Daughter of Death - A Necromantic LitRPG

Transmutation was versatile.

Lieze knew it - Drayya was more than enthusiastic to display its myriad capabilities whenever the two of them had enjoyed any downtime in the past few months. Her grasp of the art was amateurish, but what the school lacked in raw offensive or defensive power, it more than made up for with its applications.

Invisibility, melding with stone, and most importantly of all, the literal transmutation of matter - most commonly liquids - into other forms. A savvy transmuter would theoretically mark among the most dangerous of sorcerers, though it was known for its relative difficulty compared to the other disciplines of magic - the God of Many Faces was known for being especially fickle.

So, then, what would happen if a powerful transmuter had access to an infinite supply of water? The answer, Lieze feared, was more destructive than she could possibly fathom. And that individual just so happened to be the final wedge driven between her and total victory.

“...That decanter needs to go.” She resolved.

“You’ve got that right! He’s practically invincible until we get rid of it!” Drayya released her grip on Lieze’s shoulders and turned her head to observe the wall of flames blocking their way, “-But he isn’t all-powerful. Water isn’t a particularly noble subject for transmutation - he’ll need a lot of it to do anything supremely dangerous. And then there’s his mana to consider…”

“We have some breathing room now. I think it’s about time we returned to our original plan.” Lieze replied, “I’ll send Marché and Roland off with the Flesh Golem to break into the city from another angle. By the time this fire dies down, we’ll be attacking from two angles. Do you know where Baccharum is?”

“Not here.”

A tired voice interrupted them. Marché’s curls of ginger hair flared up like beacons in the light of their lamps as he shouldered past the thralls to reach them. “He saved me from being attacked by some assassins, but I don’t think he managed to follow us all the way here. There are still a few thralls back where we started, but…” His voice trailed off.

“Mm.” Drayya paused, “He might be dead already.”

“We’ll see. He’s not central to our strategy either way, so I won’t hold my breath.” Lieze turned to Marché, “You heard, I take it?”

He nodded, “I’ll go fetch Roland. How many thralls are we taking with us?”

“As many as you can handle and more. Take enough of the Skeletal Necromancers with you until the headcount reaches a thousand, at least.” She ordered, “I won’t lie to ease your heart - you’re acting as a diversion. I’ve factored both of your deaths into the equation of this battle.”

“I figured as much.” Marché shrugged, “It doesn’t bother me one bit.”

Lieze’s gaze was fearsome. It could pierce through the steadiness in his heart to glimpse the fledgling fear snuggled within. He must have picked up on it, because his next words weren’t quite so courageous.

“It bothers me a little. Okay - a lot.” He admitted, “I don’t want to die. But I had a feeling this would be your plan all along, and I’m still following you, aren’t I? I’m not the same person I was when Alma was executed. I understand the importance of sacrifices now. Even if they are… impersonal.”

“Keep yourself from dying if you can help it. Roland, too.” Lieze replied, “You’re not a bad Deathguard, considering your tenure. I’m not sending you off because I want you dead.”

“I know that.” He nodded, “-And I know you aren’t one for farewells, so I won’t waste your time. But we are allies - that’s all I’m saying. Maybe you wanted to know that. Probably not, but there you go. I’m off. Don’t you dare fail, Lieze.”

“Huh… well said.” Drayya folded her arms, “Very succinct. Exactly how I would have done it.”

“You need to grow a pair and tell Lieze you love her before all of reality collapses around us.” Halfway into leaving, Marché turned and pointed an accusatory finger her way, "And it was obvious, by the way - everyone knew. Farewell!”

“You little shit! Don’t think you can just say whatever you like!” Drayya went to chase after him, but came back to her senses a second later, “...What a joker he turned out to be, huh?”

“...Do you love me?” Lieze tilted her head.

“Oh, come on, Lieze.” She rolled her eyes, “Obviously I’m just having a little fun. Just embracing you and kissing you all the time because that’s what friends do, right? Our relationship couldn’t be more platonic if we tried.”

“A battle for the fate of the world is raging all around us. I don’t have time for sarcasm.”

“Gods above… yes. Okay?” She shrank down, suddenly conscious of her next words, “I… I love you. Of course I do! Obviously…”

“Okay.” Lieze nodded, “I think… yes - I think I love you as well.”

“That’s nice.” Drayya puckered both lips together, trying to hide a smile that blossomed all on its own, “That’s… that’s wonderful, actually. I can’t believe you just said that.”

Something tore through the air, and in the next moment, the two of them were covered head-to-toe in blood. The Void Beast’s wicked tail loomed over them, half-draped with fresh viscera leaking droplets of crimson upon their long-awaited confession.

Drayya blew air through her lips, driving off a few flecks of blood, “...Now if only you’d picked a better time to say it. But nothing is ever perfect, is it?”

“No. Far from it.” Lieze agreed, “Get ready. That fire is about to die down.”

Marché and Roland marched in the wake of the Flesh Golem, accompanying its cumbersome rampage along the wall’s perimeter. The Rootborne were still upon them, innumerable and ceaseless in their aggression. A few minutes parted from the main army was all it took to represent the sheer density of their foe. Victory through annihilation, for the first time, wasn’t quite the Order’s remit.

“How’s your mana?” Roland was already reaching for the cerulean potion at his waist when he asked.

“My focus is damn near spent.” Marché replied, “-Not that our spells are of much use. We’re only wasting time trying to thin these Rootborne… but at least we’re drawing attention away from Lieze and the others.”

He caught the draught thrown his way and stuffed it hurriedly into his pack. They stumbled along with the detachment lifted from the army, organising Gravewalkers and Rot Behemoths as best they could while fending off the horde of Rootborne. Once the Flesh Golem picked a segment of the wall to destroy, they were poised to vanish through the gap as quickly as possible.

The twin forces battled for territory on the battlefield while boulders of rubble were shed from the Black City’s fortifications. Unlike the battlements of Tonberg or the watchtowers of the Dwarven Mountains, they were constructed with no distinct purpose in mind bar protection from the elements. There were no arrow slits, guardhouses, hallways, or barracks - only unfeeling, forbidding stone. Marché had to question how such a sterile city came about to begin with.

“Assassins!”

Roland’s voice came an instant before Marché’s [Blood Barrier] was dispelled by a dagger aiming straight for his heart. The hesitant moment following his subconscious deflect gave him just enough time to dive to the ground. An Elf had dropped from above - somewhere hidden within the canopy - and now stood over him with blade poised to finish the job.

Gravewalkers surrounding them lunged at the threat. The Elf dodged, and Marché scrambled to his feet, huddling behind the tide of rotten flesh. When he began to conjure another [Blood Barrier], a second assassin plummeted from the canopy. Marché saw this one, but not quickly enough to dodge. His outstretched hand seethed with pain as the Elf’s dagger passed cleanly through two of his fingers. A Stalker pounced from the horde, catching the assassin within its terrible maw before there was any time to react. Marché cradled his injured hand in the other, feeling the blood stick to the wrinkles in his palm.

An explosion of melting, bubbling flesh drew his attention towards Roland’s position, who slid his way through the thralls just a second later, robes soaked through with blood.

“The wall’s nearly down! We need to move!” His defiant expression grew sour when he noticed the stream of blood seeping between Marché’s fingers, “One of them got you?”

“It’s just a flesh wound.” He replied.

Roland dipped a hand into the pack hooked over his shoulder and retrieved a flask half-filled with a scarlet solution. “It’s a good thing I always come prepared.” He tossed it, “That’ll stop the bleeding and save you from the pain. Sorry about the fingers - nothing I can do to bring those back. Unless you fancy having them sewn back on?”

“Even if we did have the time, I wouldn’t trust you with a needle.” Marché flailed to catch the potion, holding his breath while he downed the mixture to delay its bitter taste, “...Hah. Let’s go. We’ll only attract more assassins from here on out, so keep your wits about you.”

A healthy boulder field of obsidian had formed beneath the Flesh Golem, which the thralls looped around and vaulted over on their way towards the newly-opened fissure in the wall. The Rootborne assailing them from behind found themselves at a bottleneck, bundled together within the crevice and unable to take full advantage of their numbers.

Marché marvelled at the Black City’s sterility once he crossed over. He could only see suggestions of the Elves’ ancient civilisation - lightless studs of marble shadowing a city erected beneath Akzhem’s endless night. It would have been awe-inspiring if he wasn’t focused on keeping himself alive.

“We’ll keep some thralls here.” Roland pointed towards the fissure, where Rot Behemoths were plugging the entrance and making it awfully difficult for the Rootborne to break through, “We’ll take the Briarknights, the Stalkers, some of the Gravewalkers… Baccharum said the palace at the rear of the city will be the Head Shaman’s final bulwark, so we’ll occupy the space between to cut off that bastard’s escape route.”

“That’ll give Lieze the opportunity she needs.” Marché nodded, “-But we’ll be exposed.”

“I didn’t say we wouldn’t be.” He shrugged, “This is how it was always meant to go. I’ll gladly risk my life if it means guiding the Order towards its final dream.”

“Shit…” Marché went to scratch his nose, only to find he was missing the index fingers he used to do it, “...It doesn’t make a difference either way, does it? Unless we fail.”

“-And we’re not going to. Not when we’ve come this far.” Roland turned towards the lightless avenues leading into the city, “The less time we waste, the better. Let’s go.”

The Head Shaman’s strategy was simple, but more than effective. By laying down puddles across the Black City’s streets, he and his army of peasants could keep their distance while spreading havoc among Lieze’s ranks. When the horde lurched forward to attack, there was another miracle of transmutation awaiting them - pillars of fire, columns of crumbling stone, sparks of lightning… they weren’t getting anywhere with a straightforward strategy, and Lieze understood that.

“Split half of our Stalkers off and send them to ambush the Shaman from behind.” She ordered, “Keep the Grotesques hovering close to the enemy, but forbid them from attacking. We only need to divert their attention.”

Once suffused with darkness, the streets felt the warmth of light for the first time in centuries before Kesset’s transmutation. Plumes of smoke arose from where his puddles had been turned to roiling acid. Thralls tumbled and fell as the surface beneath their feet was transmuted to solid ice. All the while, Kesset, his Shamans, and the civilians of the Black City remained unharmed as they continuously retreated whenever Lieze’s army gained ground.

“This isn’t going to work… we’re losing thralls by the second, and the Rootborne are still pushing us from behind…” She thought, “I have to use everything… this is the last chance I’ll ever get, after all.”