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.”
The earl did not respond. He leaned his head against one hand: a balled fist pressed against his temple. His eyes, glazed over and staring, were fixated towards the window where the scene was unfolding.
Seán looked back outside again. Aislinn still pointed her lance high and forward; a signal for cavalry to charge. But no charge came. More undead nearby began to take notice, plodding and stumbling towards her.
Aislinn lowered her lance and rode into the burning city. And the drawbridge began to rise behind her.
“No!” cried Seán. He turned towards the earl. “She’s out there alone! Send out the foreriders, the infantry, whatever you have!”
“A noble death she chose herself,” said the earl, shaking his head. “Her father shall die a coward tonight, but she shall do so a hero. A fool, of course, but a hero nonetheless.”
“What is wrong with you?” said Seán. “It’s a siege we’re unlikely to survive, but you insist on giving up without a fight!”
“I thought the king would save us….” muttered the earl. “Dromán and Cruachan still stand, with forces enough to throw the enemy back. I wanted to spare my life, my men… my family.”
Tears welled in the earl’s eyes. Seán swore under his breath, then looked to the battle outside. The undead were crowding into the North Ward now, with Lady Carríga nowhere to be seen beneath the broken, decaying bodies that filled the streets.
Such a waste. Unbridled bravery makes many a martyr.
He looked on as more undead swarmed the area, crawling over the rubble of broken buildings and shattered cobblestones.
To go out without a plan, dying for nothing more than an empty statement. His mind went back to the ridiculous idea he had earlier, of using Nicole’s weapon to blow Keep Carríga to the Holy Hell, taking half the horde with it. That, at least, would be a sacrifice worth a damn.
But the weapon was hidden away in a cache, in a safe house in the South Ward; an old store house, derelict and bordered up.
The horde continued to surge in the streets; possibly the bulk of them had come here now, drawn by Aislinn’s act of defiance. The would-be-knight was still nowhere to be seen.
Then, the most peculiarly thought crossed Seán’s mind. He glanced behind him, past the sobbing earl in his throne, towards the stained-glass effigy of the false god-king.
Southwards.
She’s drawn their attention, he realised. I may not have another chance.
He broke into a sprint across the throne room.
I’ll make her sacrifice count.
He raised both hands as he passed the bewildered earl, pointing towards the window.
Sand cast in flames. He forced his power into the glass. Ancient stone, crushed to dust and forged anew.
