23. Twenty

The wind howled like a wounded beast as I stood on the ramparts, surveying the training yard below. Freezing rain pelted my face, each icy droplet stinging my chapped skin. It was a miserable day, colder than a witch's teat. Gray clouds blanketed the twilight sky, blotting out what little sun there was.

In the muddy field, the men—my men now—clutched swords in white-knuckled grips, their breath puffing out in frosty plumes. Hard to believe that they'd all once been slaves, some as recently as a few days ago. A steady stream of escaped slaves poured through the gates of Calibarra to join our ranks, with more coming every day. They had known the crack of the whip and the gnaw of hunger in their bellies. Hard men, but untested in true battle.

For two days, the elves had drilled them, demonstrating thrusts and parries and barking commands in their lilting tongue. The humans struggled to keep up, clumsy as newborn foals. But what they lacked in skill they made up for in heart, in the fire that blazed in their eyes, the need, the desperation to fight for something that was finally their own. Freedom.

Hawk walked among them, his grizzled face creased in a scowl as he shouted corrections and cuffed the slower learners. He was effective. I'd give him that much.

Shouts rang out across the battlements, echoing through the frigid air. "Ship ahoy! Ship approaching from the southeast!"

I spun on my heel and dashed toward the cliffside ramparts, my boots pounding against the slick stone. As I reached the edge, I gripped the icy parapet, the cold biting into my palms as I leaned forward to peer into the gloom.

There, cutting through the slate-gray waters like a blade, was a single ship surrounded by an ethereal green glow. It rode low and fast, propelled by both sail and oar.

"It bears the sigil of Clan Duskfell, my lord," said the elf beside me, his keen eyes fixed on the distant vessel. "Those lanterns are enchanted, allowing them to navigate even in near darkness."

I felt a surge of both relief and trepidation. Ruith had sent word to the Duskfell stronghold days ago, pleading for aid. Now it seemed they had answered the call. But one ship... was that all they could spare?

"Send word to King Ruith," I commanded, my voice cracking in the bitter wind. "Tell him the Duskfell ship approaches."

The elf nodded curtly and dashed off, his lithe form disappearing down the steps. I lingered a moment longer, watching the eerie green lanterns bob on the choppy waves, before turning to make my way down to the harbor.

By the time I reached the docks, the ship was already gliding into port, its movements unnaturally smooth for the rough seas. Up close, I could see that it was a sleek vessel, its dark wood adorned with intricate carvings that seemed to writhe and shimmer in the ghostly light. But what caught my eye was not the elven artistry, but the strange contraption that sat where the rowers should have been.

It was a machine of gleaming brass and steel, all whirring gears and churning pistons. It seemed to propel the ship by some arcane means, the oars moving in perfect synchronicity without a single hand to guide them. Elven magic, no doubt. But I had never seen its like before.

The gangplank lowered with a thud and two figures emerged from the gloom. The first was a tall elf with an angular face, his dark hair shot through with white stripes. He moved with a fluid grace, his black robes swirling around him like shadows given form. Aryn followed close behind, looking wearier than last I had seen him.

I looked at the elf before me with a mix of disbelief and disappointment. This was the aid that Clan Duskfell had sent? A single mage, no matter how powerful, could not hope to turn the tide against the forces arrayed against us.

"Lord Duskefell, I presume?"

The elf regarded me with eyes like chips of obsidian, cold and inscrutable. When he spoke, his voice was soft as the whisper of a tomb. "I am Daraith Duskfell."

"Pardon my skepticism, my lord," I started, "but where are your men?"

Daraith lowered his head. "Sadly, I am the last of my line and all that remains of our once proud and noble house, so I alone have come to offer what little aid I may."

I stared at him, trying to process his words. All that remained? What calamity had befallen Clan Duskfell to reduce them to a single survivor?

Aryn stepped forward, his face grim. "It's true, Elindir. Daraith is the last living member of his line. But do not underestimate him. I have seen his power at work and it is…no small thing."

A muscle twitched in my jaw as I struggled to keep my composure. After everything we had sacrificed, after all the desperate pleas Ruith had sent, this was all the aid Clan Duskfell could muster? A single necromancer, arriving on our shores like some dark specter of ill omen.

"We asked for an army," I said through gritted teeth, my voice rising with each word. "Not a single mage. I do not doubt your bravery or your ability, Lord Duskfell, but I doubt a single mage can make such a difference against what we face."

Daraith regarded me calmly. "If it is an army you desire, my lord, then an army you shall have."

With deliberate slowness, he began to remove the thick black gloves that covered his hands. The last glove fell away, revealing skin covered in intricate silver tattoos. He raised his hands, palms up, and began to chant in a language I did not recognize.

At first, nothing happened. The only sound was the howling of the wind and the creak of the ship's timbers. But then, slowly, a strange mist began to rise from the churning sea, coiling and twisting like a living thing. It crept up the sides of the dock, tendrils of cold vapor twisting around my boots.

And then I saw the figures shambling out of the mist.

They came in an endless procession, these things that had once been elves. Their flesh was pallid and bloated, sloughing off the bone in pale strips. Tattered remnants of clothing clung to their waterlogged forms—here a rotted jerkin, there the remains of a rusted breastplate. Empty sockets stared out from faces in varying states of decay, some no more than grinning skulls.

The horror of it hit me like a physical blow, stealing the breath from my lungs. I staggered back a step, bile rising in my throat. Never in my darkest nightmares could I have conjured a sight so profane, so utterly wrong. These were not the glorious dead, the honored fallen who had earned their rest. No, these were the lost, and the damned, torn from the peace of the grave to serve the whims of the necromancer.

They came by the hundreds, a shambling horde that defied counting. They marched out of the sea in eerie silence, driven by the inexorable will of their master. The mist clung to them like a shroud, eddying around their feet as they lurched up the beach and began to assemble in macabre ranks.

Slowly, numbly, I turned to face Daraith Duskfell. He stood with arms outstretched, his tattoos pulsing with an eldritch light. There was no strain in his face, no sign of the immense effort it must've taken to raise so many dead.

I stared at Daraith in a mix of awe and revulsion, my mind reeling from the sheer magnitude of what he had just done. The army of the dead stretched out before us, a sea of rotting flesh and tattered rags, their eyeless sockets staring blankly ahead. The stench of decay was overwhelming, a cloying miasma that clung to the back of my throat and made bile rise from my stomach.

Daraith lowered his arms, the silver tattoos on his skin fading back to their usual luster. He turned to me, his expression as inscrutable as ever. "Will this suffice, Prince Elindir?"

His casual tone, as if he had merely summoned a few servants rather than an entire legion of the undead, sent a chill down my spine. What manner of being was he to wield such power so effortlessly?

I swallowed hard, trying to find my voice. "No, this... this will be enough." The words felt like ashes in my mouth. Enough for what? To march on our own kin, to spill the blood of the living with an army of the dead? The wrongness of it sat heavy in my gut, a leaden weight of unease.

A flicker of movement caught my eye, and I turned to see Ruith striding down the dock, his face set in grim lines. Ruith's eyes widened as he took in the scene before him, his steps faltering for a moment before he caught himself. I saw the same revulsion that I felt mirrored in his expression, the instinctive recoil from the abomination that Daraith had wrought. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by the cool mask of composure that he wore so well.

"Lord Duskfell," he said, inclining his head. "I see you have brought us... reinforcements."

Daraith returned the nod, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips. "As promised, my king. An army to stand against your enemies, drawn from the ranks of the fallen."

Ruith's gaze swept over the assembled dead, lingering on the more decayed specimens with a kind of morbid fascination. "And they will obey our commands? Fight for our cause?"

"Without question," Daraith assured him. "They are bound to my will and, by extension, to yours."

I looked at Ruith, trying to gauge his reaction. For all his talk of doing whatever was necessary to secure our victory, surely even he must have limits. But if he was disturbed by the prospect of leading an army of walking corpses, he did not show it.

"Very well," he said at last, his tone one of grim acceptance.

I stared at Ruith, a cold knot of dread twisting in my gut. How could he accept this so calmly, as if Daraith had merely offered us a fresh shipment of weapons rather than a legion of the damned? Did his thirst for victory know no bounds, no lines he would not cross?

But even as the thought formed, I knew the answer. Ruith would do anything, sacrifice anything, to see his father's tyranny ended. And in my heart of hearts, I could not say I was any different. Had I not sworn to wade through rivers of blood, to tear down the very foundations of my homeland, all for the sake of my vengeance?

Still, the sight of those lifeless husks moving with a grotesque parody of life made my skin crawl. They were an affront to nature, a perversion of the natural order. The dead should stay dead, their souls at peace in the afterlife. To rip them from that rest, to enslave them to the will of the living...it was a violation of the highest order.

I turned away from the grisly sight, my stomach churning with revulsion. The scholars of the Eight Divines taught that elves were power hungry barbarians who worshipped false gods. If they only knew the elves were willing to violate the sanctity of death itself, they would march upon the elven lands and wipe them from the world to the last.

But even as I recoiled from the wrongness of it all, a traitorous voice whispered in the back of my mind. We needed this power, this unholy advantage, if we were to have any hope of victory. Vinolia wouldn't hesitate to use the dead to her advantage. We could hardly afford not to do the same.

Ruith's hand on my shoulder startled me. "Come. We have much to discuss."

I followed him numbly, my feet moving of their own accord. We made our way back to the castle, the undead horde parting before us like a macabre honor guard. I could feel their eyeless gazes upon me, a prickling sensation that raised the hairs on the back of my neck.

They remained on the beach, at least. I didn't want to think about how badly the castle would smell if they ever made it inside.

As we walked, I turned to Daraith, a sudden thought striking me. "Lord Duskfell, when our own soldiers fall in battle, will you..." I swallowed hard, the words sticking in my throat. "Will you raise them, as you have these others?"

Daraith's steps slowed, and he turned to face me, his expression unreadable. "I will do as I must to ensure our victory. But I am not without mercy." He reached into the folds of his robe and withdrew a small pouch, holding it out to me. "Have your men mark their foreheads with a thumbprint of ash from this pouch. It will prevent my magic from touching them, should they fall."

I took the pouch, feeling the soft weight of the ashes within. It was a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. At least our own dead would be allowed to rest in peace.

"Thank you," I said softly, tucking the pouch into my belt.

Daraith inclined his head in acknowledgment. "I do not take this task lightly, Prince Elindir. The dead should be honored, not used as pawns in the games of the living. But these are desperate times. We must use every weapon at our disposal, or risk losing everything."

I nodded, unable to argue with his logic even as my heart rebelled against it. We had indeed come to a dark place, where the lines between right and wrong blurred into shades of gray.

As we entered the castle, I couldn't shake the feeling of unease that clung to me like a second skin. The weight of what we were about to do, the lines we were about to cross, sat heavy on my shoulders. I glanced at Ruith, trying to gauge his thoughts, but his expression was carefully blank as ever.

We made our way to the war room, where maps and battle plans were strewn across the large wooden table. Daraith moved to the head of the table, his dark robes swirling around him like a living shadow. He placed his gloved hands on the table.

"Before we begin," he said, his voice soft but commanding, "I want to assure you that there are limits to my magic. The elves who have been given a proper burial, with the rituals observed, will not be touched by my power."

I frowned, not understanding. "What rituals do you speak of?"

Daraith's lips curved into a faint smile. "In elven tradition, when one of our own passes on, we sever the head from the body before interring only the heads. We believe the soul resides in the head and, therefore, separated from the body, it is only weighed down upon this plane. The severing hastens travel to the Otherplane. Any who are buried with honor will not be disturbed, so there is no need to mark the tombs beneath the palace."

I stared at Daraith, trying to process this new information. The elven burial rites were foreign to me, but I could appreciate the sentiment behind them. It was a small comfort to know that at least some of the dead would be spared.

The door opened and Katyr entered the room, his golden hair disheveled and his face drawn with fatigue. He must have come straight from the training yard.

"Brother," Ruith greeted him, his tone warm but his eyes calculating. "Thank you for coming."

Katyr nodded, his gaze flicking to Daraith. His eyes widened as he took in the sight of Daraith, his gaze lingering on the intricate silver tattoos that covered the necromancer's skin. "Those markings," he said, his voice soft with wonder. "Are they Silfein?"

Daraith stiffened, his shoulders tensing. "You are well informed. Yes, they are Silfein."

Katyr leaned forward, his fatigue seemingly forgotten in the face of his curiosity. "I've read about Silfein in the ancient texts. A rare magic-channeling element, mined only in the frigid wastes of the far north. The texts spoke of mages who would tattoo it into their skin in excruciating rituals, all to increase their power tenfold." His eyes shone with a scholar's zeal, the thirst for knowledge overriding any sense of caution.

Daraith's jaw clenched, a muscle twitching in his cheek. "The texts do not lie. But they do not tell the whole truth." He pulled off his gloves, revealing hands covered in the same swirling silver patterns. "Excruciating pain is only the beginning. The ritual to apply the Silfein is not a quick or easy process. It takes days, sometimes weeks, of constant, unrelenting agony. The Silfein must be heated until it is molten, then poured into the wounds cut into the skin. The pain is... indescribable."

He flexed his fingers, the silver lines rippling with the movement. "Many do not survive the process. Their minds break under the onslaught of pain, or their bodies simply give out, unable to endure the strain. Even those who do survive are forever changed. The Silfein bonds with your very flesh, your very soul. It becomes a part of you, as much as your blood or your bones. But it is still foreign." He closed his eyes and tilted his head to the side. "It…whispers."

I swallowed hard, suppressing a shudder. It was beyond my comprehension, beyond anything I had ever experienced. "And you chose to undergo this? To gain more power?"

Daraith's eyes snapped open, fixing me with a piercing stare. "I did not choose this path, Prince Elindir. It was chosen for me, when I was but a child." He turned away and slid his gloves back on. "Even among necromancers, there are lines that are not meant to be crossed. My father, in his relentless pursuit of power, crossed every one of them. It is one of the reasons there are no others from my house available to aid you. These last years have been…lonely and violent."

I stared at Daraith, feeling sick. What kind of father would subject his own child to such torture, all for the sake of power? It was a level of cruelty I could scarcely comprehend. And yet, looking at the haunted expression on Daraith's face, the pain that lurked behind his stoic facade, I knew it was the truth.

Aryn stepped forward, his movements slow and deliberate, as if approaching a wounded animal. He placed a hand on Daraith's shoulder, the touch feather-light and brief, mindful of the taboo against public displays of affection. But even that fleeting contact seemed to ease some of the tension in Daraith's frame.

"You are not alone anymore," Aryn said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "You have allies now. Friends."

Daraith looked at him, something raw and vulnerable flickering in his dark eyes before he quickly looked away. "Friends," he repeated, as if testing the word on his tongue. "I... Thank you."

The moment stretched between them, heavy with unspoken emotion. I felt like an intruder, witnessing something intensely private. I cleared my throat, breaking the silence.

"We should discuss our strategy," I said, gesturing to the maps on the table. "With Daraith's...army, we may have a chance to defend Calibarra when Vinolia and Klaus' armies fall upon us."

Ruith nodded. "We shall gather the war council and discuss strategy with our new numbers at once."