The Scourge had caught the enemy as they traveled in a massive column down the road. There had been advance scouts sent out from the column, but the Lurkers had quickly dispatched them and returned to the primary formation. There were a couple of thousand enemies in the vanguard. It was a tremendous amount in comparison to the Scourge’s forces, but it was a tiny fraction of the full army arrayed against them. The terrain wasn’t especially beneficial for either party. On either side of the road, hilly plains stretched as far as the eye could see. There wasn’t any forest close by, and that cut in favor of the Collective. The Scourge were especially effective within the forest. Slate wasn’t sure if it was the woodcraft as a leftover from their time as wood elves or if their physical capabilities were simply more adept at navigating the woods over their adversaries. The main advantage the Scourge had over the vanguard was that it was dark, and many of them had camouflage. They could approach on all fours to lower their profile, the formation of the enemy kept them close together, making them an easy target for their destructive and manipulative magics, and the Scourge monarchs were going to act as one hell of a distraction.
Slate knew the second the enemy the dragons flying through the night sky. His sensitive ears picked up their gasps of awe and their murmuring of wonder and curiosity. As they drew closer, those sounds transformed from wonder into fear. Both dragons inhaled in preparation for the single blast of fire that would launch the rest of the assault. They stopped just over vanguard and hovered in the air. Their expansive wings beat against the sky like flaming sails. Crude arrows were launched at them, but they were deflected by the Scourgeshield that covered them. With a great expelling of breath, blue-white fire washed over the lines of the Collective forces.
What was once a somewhat organized formation had become chaos as screams lit the night, and the scent of roasting meat and burning hair filled the air. For the Collective, it was a sickening smell that invaded their nostrils and activated every primal instinct in their bodies. It was a signal to their subconscious that the predators had arrived, and they were the prey. The Enticers capitalized on the fear and began using their powers to affect the enemy forces. They had an evolution that weaponized their pheromones, and this would be the first time that Slate had the opportunity to witness the mutation on a tactical scale. Before, he had seen it used on individuals. It was more than impressive, but Slate had worried that it wouldn’t be too effective in battle. In his enhanced vision, he saw as the mana signatures spikes from Fidem’s line. Small waves of mana extended in a head height wave. It looked like scores of arcane novae going off at once. Its effect was immediate when the various waves of pheromones crashed into the enemy lines. Their fear was suddenly stoked into absolute horror. Every person responded to the mind-killer in different ways. Some of the enemies threw down their weapons in despair, some became enraged and attacked the Scourge with renewed vigor, and most scattered like cockroaches in a cheap motel when the lights were turned on.
To the Scourge, they might as well been the same vermin, the scent carried across the nighttime air and caused acidic spit to drool from their maws and bloodthirsty excitement to break out amongst their ranks. They were hungry, and the attack from their King and Queen was the signal to begin their feast.
They rushed forward from all directions as the mortal soldiers were trying to flee from the flaming arbiters of death in the sky. The Raiders and Berserkers scythed through the poorly equipped soldiers. A great cacophony of screams rose as Raiders turned them into a literal paste under the rage of their four-fisted assault. Lurkers and a couple of Shadows, still veiled in their cloaking magic, used their claws and spines to shred the enemy and stop enemies as they ran. Meanwhile, small meteors of fire crashed down from invisible points in the sky. The Mystics had all developed the ability to use Cleansing Fire, so they didn’t have to worry about friendly fire. Had they been using standard attacks, the fire would harm their brethren, but Cleansing Fire did nothing to other members of the Scourge. The plains became a realm of light and shadow as the Raiders and Lurkers used the fire as cover for their attacks. Out of the thousands of the enemy, very few were organized enough to retaliate against the Scourge. Any of the Vallyr officers that tried to rally the mob were quickly taken out by a Lurker assassin or a well-aimed fireball from one of the Scourge monarchs.
It would be wrong to say that the Scourge didn’t take any casualties. They did, but the enemy was so organized that very few attacks landed on them. Most of the attacks got through were blunted or deflected by the Scourgeshield that covered them. Of those that had sufficient force to damage the target, typically hardened scales would turn what would be a killing blow into a grievous injury. A significant injury was softened to a minor one, and minor injuries were often healed by the Scourge’s regeneration almost as soon as the opponent had been killed.
There was a small team of Enticers that walked through the conflict like white ghosts, untouched by the enemy. Up close, the pheromones they continued to emit, drove the enemy wild in fear. Natural defenses were enough for the Enticers to kill the few adversaries that chose to engage with them. They healed and revitalized any of the Scourge they passed and took their time to consume as many bodies as possible. Their bellies never became full, and the biomass and experience was sent to Bastion for repurposing. In less than half an hour, the enemy had almost been utterly destroyed. At the very least, they were routed and fleeing in all directions. Lurkers chased them onto the plains and continued to kill them without stopping to drag the corpses back. Slate and Shale busied themselves hunting down and killing stragglers. Often, the two dragons could swallow an entire enemy with a single swallow. Out of all the Scourge, they were the most efficient in cleaning up the battlefield.
It wasn’t long before they couldn’t find any more of the enemy to hunt down. Once Slate had gone a few minutes without killing something, the Scourgemind receded from his mind like a warm blanket being removed on a winter night. He came back to himself with a shudder. He had lost himself in the ebb and flow of the battle. He had existed within the mind of every member of the Scourge—including Shale—for the entire duration of the fight. From his advantageous position above the battlefield, he could direct them with ease. His vision was so acute that he could pick out the individual enemies and their locations and simultaneously transmit that information to his progeny. It had been relatively easy for the Scourge to respond to assaults that had been intended as a trap. Enemy leaders were quickly cut down, and the Enticers knew precisely where to focus their pheromones to keep the Collective on the back foot.
Overall, Slate was satisfied with their first battle. It was a shame that the biomass and experience couldn’t go to the individuals. They had performed well, and even now, they were consuming the enemy dead. It would have been a boon for them to evolve and level their mutations, but he understood the strategic goal of speeding the wyverns into production.
He began to wing his way back to the main site of the battle. Scourge in all directions, mostly Lurkers, were dragging corpses back to center if they had more than they could consume. Slate flew around either eating or dragging large piles of bodies back to the where the Scourge were busy feasting. He could feel that Shale was doing the same thing as he was, and the Firsts were overseeing the consumption of the bodies. Slate began to feel tired from his constant activity in the air, so on the last trip, he set down near the firsts. He didn’t transform into his elf form; he was still on a battlefield, and he didn’t want to open him up to risk unnecessarily.
How are we doing? He asked his Firsts. Instead of individually updating him on the situation, they sent snapshots of memory to the Scourgemind. He accepted the information and sifted through it before asking more questions. He heard the sound of flapping wings and craned his long neck to see Shale descend on the other side of the site. She trotted forward, and her monstrous claws were ripped up vast swaths of grass and dirt. Slate snorted a tongue of flame from one nostril in greeting. It was his eq
uivalent of an amused smile. In his dragon form, smiling was merely the display of a mouthful of razor-sharp teeth.
Slate sent over the information he had acquired to his mate, and she asked the question he was about to ask. Did we collect enough resources?
The Scourge King could see as Lynia, Fidem, and Bastion were discussing the amounts amongst themselves. Bastion replied to all of them out of convenience.
“I believe so my Lord, we have plenty of biomass, and barely enough experience. Most of the slain enemies weren’t high leveled, and so in this case, quantity won out over quality. I’m going to build the level 40 Wyvern Rookery within the inner city, and I should be able to advance a dozen of the wyverns to level 20.”
Slate could hear the glee in Bastion’s voice. The avatar was inordinately pleased with himself as if he had done the actual fighting instead of pressing the buttons—or whatever the avatar did, Slate still wasn’t sure—on the menu that constructed the building. Despite Bastion’s idiosyncrasies, Slate couldn’t help the savage joy that suffused his mind. The feeling spread through the rest of the Scourge, and he could see them cracking smiles and congratulating one another.
We did it! He shouted through the Scourgemind. A bestial roar that carried back to the Collective army answered his cheer. The sound was terrifying enough that the common soldier’s bowels turned to water, and they looked around for the attack they were sure was incoming.
Let’s get back home, Slate declared before launching himself into the air. The Scourge had comported themselves well this night. He was suddenly more confident about the imminent siege.
EPILOGUE: THE PATRIARCH PREPARES
MORS DAL VENTRYX sneered at the captives in front of him. Each one was accompanied by a Vallyr guard that Mors trusted. He hadn’t allowed the followers of any of the border lords anywhere near him. Further, he had asked the border lords to send a representative to meet him a few hours travel from the burning city of Koral. He had been interested to see who they would choose. One would think that the families that held the territory near the border with the Empire would be too busy defending their land from the Empire, but the opposite seemed to be true. What used to be a high-stress, the high-stakes environment became commonplace. The Empire had been hovering over his territory for three centuries. A tenuous peace existed during Mors’ reign because neither power was willing to push the boundaries. For his part, Mors felt that he would never be the commander that his father, Gould, ever was. It wasn’t in his interest in keeping the conflict going beyond a mere border skirmish. He still had the slaves, the sacrifices, and the power to appease his deity, the Lord of Nocturnus.
For some reason, that wasn’t enough for his enemies. He had brought them peace, stability, and an indolent lifestyle that the Vallyr had not experienced in the entire time they had been on the world of Somnium. Many preferred the call of war over peace. Even Mordryn, Mors’ greatest assassin, had wished the Patriarch would be more aggressive to the Empire. They were all fools. Mors’ had seen even as a young man the path that his father was taking the Collective. It was one that only led to destruction over everything they had worked so hard to protect. He wasn’t afraid of the Empire; he was just smart enough to know where there was a battle worth fighting, and when there was not. This was the latter and not the former. He had to keep the foolish High Lords on the border under his control, or they began to aggravate the tensions between the two territories.
Many in the Collective believed that they were in a better position than the Empire, despite all evidence to the contrary. They would tell Mors that the Empire had enemies pressing in on them in other directions, their nation was weakening from within as the passionate Ignati grew tired of the constant conflict, and more rebels than ever were resisting the edicts of their zealous government. Even better, the Vallyr had an advantage over the Ignati that no other race did. The Ignati used their passions and their emotions to fuel the power of their magic. It was this trait that made them the perfect food source for the Vallyr. The peace between the two nations had always existed because they both knew that the Vallyr would take more of the enemy than they lost, and their advantage in numbers would be nullified. Mors’ knew that wasn’t necessary. He had more territory than he could adequately administer, and he could grow Nocturnus’ power by utilizing the resources within his border rather than reaching further than he could grasp. It was the characteristic of fire that it needed to continue burning even when it served no purpose. The shadows waited for an opportunity when the light was gone. It was in those places it took up residence and grew more powerful. The other High Lords didn’t understand that. They wanted to be more like fire than like darkness.
Fools, Mors grumbled to himself.
If the Empire hadn’t the strength of numbers, Mors would have pressed his armies forward long ago, and rid their self-aggrandizing god from the face of Somnium. Or, at least, that’s what he told himself. Every time he thought about pushing his armies into Empire territory, he felt his heart clench. The cost to the Collective would be higher than he thought the people could bear. It was fine to sacrifice one’s enemies. It was less profitable to sacrifice oneself, and yet only Mors seemed to grasp the concept.
He idly cleaned his fingernails with a blade as he stared through the shivering forms in front of him, still lost in his thoughts. They weren’t people to him; they were merely collections of materials. They were no more or less useful than a copper mine or a wheat field. They were a source of weaponry, they were a source of food, but they were never something equal to the Vallyr. The Vallyr were the predators in this world. No human, elf, saurian, gnome, or whatever else occupied these lands, were the equivalent of the Vallyr. They couldn’t be, they didn’t understand sacrifice.
The captives were the perfect example. They trembled in their piss and shit like animals because animals didn’t understand sacrifice the way that the Vallyr did. They didn’t know what it was like to give one’s flesh, mind, and even the soul for a power higher than themselves. Only the Vallyr knew the divine quality of sacrifice so intuitively. He could see the fear in the eyes of the Ignati bound on their knees in front of him. Their glossy lamellar armor had been stripped from them, and they shivered in the winter cold in their smallclothes. They would have died long ago if they weren’t channeling their Lord power to keep them warm. It was fine to their Vallyr captors. Ignati were only dangerous because of their ability to pierce through most barriers, magic and mundane. However, the Ignati had much to fear from the Vallyr. Their presence alone, the way that they gave off a feast of emotion, nourished and strengthened the vampiric race.
Mors had forgotten how sweet they tasted. He pulled out his distinctive sacrificial dagger. He studied its length as he always did before he used it. One naked woman embracing a skeleton around the length of the obsidian-colored blade. Knowing what was about to happen made the fear in his heart diminish. The thumping in his breast smoothed to something more approximate to the peaceful beating of a drum. As he watched a dozen captives shivering in on the snow-covered ground, he allowed himself to savor their fear. Soon, he would show the Empire why their master feared to tread on the territory of Nocturnus. Here, Mors ruled, and he was about to remind them why it was so. His father had defeated the Empire, and his father before him had conquered the Empire before they were even an Empire. The racial history between the Vallyr and the Ignati stretched back longer than any of them could remember. The aspects of their deity were diametrically opposed. Not quite as opposite as the Scourge, their patron goddess was the Lord of Darkness’ greatest enemy, but they had been destined to hate each other since before any of them had been alive.
An androgynous voice issued from behind him, “Patriarch, are you going to perform the ritual?” Mors snarled over his shoulder and gave the High Lord Porras a withering look. The man was practically preening at his quip. Mors didn’t like it when he was interrupted. No one understood the pressure he was under. It was easy for the High Lords of other familie
s to mock him, but they had never shouldered the mantle, they had never stood between the darkness and absolute destruction. Only he, only Mors, had been brave enough to slay his father with a knife in the back. Only he had the wisdom to save the Collective from themselves. Still, Mors needed to be careful with this particular individual. High Lord Porras was an insufferable man, but it would be a mistake to call him a fool. He was the current scion of the Porras bloodline, and he had gathered enough of the border lords under his banner that they sent him here to Mors’ summons rather than presenting themselves.
The Porras bloodline were dominant in their own right as every member of their line had held the border between the Collective and the Empire. They had never been known for their magical might, but their skill in battle had been second-to-none. In his father’s day, they had served as his right-hand men. Now, they had gathered their coterie of high-blooded supporters, and Mors considered Porras to be one of his most dangerous rivals out of the border lords. They had never taken Gould’s death well and had never accepted his occupation of the stygian throne. The Vallyr’s slight and willowy frame belied his experience with a pike and shield. The Vallyr were naturally stronger and faster over the average human, but Porras took it to the next level. Mors preferred to fight using a pair of daggers and his magic. He wasn’t suited to a straight-up fight, and both of the Vallyr knew it. However, if Porras presented Mors the opportunity, then the Patriarch would be sure to cut his throat.
“Of course, High Lord Porras, I am merely collecting my thoughts. Advanced magic such as this requires careful planning.” Mors smiled slightly at the man, “I know that you haven’t had the chance to perform much magic, but I hope that you’ll be paying close attention.” The last of his words were delivered with silky smoothness. Just as both men knew that Mors couldn’t defeat Porras in physical combat, they also knew that Mors was far more competent with magic than the other. Porras tossed his long black hair over a shoulder and waved a hand fairly.
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