Chapter 216: [216] Smell of death
The night before Eliron’s outing...
The Kingdom of Donia was made up of countless regions including Counties, Baronies, towns and villages.
Among these cities in the south, from a defensive point of view, there were four that stood out from the rest.
The border city of Stonewall, that had fallen on the first day of the attack, Ceaspil, ruled by house Alric, which bore a wolf as their insignia...
Rothekther, a city encased between a valley and two natural mountains, and Flywell, the city of wyverns.
With the unique way the kingdom was designed, to get to the royal capital from the south, one would first have to contend against these mighty territories. Usually, they would be dead at the first stop.
At least, that was how it had been for a hundred years, until the Death March began.
First, it was Stonewall, and now, the sky seemed to weep for the city of Ceaspil.
The entire city was on fire, the heavy rain doing little to quench the magical flames. Great walls that had stood for decades had been reduced to rubble, the iron gates twisted beyond recognition.
The stench of death was heavy in the air and the ground was littered with corpses. Countless soldiers were strewn over the floor, their eyes forever lost to the light.
Knights, mages, powerful warriors whose names had once rang all over the kingdom, all of them, dead.
Screams and deathly wails resounded over everything else, as women, children and the elderly who had not managed to escape were dragged out of their homes and slaughtered on the streets.
The city that had once been bustling with life was now a nest for the undead. Human corpses, animals, monsters, and the stranger types... They marched through the city with a uniform mindset set on destruction.
The ambush had come in the night, a small elite force that infiltrated the city with flight magic and laid waste to the soldiers on the battlements.
Before anyone knew what was afoot, the entire city was aflame, and the wails of the dead took dominion over the city...
The Alaric Castle was known for its pristine white walls, made of a special magic resistant material, but now, the white stone had been blackened by calamitous magic, and half of the building was dust and rubble.
The lord’s meeting room was one of the few places that had managed to escape the destruction.
It was dark, with barely any light filtering into the space.
On the floor at the center of the room lay the Alaric house insignia, ripped in two halves.
Count Alric was on his knees, his head lowered in front of what used to be his chair.
At the spot where his right hand used to be was a messy stump, it had been wrapped up in rags, but now, even those rags were soaked in blood.
His legs were not any better as his left leg had been ripped off to prevent him from running.
Sitting on his chair was the one responsible for the fall of Ceaspil, an inhuman creature whose very presence eclipsed fear.
His long white hair was being blown by the wind coming from the storm outside, the streaks of red within it glowing like they had been soaked in blood.
The man’s eyes were black and lifeless, unnervingly so. It was as though a dead man’s eyes had been transplanted into his head and somehow given life.
Two black horns rose from his forehead, curling backwards and ending in a sharp point.
Considering the death he had brought to the city, his clothes were rather odd—white robes similar to what priests would often wear.
It was as though he was mocking the holy men, but at the same time, there was probably a reason behind his peculiar style, as hanging on his neck was an unholy symbol, an arcane rune that had been lost to time.
A light whimper cut through the silence, followed by a stifled breath and the sound of chewing.
On the foot of the man’s chair were countless body parts, the original bodies displaced somewhere in the room.
And sitting atop the gory sight was a young woman that was barely twelve. Her hands were clasped around her face, tears streaming down her eyes.
Each time she would open them, there was a horror waiting to greet her, and even when she closed them, they awaited her in her mind’s eye.
This young girl was Deborah, the count’s daughter.
"Donia was said to have one of the mightiest militaries known to mankind..."
When the man spoke, it commanded a certain degree of attention.
He was not a person that could be ignored.
"But I am yet to see anything that would amuse me even in the slightest." Blood dripped down his lip and he licked it off, savouring the taste.
In his arm was what looked like a human limb, but he carried it around like it was a piece of chicken.
Sataen pointed the limb at the count and frowned. "Tell me count, why have your cities fallen so easily?"
"..."
"Count?"
The count immediately jolted awake.
He blinked, his eyes blurry as he stared at the pool of blood underneath his leg.
’Where am I?’
When he raised his gaze, and his grey eyes met those fathomless black, everything came back to him in an instant.
Power that he could not comprehend, his soldiers as they died one by one, each wail permanently etched in his mind, and death, far too many to count.
"F-forgive me my lord..." The Count managed to say, the words barely managing to slip out of his mouth.
Sataen leaned back on his chair, a playful frown appearing on his face. "You remember our deal don’t you?"
"Stay with me, count. You’re the only friend I have managed to make in this dump."
He brought the arm to his mouth and took a large bite.
"Would you believe how dense these zombies are? They can’t even hold a proper conversation for more than five minutes..."
"..."
The count responded with silence.
His vision was slowly turning dark and he had lost all feeling in his body.
’No, no! Stay awake!’
He screamed internally, but he could barely register his own thoughts.
’I can’t die... c..can’t leave her... with this monster....’
"And goodness, why must they smell so badly too? I wish my lord would assign another to this task, but alas, no one is more competent than I."
"..."
Realising that he had drifted from his original question, Sataen let out a dragged sigh.
"So count, as I was saying, why are your people so weak? This is the second great city now and I am yet to see what makes Donia so special."
No answer.
Sataen leaned forward a little. "Count?"
The count fell backward, his body making a thump as it landed on the wet floor.
Someone whimpered beside Sataen.
It was the count’s daughter. But even as she watched her father die right before her eyes, she could not summon up the courage to go to him.
She knew what would happen if she did.
"Ahh, it looks like he died."
Grasp!
"Ack—!"
The Count’s daughter screamed as Sataen grabbed her neck, lifting her off the floor like she weighed nothing
He was still seated on his chair, legs crossed as he stared at her with his inhuman eyes.
"Your father and I made a deal..."
"How hard can remaining alive be?"
His fingers tightened around her neck, dripping blood as they dug into her skin.
Deborah flailed around, her legs kicking plain air as she struggled to set herself free, but it was a hopeless attempt.
Snap!
There was a loud pop. Deborah stopped struggling, her hands falling limp by her sides as her eyes lost their light.
Sataen tossed her to the side, letting out an annoyed sigh as he was left in the eerie silence of the room.
"Second Apostle, Sataen." A guttural voice came from the shadows.
A hulking figure suddenly walked towards him and bowed in greeting.
"Ahh, Datref. What is the matter?" Sataen asked, wiping the blood that had splashed on his face.
Datref was one of the more powerful undead his lord had assigned specifically to him for this mission.
A Dread Knight.
The man had dark grey skin and sunken eyes, he was in black steel armour engraved with ancient runes, and a large, double edged battle axe was strapped to his back, slick with blood.
He had always been in the room, but had only waited till now to speak.
"As per your orders, every single living thing in Ceaspil has been extinguished."
Sataen’s fingers thrummed on the armrest.
"I see. And where is Trish?"
Trish was the one responsible for their sky raid on the city. An Emperor Lich with magic equivalent to that of a Grand Mage.
"She is performing a scry on the next city." Datref replied coldly.
"Then let us not waste any time..." Sataen stood up from his seat, stepping atop Deborah’s body as he walked towards a large split in the wall.
When he got to it, he was exposed to the raging storm, and violent winds that doused him with water.
But it did not matter, it had been centuries since he last felt real cold, or any other human sensation for that matter.
He stared at the desolate city, a smile curling up on his lips.
"This is my favourite part."
His pendant began to glow warmly as he slowly raised his hands by his sides.
"Rise."
The city suddenly burst into motion, as all over the dismal plain, the corpses rose from their slumber.
With each death, the army of the dead grew stronger, and with each loss, the capital city was further doomed to fall.
..
A/N
For those that read before I edited it. Before the edit it was 1k words, now it is 1600+ and all grammatical errors have been fixed, so if you read the old version please reread!