A concerned mutter ran through the room. Indeed, the faint sounds of screaming and shouting amidst the slaughter outside implied the very opposite.

Pathetic, thought Seán. A whole life cultivating an image of a war-leader, only to die sitting on his arse as his castle is breached.

Seán sighed. He too would likely die alongside the fool.

Only a few short days ago, everything was in place. Seán had arrived at Rosca Umhír to be Earl Carríga’s arcane advisor, and the Silverback’s rebellion was days from being set in motion. The Simian’s plan was a simple one: Nicole and her Reapers would take Point Grey, holding the Clifflands as Argyll gave his demands to the Crown. Fair demands, in Seán’s eyes. First to establish an independent Simian state throughout the Northern Reach of Alabach, and second to destroy the wicked Church of the Trinity, redistributing the opulent wealth of the Basilica of Penance to the needy.

In the event that King Diarmuid did not capitulate, choosing instead to engage with the separatist forces in Point Grey, the Silverback had another plan.

Though a plan no more, now that a different enemy threatened the kingdom.

Seán looked up to a great stained-glass window that stood behind the earl’s throne. It bore the image of King Móráin the First during his alleged “apotheosis,” with his bright, golden wings that blinded the Simian natives with their radiance. More lies of the Church, conceived to shield the world from the Truth, just as the garish stained-glass image obscured the flames of the burning city outside.

None had spoken up since the earl’s last outburst. Across the room, two noblemen in robes hung their heads in silence, while a younger man prayed in frantic whispers, hands clasped. The others formed tight huddles, weeping quietly together.

Hopeless, thought Seán, his fingers slowly forming a fist. How did it all become so….

A knock boomed through the room, causing many to jump in fright. It came from the entrance to the throne room, where a mighty oaken door sealed those within from the horrors unfolding without.

When the knock came a second time, one guard set aside his pike to open the door slightly. It seemed that he was ready to dismiss whoever was on the other side, but once the door was ajar, it abruptly burst inward.

A women strode in, a mass of dark plate-mail clinking with each of her steps. She held a great helm under one arm, with a swan crest atop its head, its wings outstretched, its golden bill open as if shrieking.

“Father,” she said, taking a knee. “Our marksmen are fatigued and ineffective against this enemy. I sought to lead a vanguard out across the drawbridge. Light cavalry to clear the way for armoured knights. Lord-Lieutenant Torloch said he could rally those guarding the halls to join, but none will act without your command.”

Earl Carríga leaned forward, eyes open and wide, as if scarcely believing what he could see.

“And no command shall be given,” he rasped. “The royal guard and the city guard and the Lord-Lieutenant’s knights have all been ordered to guard this keep. They shall do nothing else.”

The armoured woman stood, mouth ajar. Seán knew her as Lady Aislinn Carríga, though she looked like no lady tonight. She was the last heir of the Carríga dynasty, with Sir Bearach dead and Cathal in Penance, soon to join him.

“Father, they’re slaughtering our people freely out there! Lord-Lieutenant Torloch was readying his men to ride out, but someone raised the drawbridge.”

“I gave the order to raise it,” said Earl Carríga. “And anyone who dares leave shall be hung as a deserter.”

“Deserter?!” Aislinn cried. “If anyone is deserting their post, Father, it’s you.”

“Treason!” roared the earl. “How dare you stand before me, wearing my son’s armour like a play-acting child!”

“My brother would never hide while innocents are in danger. It’s only a matter of time before the dead are upon us too. Why are you so content in waiting for that time to come?”

“Because Keep Carríga has never been breached,” said the earl. “These walls have thrown back worse enemies in the past. This dead horde have brought no siege engines or towers to take this castle. So here we shall stay!”

Aislinn’s mouth quivered, unable to find the words to respond. She turned her back to her father and left the throne room, her stride more confident than her entrance.

After the guards closed the door gently behind her, the room went back into its mild stir, as if nothing had happened.

Seán glanced up at the earl.

Keep Carríga has never been breached because Keep Carríga has never seen real war. And no castle in the kingdom has seen a war quite like this.

Seán smiled, seeing the irony that even if this horde never came, Keep Carríga would have seen a fate far worse than a siege.

This was part of the Silverback’s master plan, to be executed after Point Grey was taken by the Reapers. Once the Crown’s forces were focused north, Seán was to retrieve a small device from a safe house within Rosca Umhír. This device, invented by the genius of Chief Engineer Nicole, was said to be capable of destroying an entire castle with a single blast. Meanwhile, other loyal dissidents would do the same to other castles throughout the kingdom.

And that was how the Silverback would wage his war. One big display in Point Grey to draw King Diarmuid’s full attention northwards. Then His Grace would receive word that Keep Carríga of the Midlands was destroyed without siege. The Crown could respond in one of two ways: by pulling out of the Clifflands entirely, or splitting their forces. Either way, another castle elsewhere in the kingdom would be blown to rubble, without any visible cause. And the Silverback would make it clear that these attacks would not stop unless the Crown met his demands.

A coward’s war, mused Seán. But an effective one. Indeed, what force could possibly stop a tactic like this?

Though despite all the planning and preparations Seán, the Silverback, and all the other dissidents had made these past twelve moons, the dead rising from their graves had never been considered.

So, when Seán had received a short wave from Penance some days ago that, no, the Silverback was not responsible for this undead scourge, the fire in his heart went out.

All we can do now is wait.

For a moment, Seán’s mind drifted outside of the throne room, across the burning moat and through the city streets. If the dissident safe house was still intact, perhaps Nicole’s device would still be there. Seán cursed himself. If only he had the foresight to bring it. Then, if the dead were to storm the walls with their full might, he could use it to destroy the castle and everyone inside. Sure, it would see him dead, but what better death was there than wiping out much of this enemy at the same time?

Seán shook his head. It was a futile thought. Of course, things would be different if he had brought the weapon with him. Things would be different too if he had never joined the Silverback, or if he had just ignored his Seeing of Seletoth.

“Seletoth,” he whispered, clasping his hands together. The One and True, he thought, not daring to say that part aloud. “Hear us. Help us.”

He had always kept his faith to himself, acting the part of loyal mage and servant of the Church. His Earthmaster’s robes were earned not only through hard work and study, but through careful politicking and positioning with the brothers of the Academy and the nobility of the many courts of Alabach. And that required him keep his beliefs a secret. How much easier it would have been, to have just murdered his old tutor, like the young Pyromancer Fionn had done back in Penance to become Firemaster? Seán found himself smiling, wondering how Fionn was faring now within the Triad, dealing with all the chaos that had erupted throughout the Seachtú. The dead had taken Point Grey and Ardh Sidhe, and it was only a matter of time before they tried to take Dromán too. Hopefully the mages there could fight them back, but if not… would Penance, or even Cruachan come next?

Seán leaned against a stone wall, exhaling deeply. The others in the hall whispered among themselves, pacing backwards and forwards while the earl sat in silence, staring blankly ahead.

Contemplating what you’ve done? thought Seán. Regretting condemning your whole city to death?

“Look!” came a voice from across the room. A noblewoman pointed towards a narrow window overlooking the northern castle walls. “The drawbridge, it’s opening!”

Many in the hall shrieked. Seán darted over. The great drawbridge was indeed lowering, like the jaw of a great beast, light spilling forth from its mouth.

Across the moat, the undead soldiers sacking and burning the north ward of Rosca Umhír stopped their butchery. One by one, their attention turned towards the descending mass of steel and wood and chains.

As the drawbridge met the far side of the moat, the undead gathered to cross it. Some wights had the appearance of simple farmhands, waving tools of their trade overhead. Others were soldiers, wearing the colours of Point Grey or Ardh Sidhe. Perhaps they once fought the horde, falling only to serve the enemy that felled them.

Will the same fate await us, should we perish too?

“They’re coming!” cried a young man to Seán’s side. “Why would they lower it? Why would they let them in?”

Suddenly, a large figure came bursting from the light of the keep. A warhorse, clad in thick armour, galloped across the bridge. Thunderous hooves pounded against the oak. As it approached the few undead soldiers crossing, the steed’s rider lowered a lance. And they accelerated, rider and horse moving as one.

With a crash, they collided with the undead. One soldier met the lance head-first. Another fell, trampled under the destrier’s hooves, while the rest were knocked aside from the impact, falling with muffled splashes into the black water below. The knight circled back to finish the rest, wielding the warhorse as a weapon just as much as the lance that struck down all who stood before them.

The rider paused and held up their lance. Fires from the burning city glimmered against its tip. The crest upon the knight’s head shimmered too; a black swan, with two wings outspread.

“Cathal Carríga!” cried one of the councilmen. “The Black Swan of Rosca Umhír has returned to save us!”

“Not Cathal,” said Seán. He threw a glance towards the earl. “Lady Aislinn.”