Gareth reviewed everything he knew as he scanned the streets for hidden enemies, combining what he had learned from the soldiers’ reports with what he had personally observed.

  Oz had the right idea to try to triangulate the undead’s origin. Even with a seasoned necromancer directing this twisted force, the undead still needed to be controlled within a central radius. The revolutionaries he encountered confirmed that the undead’s presence was detected almost immediately after the initial breach, which meant the enemy had time to prepare the field.

  It didn’t make sense that they knew of his operation, as he would have found zombies within the castle if that was the case. Also, something told him that the late Count Volten hadn’t known about it. The man had been an enemy, but he wasn’t without honor. He wouldn’t have tolerated the foul presence within his city, especially since it was known that once an outbreak started, it often escalated too quickly to avoid collateral damage. Count Volten didn’t seem the type to sacrifice tens of thousands of his subjects to deny his enemy the city.

  And yet, there was a necromancer at work, and one with the time to seed his creations throughout the city. That left one of two options. Either this mage had fooled everyone and taken advantage of the siege to infiltrate Volten, bypassing the no-doubt strict controls, or he had been invited in by the people doing those controls—the remnants of the Southern Royal Army.

  “Where are the densest clusters of these things?” Gareth asked the closest lieutenant, his voice clipped as he shook off the fatigue that was threatening to creep over him. The zombies weren’t particularly strong, at least compared to him, but there was a seemingly infinite amount.

  “Everywhere, sir. But the shadows say they are mostly near the royal barracks, the market district, and the temple. They can’t get too close, or the miasma will damage them, so they haven’t found the origin, sir,” the man stammered, evidently spooked.

  At the mention of the temple, Gareth stilled. The Temple of the Holy Light was the last place he would have expected. Its grounds should have been hallowed, and undead beings couldn’t manifest there. Desecrating it would have required rare knowledge of the dark arts and a complete disregard for the sacred.

  Precisely what a powerful necromancer would be capable of, especially with some time to prepare.

  Gareth dismissed the soldier and began working out a plan based on the new knowledge. His team had cleared several key areas, moving swiftly from one skirmish to the next, purging pockets of undead and making sure there were no ambushes. The Royal Army barracks, however, had already been overrun. Gareth’s forces had reached it earlier and deemed it too far south to be a viable control point for such a large number of undead soldiers. The market district was similarly impossible, as it was close to the castle, and Gareth would have noticed any such presence. That left one location.

  “The Temple,” he said aloud. His men looked at him, and he could see the same disgust he felt reflected on their faces. This was an abomination that couldn’t be allowed to stand.

  Gareth lifted his spear, pointing it toward the towering spires barely visible through the mist and smoke. “The necromancer has defiled the most holy of places. He seeks to bring death to all within Treon and to do so by spitting upon the Light. Men of the Revolution! You, who swore oaths to the Grand Marshal! We will take back the temple tonight!” His words were met with fierce cheers. Even exhausted, Gareth’s men understood the gravity of what was happening.

  Just as he turned, ready to lead the charge, a shadow detached itself from the rooftops above and dropped down in front of him, landing gracefully and silently despite the cobblestones. Gareth reacted, instinctively preparing to unleash his fury, only to stop short when he recognized the figure before him.

  Yarea, the elven maiden, had quickly risen to prominence within the ranks of the Eastern Army after being freed. Her reputation for unmatched skill and sharp tactics had spread wide among the troops, from what he had been able to glean.

  She straightened, a small, knowing smile playing at the edges of her lips as she surveyed the gathered soldiers.

  “General Doomspear,” she greeted. “I’ll join you in this crusade. You need every able blade, and I’m more than ready to face whatever dark magic the enemy has brought into the city.”

  Gareth eyed her, taking in her slight, elegant form, which was so much at odds with the fierce determination radiating from her. Despite her frail-looking appearance, he didn’t doubt her abilities. Beneath that delicate fa?ade lay the reflexes of a predator. Even just standing there, he could tell she was coiled and ready to lay waste to the enemy.

  “Glad to have you,” Gareth replied. He gestured toward his men, signaling them to form ranks around him and Yarea. “If what I suspect is right, they’ll have positioned guards around the temple, likely augmented by the necromancer’s thralls. You’ll lead the second line and handle any flanking undead. Clear a path if they press too close.”

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  She dipped her head, silver hair cascading to frame her features perfectly. “I will follow your command,” she said, gripping the hilt of her curved blade.

  The air grew colder as they approached, and an unnatural chill settled over them, thick with the bitter tang of dark magic—it seemed that the necromancer had truly given up on hiding.

  Smoke and miasma coiled around the streets, nearly disguising the shadowed forms of undead guards stationed along the temple’s perimeter. The dark magic surrounding them made the hairs on Gareth’s neck prickle.

  There are no living humans here. Was I wrong? Is the necromancer acting on his own?

  Without a word, he signaled to Yarea, who nodded and moved away with a few of the more subtle men alongside most of the remaining shadows.

  She slipped through the darkened streets, reaching much closer than he would have been able to. In one smooth motion, she drew her blade and dispatched the first thrall before it even noticed her approach. A shadow grabbed the body before it could fall, swallowing it whole.

  The spirits might not be a good matchup against a necromancer, especially so far from their summoner, but they still have their utility.

  More undead fell as the men got to work, aided by the elementals in maintaining secrecy. Despite their incredible resilience, zombies were still subject to the laws of physics and couldn’t attack without limbs. Hacking at the corpses wasn’t fun, but it ensured that they couldn’t be trapped within the temple.

  Before long, the undead guarding the entrance noticed the disappearances, letting out ghastly shrieks to alert their master. The temple’s heavy doors creaked open, and unnatural darkness poured forth, spilling out with the stench of rot and decay that seemed to invigorate the zombies.

  Gareth gritted his teeth. “In the name of the Grand Marshal, purge the foul creatures!” He charged forward, spear crackling with lightning, and sliced through the first line while more surged from the temple’s entrance. Behind him, his men fought fiercely, pressing onward despite the creatures swarming from every side.

  Yarea, despite starting near the gates, found herself fighting at his side, cutting down any undead who dared attack from behind. Gareth couldn’t help but notice how she moved, gliding from one target to the next with lethal grace. Her presence was a steadying force for the men, giving them the confidence to press forward.

  The oppressive darkness thickened as they neared the entrance, and Gareth could feel the necromancer’s power intensifying. The closer he got, the more he realized his initial assessment was correct. There was no way this much preparation could have been done in a hurry. It was now just a matter of understanding whether the loyalists had directed the whole thing—and thus needed to be purged—or they were unwitting accomplices.

  Thrusting his spear into the ground, he channeled a surge of Pure Lightning that illuminated the square and charred the remaining zombies, opening the path to the temple.

  “No points for guessing it’s a trap,” Yarea murmured, drawing a snort from Gareth.

  Inside the temple’s grand hall, the once-pristine marble floors were cracked and stained with blood, and the sacred symbols of the Holy Light were twisted and marred with foul scribbles.

  A cloaked figure stood before the desecrated altar at the far end of the hall. The necromancer’s hollow eyes glowed with an eerie green light, and his twisted smile revealed the malice lurking within.

  But Gareth’s attention was caught by two other figures standing just behind the necromancer. Clad in rich, elegant robes embroidered with symbols of old nobility, the two men starkly contrasted the macabre scene around them. Their faces were vacant, skin stretched taut over bone, and their eyes stared forward, unblinking, as if they were puppets held upright by strings.

  Gareth’s stomach twisted. He knew them—Barons Luxfield and Langley. Intelligence had described them as Count Pollus’s right and left-hand men and among the few he respected enough to delegate. Gareth still suspected a dark pact between them and this foul mage, but seeing them standing lifelessly like statues, he couldn’t help but feel pity.

  “What have you done to them?” He demanded, his voice ringing out in the desecrated hall. Rage simmered in his gut, barely kept in check.

  The necromancer’s mouth curled into a mocking grin. “Oh, good knight, you care too much,” he sneered. “These two fools thought they could use me—me!—as a mere pawn to solve their manpower issues.” He spread his arms wide. “They captured me as I tried to enter Volten, a mere traveler by their eyes, no doubt eager to bend my power to their petty schemes. But once they let me in, I quickly grew my forces. I let them think they had control—until they could no longer contain me.”

  Gareth’s eyes narrowed, every fiber of his being vibrating with fury. “You defiled a holy place and turned Volten into a nightmare. And you used the naivety of two fools to do it. You’ve disguised your presence through the mist, masking the stench of your magic.”

  The necromancer laughed, his voice echoing off the walls. “Astute of you to notice, sir,” he mocked. “Yes, even spirits can be deceived. Oh, yes. I can see them lurking even now, but they know better than to face me openly. No one wondered why the mist lingered in a port city. These fools gave me access to just enough corpses to reach the Expert tier and finally conceal miasma. To think I spent years hidden in the Darkwood, escaping monsters and voidlings. Ah, but it’s in the past. Now, I have my army, and you—you are far too late.”

  As the necromancer continued his taunt, Gareth noticed dark energy pooling beneath the floor, swirling in an invisible whirlpool of foul mana. His senses flared in alarm, and he recognized the telltale signs of a spell building up.

  Without waiting for another word, Gareth raised his spear. He gathered all his strength and thrust it forward, unleashing a massive bolt of lightning aimed directly at the necromancer. Its sheer force of shattered stone pillars and sent chunks of debris raining down.

  The necromancer’s laughter cut off as the bolt reached him, but he didn’t move to dodge it. Instead, a ripple of dark energy surged through the floor as cracks exploded from beneath his feet. A massive construct began to rise from the broken stone— an undead colossus formed from the desecrated bones buried beneath the temple. The giant skeleton reared up, its ribs wrapping around the necromancer in a protective embrace just as Gareth’s attack struck.

  The lightning collided with the undead giant’s ribcage, and for a brief moment, the entire temple was bathed in an ethereal purple light. Bones cracked and splintered, but the skeletal guardian held firm, shielding the necromancer at the cost of some of its mass. It absorbed the brunt of the lightning bolt, though its bones showed signs of strain as dark fissures spread along its ribs.

  Behind him, Gareth heard Yarea curse like a sailor.