They didn't expect much from the enemy. The undead weren't archers, and unless the necromancer showed himself, he couldn't cast his deadly magic. In case he did, there were some bowmen ready to end this fight quickly.
So it was a nasty surprise for Justicar Esvan when five zombies with bows rose from behind the parapet on the wall. Their faces were very familiar to him, just as their clothing.
Even more, the arrowtips of their arrows sparkled with unholy energy.
"Count, look up! Take cover!"
With deceptive slowness, the undead templars raised their bows and shot right at the generals leading the army: the justicar and the count!