Daughter of Death - A Necromantic LitRPG

Through the haze of communion, Lieze could feel her necromancy ebbing and flowing across the tides of the cosmos. Her thralls weren’t falling nearly as quickly as she had anticipated, owing most prominently to her use of [Strengthen Undead] to ensure that her army would be able to get its foot in the door.

When the rot-choked procession leading down into the depths finally led her into the Royal Delve’s first checkpoint, there was nothing to be seen but corpses - both the still and walking variety. Remnants of the Dwarves’ presence could be detected on the air. The scent of ale and spices was only just perceptible before the rot stink overtook the chamber entirely.

She would have loved nothing more than for Drayya to wander up, unperturbed by the horrors surrounding her, and tap on Lieze’s shoulder to enjoy a light conversation between bouts of shameless murder. But there was no time for that, and Lieze had made sure that Drayya understood those terms before the attack began.

“We need to keep moving. [Strengthen Undead] only lasts for 15 minutes, so preserving this momentum is paramount.” She muttered, “They’ll be expecting the same strategy at the second checkpoint, so we’ll confound them by trying something different.”

She wanted to test out a gambit of hers, and Horrors were the best fit for the job. She would have preferred to use Rot Behemoths, but every last one had been stationed at the gates thanks to the mountains’ cramped layout.

“We’re gaining ground, but Mime is treating this battle as a defender should, making use of the available space to string us along while preserving his own manpower…” She marched her thralls towards the other side of the cavern, “I’d prefer it if we could kill him before reaching the lava chamber… taking down two Scions at once sounds like a nightmare.”

She turned her head, “Marché! Roland! You two are leading this charge!”

The two men muscled their own groups of thralls to the front of the pack accompanied by the towering silhouette of Baccharum. Lieze wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed in his insistence on not getting involved in the battle.

“I can feel the heat of your stare, Lieze.” The Elf straightened out his posture, “You cannot fault me for only wearing the bare essentials. These lands aren’t exactly bursting with Elven tailors.”

“I know you can fight.” She cut straight to the point, “When push comes to shove, I’ll be expecting you to participate. Don’t think I can’t tell what you’re capable of.”

“How very demanding. Don’t you think it’s rude to order a blind man around?”

“Marché told me you threw a dagger at Mime perfectly despite your blindness.” Lieze replied, “I’ve known from our first meeting that you’re an assassin of some sort.”

Baccharum didn’t seem at all pleased that she’d brought the topic up, “Oho… I see the discerning eyes of a Scion are formidable indeed. It’s been quite a few years since I last took a life with my own two hands.”

“Who were you, really?” She asked, “I know of the Elves’ customs. Exile is comparable to a death sentence in Akzhem. Before you were Baccharum, you were someone else. Someone dangerous enough to be evicted from your own homeland.”

“I do wonder…” He paused, “You said it yourself - time of the essence in this battle. Shouldn’t we really get a move on before Mime and his cohorts are allowed to collect themselves?”

“Hmph.” Lieze carried on after Marché and Roland, “I’ll find out either way, so it doesn’t matter whether you tell me now or in a month’s time.”

Between a lengthy period of peace and the Dwarven habit of seeking comfort wherever it could be found, the Royal Delve’s second checkpoint had found itself converted into more of a recreational area than a heavily-guarded chokepoint. The tables set out to accommodate midday alcoholism had been kicked over to serve as cover for the arbalests.

“Sir!” A Dwarf wearing a helmet one size too big for his oblong head rushed up to Mime, “The pylons have been loaded into the ballistae and are awaiting your orders!”

“Wait until the first wave of thralls descends upon us.” With a dirty cloth, Mime wiped the gore from the head of his mace, “We’ll use the pylons to trap them inside and delay the appearance of more. Have those with enchanted weapons stationed at our flank to prevent any of those undead arachnids from breaking through.”

“Of course.” The Dwarf nodded, “I was also sent to inform you that the King is on his way.”

“How long will he be?”

“No more than a few minutes.”

“Good. We should be able to hold the Order at bay until he arrives.” Mime tossed the rag away and stowed his mace, “Tell the others not to put their lives on the line. We still have the option of retreating to the third checkpoint, and if all else fails, the fortress. Have the lightning throwers on standby to welcome the next wave.”

The soldier nodded, “Good luck, sir.”

“To you as well.”

Mime marched towards the entrance and relayed the same orders to the vanguard. Seconds later, there came a rumbling from above. Untethered screams filled the checkpoint with activity as Dwarves scrambled to prepare themselves for battle. There was something different about the Order’s approach that time, Mime noticed. Louder. More impactful.

Horrors stumbled down the tunnel. Their layers of muscle, conjoined from melted corpses, inspired fear in whoever witnessed their hulking forms. Mime’s unit stepped back to allow 20 or so into the checkpoint before a pair of iron nails were embedded into both sides of the entranceway. Their circular tips crackled with blue fire, linking to create a violent storm of electricity that stretched across the passage.

“They’re trapped! Keep your distance!” Mime yelled, “Burn the life out of them!”

Dwarves toting lightning throwers encircled the Horrors and loosed the weapons upon their captives. The stench of boiling blood filled the room as great pustules formed and burst upon the thralls’ flesh. Resilient as they were, the Horrors refused to drop dead even as the lightning seared their bodies black as tar.

“Keep firing! They can’t move!” Mime ordered.

“How do you like that, you livin’ clot!?” A maddened laugh escaped from one of the soldiers in question, “Not so dangerous when you’re bein’ cooked from the inside-out, are you!?”

“You mean to tell me Alberich’s been keepin’ these things a secret until now!?” Another asked, “We should’ve been usin’ them as the gate! We’d have sent those corpse-fucking necromancers packing!”

Confidence was plain on their faces, but that pride distracted them from the worrisome plumes of smoke bursting from the wires coating their electrical weapons. Mime was the first to notice that something was amiss, but by the time he could raise his voice in protest, the damage had already been done - one of the lightning throwers exploded with a brilliant flash, wreathing its unfortunate wielder in flames before he had time to react.

“Throw down those weapons!” Mime screamed, “Someone put him out!”

-Is what he demanded, but there was no ‘putting out’ a man whose entire body had become a fireball. Soldiers were forced to leap out of the way as he sprinted, dropped, and rolled himself around on the floor to no avail, painting the air with his agonised screams as the fire seared his flesh.

Distracted by the plight of their comrade, the Dwarves ceased their attack on the Horrors. That single moment of hesitation allowed them the opportunity for a few blows against their aggressors, bisecting soldiers with hulking sweeps of their arms. Mime himself was forced to raise his shield when one of the Horrors rushed towards him and brought a meaty fist down upon his head.

Mime’s HP - 900 / 2,122

Even through the shield, he could feel his bones shattering under the weight of the blow. A trickle of blood escaped from his mouth as he snapped both rows of teeth shut against the tip of his tongue. He was left crippled beyond action, only capable of raising one arm to defend against the Horror’s killing blow.

Before its arms could descend to crush him, however, something flew over Mime’s head and crashed into the thrall’s concave face. At the point of contact, golden flames erupted and danced across the Horror’s flesh, consuming its body in a matter of seconds. The weapon responsible - a glowing, wrought-iron warhammer embossed with Dwarven script on each face, dislodged from the Horror’s flesh and crashed to the ground.

Mime watched a cone of jagged metal growing at the bottom of his vision. A single gauntlet came out and offered itself to him. He felt the blood rushing to his head.

“Already taking a nap, are you?” Alberich asked, “That’s no good, Mime. No good at all. Not when there are things to be done. Flesh to be hewn. Nations to be rebuilt. Have you already forgotten what you’re capable of?”

Mime could feel it washing across his skin - a cool spray of water that electrified his nerves and reinvigorated his mind. In his mind’s eye, the ancient spring was tucked away within a knoll of nettles. It was the colour of a cloudless midsummer sky. Though he was there, but also not there, the waters filled him regardless.

Mime’s MP - 3,110 / 3,910

His bones conjoined. His bruises vanished. Strength was returned to him as if by a miracle, such that when he stood, it was a wonder how he had ever fallen to begin with. He grasped Alberich’s hand and yanked himself to both feet, bending down to retrieve the king’s gore-studded warhammer. “...It’s dangerous for you to be here.” He said.

“Too dangerous. Too risky. Too foolish.” Alberich took his weapon in both hands and shook the flaps of loose skin from its head, “My nation burns. My people die. And yet my advisors insist that I remain on my lofty throne and await death to kick down my doors.”

He swung the hammer from his ankles to his head in a wide arc. His grip loosened, and the warhammer flew. Another Horror was consumed by holy fire as the weapon tore through its mountainous flesh like paper.

“-But my dream is one shaped in a crucible of blood and fire! My veins burn with a fury hotter than any forge!” He yelled, “Another second spent without a hammer in hand, without the thrill of battle painting my legacy in blood - I wouldn’t have been able to bear it! There is no other path for a man who would dare to call himself the King of the Dwarves!”

Another gargantuan silhouette came to loom over him. The Horror’s vacant stare, devoid of any intelligence, suffused with nothing short of murderous intent, would have made even the bravest of warriors flee in terror.

“Your Majesty!” A soldier screamed, “Get out of the way!”

The Horror’s fist careened towards him. A direct hit would reduce the tiny king to a bloody mist. His hand tightened, and from the plates of his armour emerged an unearthly light.

Alberich’s MP - 1,930 / 2,030

He struck, facing the thrall knuckle-to-knuckle. The Horror’s arm twisted, tore, and separated from its body in a showering display of gore. Then, hefting the amputated hunk of flesh over his shoulder, Alberich swung the limb through the Horror’s midsection, splitting cartilage and bone until the creature was in two halves.

The onlooking soldiers, once horrified by the possibility of Mime’s death, were now chanting their king’s name in disconnected melodies. His hand came to rest upon Mime’s shoulder as the rest of their men isolated and butchered the remaining Horrors.

“Pick up your weapon, Mime.” He said, “Evil yet lingers, and I will not be satisfied until every last inch of its corruption is scrubbed clean from our mountains!”