Daughter of Death - A Necromantic LitRPG

The assassin lost his grip when the Manticore collided with the ground, thrown into the sooty fog. Lieze wasn’t quite so confident in her chances of survival, instead using [Levitation] to halt their momentum right before the beast drove its heft into the obsidian streets. Drayya’s weight, clinging to her like a lost kitten, dragged the two harmlessly towards solid ground.

Staff of Thraldom’s MP - 1,867 / 3,417

There was no telling where they had landed. The ‘streets’ - if they could be given such a moniker - all seemed so alike to Lieze, and the smoke forbade her from making out anything more than a few feet away. But her objective hadn’t changed, and although her ears rang with the sting of chaos, they were still able to pick up on the distant verses of battle.

Staff of Thraldom’s MP - 1,767 / 3,417

The two of them reapplied their [Blood Barriers] for good measure. But just as Lieze was about to direct them, Drayya placed one hand over the girl’s mouth and brought a finger to her lips. Danger, her eyes spoke, close. Lieze recalled all too clearly that there was still an assassin nearby. She nodded, and between them, an objective was communicated: to kill the interloper and be on their way.

“Another one!”

“My barrier!” Marché recoiled as the congealing blood surrounding his body was concentrated on a dagger aimed at his abdomen, “How many of these assassins does Akzhem employ! We’ve killed so many!”

Roland exploited the moment of confusion between the Elf attacking and suddenly finding his blow deflected to strafe around from the side and stage a surprise attack of his own. Unfortunately, a sellsword of the Black City was possessed of senses far in excess of a necromancer’s, leaping into the air to dodge a stab from Roland’s dagger. Like a morbid dancer, it twisted its gangly limbs in the air and descended, the light strapped to either man’s waist reflecting a wicked light from the Elf’s blade.

Marché raised his arms in defence, protecting his neck. He’d witnessed too many of Baccharum’s kills to become a victim of the same strike. But where opportunity vanished, the Elf simply sought another. In one marvellous stroke, Marché felt cold iron tearing across his stomach, making ribbons of his cloak.

“Shit…” He only understood the severity of the wound when the pain settled in less than a second later, forcing air up through his throat in a terrible, restrained sigh of agony.

The Stalkers arrived, and the assassin made himself scarce. No matter how fiercely they were deterred, those hired murderers knew better than to strike without purpose, and retreat as soon as the tables turned. The Stalkers, Roland realised, weren’t enough to protect them once the enemy had been given time to acclimate.

“Marché!”

He reached into his pack and fumbled with another health potion, reaching out to pinch Marché’s nose and force the solution down his ailing throat. It was his very last draught - the Elves had bled him dry of healing supplies.

“Get up, damn it! Your guts will find their way back in!” However strict, Roland forced the young man to his feet, “This isn’t working out, Marché! Those assassins are warming up to our tactic of hiding behind the Stalkers!”

“Yeah…” Marché was surprised by how better he felt in the coming seconds, “I can’t recast a barrier fast enough to keep up with them. Another situation like that, and one of us is dying.”

“...As if we stood a chance to begin with.” He replied, “There’s nothing for it - we need to move! Stick close to the thralls! Rely on them in a pinch! Blow them up if you have to!”

There was no time for Marché to nod in approval, but he did so anyway. They were no longer marching, but sprinting through those streets, paces as fast as the thralls in their wake could possibly keep up with. It wasn’t long; just before they approached the seeping fog near the city’s centre, when another clutch of assassins leaped from the nearby rooftops - five in all.

Marché sprinted, dodged, threw himself to the ground - anything it took to avoid their blows. For every graze and gash he weathered, the Stalkers were allowed a chance to pounce upon their enemies. Between flurries of daggers, he concentrated on maintaining his [Blood Barrier] with what little mana he had remaining, avoiding quite a few mortal blows by its protective grace.

Roland, experienced as he was, didn’t fare much better. The two of them were struggling for their lives, inching towards their target through a swarm of agile, pinpoint strikes. When they crossed into the fog, Marché thought for a moment that they had encountered some salvation, but low visibility only exacerbated his anxiety.

“Damn… that stings…” He ran a hand over his cheek, feeling pared valleys of flesh where he’d only just saved himself from a quick death. And that wasn’t the end of it, either. His entire body was a mess of cuts and gouges, some deeper than others - all of them painful.

“There’s… some kind of poison in those daggers.” Roland felt a weight on his chest, “Not lethal, but… it feels like I could barely take another step.”

They were blissfully alone, but not forgotten. What the Elves’ eyes did not reveal, their ears accounted for, and soon, the two necromancers, alongside the lumbering mounds of flesh under their command, were assailed yet again by the city’s lethal guardians.

Marché danced through them - and oftentimes through them - with defiant willpower. He was sluggish, outclassed, terrified, but never hopeless. For as long as they had a task to attend to, he thought, neither of them would forgive themselves for letting Lieze down at such a critical juncture.

“They’re coming… they’re coming again!” Roland’s voice broke through the fog, “Marché…”

He could not go on, were the words about to escape his mouth. It was less of a fact to Marché’s ears - more of a request. One of them had to make it. There was no time to respond as another group of assassins dashed into the horde, intent on ending their stubborn lives. They went for Marché that time - a concentrated attack to guarantee his death. They would move on to Roland next, he figured.

“It can’t end like this…” He clenched his teeth, “I refuse to allow it!”

His defiance was met by a blade. Then another. His stomach, his chest, his flank, his spine - all were pierced simultaneously. The Elves surrounded him with emotionless faces, retracting their daggers with all the detachment expected of their ilk. They were about to leave him there, dying, bleeding, groaning, waiting for death… but Marché had no intention of letting them leave.

His hand was already upon the flesh of a nearby Stalker, half-prepared for the eventuality. It was a powerful beast - one of Lieze’s finest. A fantastic conduit for a [Corpse Explosion].

“...It’s fine.” He thought, “For the world’s sake… how could I ever regret what I’ve done?”

He channelled the last of his mana into the creature’s flesh, causing its exposed muscle to burn and sear at his touch. The Elves were halfway towards departing, not quite certain of their own imminent demise until it was far too close to escape.

Marché clenched his eyes as the Stalker’s body ruptured.

The fall had ripped the Manticore’s wings apart. It was no longer in any state to fly, and Lieze wouldn’t have an opportunity to mend the issue until the battle was over. It remained enthusiastic about following the duo around, but its heavy footfalls eventually grabbed the attention of the stray assassin responsible for grounding them in the first place.

“Lieze!”

Drayya yanked her back by the sleeve when the assassin hoved into view - which was far closer than either of them would have liked. The sudden movement saved Lieze from wasting her [Blood Barrier], but the assassin didn’t allow a single whiff to dissuade him. With unerring dexterity, the Elf had closed the gap. Lieze raised both hands to protect herself against a lethal strike, unaware of the roiling shadow beneath her feet.

A veil of darkness rose to block the attack. The Elf backstepped - a reflex born from pure instinct - but found its skeletal ankles bound by an inky shadow. A tug from the shadow saw him flipped belly-up on the cold obsidian street. Before he could recover, the Void Beast had already taken on its true, feline form, pouncing upon the Elf’s chest to deliver a killing bite straight to the neck.

The assassin’s body froze, then fell limp. Lieze thought they would have a moment of relative peace to collect themselves, but that dream was dashed just as quickly as it formed. The familiar spray of water splashing against the ground drew her attention towards the fog, where a shallow puddle was trickling towards their position. She grimaced as innumerable silhouettes emerged, half-formed, from the veil.

“They’re here…” She muttered, “At least we didn’t land too far away…”

There were no grand, dramatic introductions to share. As soon as one of the pike-wielding civilians spotted Lieze, he sprinted back into the fog wailing in some incomprehensible tongue. She was already sprinting in the opposite direction, grabbing Drayya along the way to put as much distance between themselves and the puddles of water as possible.

The water turned to lightning. Uncontrollable sparks lashed at the surrounding architecture where they once stood. Lieze could feel the hairs on her neck standing up. A moment of silence pervaded following the chaos, followed by a row of valiant screams and the drumbeat of countless footsteps underfoot. Lieze and Drayya were being hunted.

“They’re faster than us…” Drayya panted, “You’ve seen how quickly those assassins move.”

“-But we can use that to our advantage.” Lieze led them towards the threshold of a featureless alleyway between obsidian monoliths, raising her staff towards the entrance, “If they’re busy looking for us, we can loop around from the side and ambush the Head Shaman. I’ll leave the Manticore here to draw some attention.”

Staff of Thraldom’s MP - 1,367 / 3,417

A potent [Blood Barrier] formed between the two buildings.

“Huh…?” Drayya blinked, “Shouldn’t you have done that after we went through?”

“We’re not going that way.” Lieze replied, “A barrier will make the Elves think we escaped through this alley. Outmanoeuvring our foes will be simpler if we mislead them. Now come over here - we don’t have time to chat!”

They sprinted through a crevice between two monoliths on the other end of the street, leaving the Manticore to fend for itself. Lieze made sure to strike a sensible balance between speed and caution, knowing better than to underestimate the hearing of their blind foes. She kept the location of the Head Shaman’s force in mind while they slipped through the black, unfeeling nooks of the Black City, using the Manticore’s roars to gauge their distance from the battle.

“...Wait.” Peering around a corner, Lieze held her arm out, “I think we’re close. Let me have a look…”

She tiptoed down the alley and scoped the nearby street, catching a glimpse of a tall silhouette marching just out of view. She wouldn’t have been able to identify him as the Head Shaman were it not for the conspicuous box of text hovering over his head. She dived behind the wall to avoid being spotted and ushered Drayya to approach.

“He’s alone…” She whispered, “He thinks he has us on the run. This is our chance.”