Daughter of Death - A Necromantic LitRPG

Lieze was beginning to struggle with quantifying the strength of her growing army. When she first began raising thralls on that fateful day, the numbers involved were much more manageable. Weeks later, as she oversaw the reanimation of an entire mass grave, she simply didn’t have the time to examine each and every thrall.

She, Drayya, and Marché were the most qualified to be raising thralls. Due to the manner in which their talents of necromancy improved, it was possible to inflate the original level of the corpses involved. However, forbidding Marché’s followers from touching their supply of corpses would drastically lower the rate at which thralls were raised. As a result, Lieze had a decision to make: she could either organise a small but powerful army, or a large but weak army. Attempting to please both sides of her dilemma simply wasn’t possible. She knew that trying to cover up every weakness was futile.

It didn’t take her long to reach a decision.

“You want most of them called off?” Marché looked over the hooded cultists dragging corpses out of disorganised piles, “Is that wise?”

“If you flavour a bowl of soup with salt, do you add it all at once?” She asked.

“A bowl of… what?” He blinked, “Obviously not. You add a bit at a time and then taste it.”

“Why is that?”

“Because that way, you can always add more.” He crossed his arms, “If you add too much, there’s no taking the salt back. Then you’re just left with… salty soup.”

“That’s correct. And the same logic can be applied to these corpses.” Lieze explained, “Naturally, the best-case scenario would involve me, you, and Drayya personally raising each and every one. You’re a somewhat accomplished necromancer, so you must be aware that a better understanding of the craft results in stronger thralls - perhaps even stronger than they were in life.”

“Of course. That’s why the Briarknight you created from Helmach’s body is so powerful.” He replied.

“-But if we allow your disciples to raise most of them, we’ll be losing out on a potentially massive advantage in combat ability.” She continued.

“I agree.” He nodded, “But time is also a factor we have to consider. There’s no chance the three of us could raise this entire cemetery before Alistair takes notice of us. And we won’t be raising any thralls period if we’re all dead.”

“That’s precisely why we need to test the waters.” Lieze said, “If it turns out that pure numbers are all we need, then we’ll have your disciples raise the rest. But if careful strategy and precise attacks can be used to gain an advantage using fewer thralls, then we can afford to take our time and consolidate our power slowly - and more efficiently - over the course of many days.”

“Hm…” Marché placed a hand to his chin, “It’s an interesting dilemma.”

“I will have the final say.” She declared, “The three of us will take over the responsibility of creating an army while your followers will focus on using alchemy to reinforce the weakest links.”

“I see… undead alchemy takes the same amount of time no matter who’s doing it.” Marché replied, “-Therefore, it’s only natural that assigning the least talented among our ranks to the job would be the most efficient use of their time.”

“At the stroke of dawn, I’ll have Drayya petition Baccharum for some mana potions. That should alleviate the most tedious aspect of this plan.” Lieze continued, “As soon as we have enough thralls to mount an attack, we need to do so immediately. This time tomorrow night, I hope to have received some intelligence from Baccharum’s informants. If all proceeds well, we could be looking at an assault on the northern district as early as one-and-a-half days from now.”

“Hah… building an army is no small task. At least our soldiers don’t need to eat or sleep…” Marché sighed, “Speaking of which-”

“We’ll have our supplies as soon as we take the northern district. There’s no need to worry.”

“We had better. I saw three of my followers enjoying a nutritional supper of week-old bread crusts and rainwater a few hours ago.” He muttered, “At least it wasn’t frog soup.”

“There’s absolutely nothing wrong with-”

“Marché! My Lady!”

Their conversation was interrupted. From between the crumbling pillars of a rotting home, one of Marché’s followers was running towards them. He nearly tripped over his own feet before coming to a stop, taking a moment to catch his breath before continuing.

“Priests… coming here…” He choked out, “100 of them… at least…”

“100?” Marché repeated, “Any Dragon Cardinals?”

The young cultist shook his head.

“Lieze?” The red-haired necromancer turned to his leader with an expectant gaze.

“We haven’t allowed any soldiers to escape… are they here to check on reports of disappearances?” She closed her eyes in thought, “Or, perhaps they’ve been sent on emergency orders to dispose of the cemetery’s corpses before we can exploit them?”

“We can’t avoid the attention of 100 men, no matter how well we hide our thralls.” Marché replied.

“No.” She agreed, “There’s nothing for it. We have a battle on our hands. If those priests are allowed to sanctify this location, we’ll lose a crucial objective.”

She turned to the cultist, “Where are they approaching from?”

“The… the main road.” He answered, “-Leading northeast from the southern district.”

“Plenty of intact homes there.” Marché commented.

“Indeed. A prime opportunity to catch the enemy by surprise.” Lieze nodded, “I will commandeer the Briarknights and as many Gravewalkers as I can handle. Marché - you will find Drayya and join forces with her to create a blockade near the cemetery entrance. Have the rest of the cultists occupy potential escape routes - alleyways and the like.”

“As you wish.” Without wasting any time, he ran off to find Drayya.

The time had finally come. Lieze had committed countless atrocities since first arriving in Tonberg, but she had always done so under the cover of stealth. After weeks of careful preparation, she was finally prepared enough to stage a genuine effort of defence against at least 100 priests. A spark of excitement spread from her beating heart to the tips of her fingers.

“Very well…” She muttered, “If Alistair wants a war, he can have one.”

Thunderous footsteps shook the cobblestone road. Black-and-gold robes flitted in the breezy midnight air. In the wake of that procession, plumes of fragrant smoke rose into the sky. Its members were diligent, silent, and fervent. Those who did not carry censers held the scriptures of the faith close to their hearts, and those who carried neither opted to wield the holy pikes of the Church, speartips poking above the crowd.

They had all heard the rumours. Shadows stalking the eastern district from which not a single soldier had returned following the slaughter in the city square. None of them wished to imagine the worst-case scenario, but recent events had steeled them to the horror which was befalling their fair city. It was only as they approached the newly-built eastern cemetery - a testament to Ricta’s lacklustre leadership - that the futility of their march became apparent.

Gasps erupted from the crowd. Undead monstrosities - those the despicable Order had named ‘Gravewalkers’, had blockaded the junction leading beyond and around the cemetery perimeter. To some, it was the very first time they had witnessed the undead. To others, it had become such a common sight that they were filled with a sharp and unfeeling disgust.

“...Unbelievable.” A fellow leading the procession, who wore the tall hat of a bishop, raised his arm into the cold air, “Come.”

At his command, the censer-wielding priests rushed to form in a line directly ahead. Within their free hands twinkled the distinctive golden light of holy magic. Those brandishing pikes adopted a similar readiness, prepared to charge forward at the slightest hint of aggression from the undead.

Wordlessly, the bishop’s arm fell, and a torrent of golden javelins flew in an arc through the lonely skies, descending upon the Gravewalkers like divine justice from the heavens themselves. Upon contact, the holy spears seared the thralls’ flesh, causing those with less-than-stellar constitutions to disintegrate completely. The defensive line tightened to account for losses, but it was thinner than before.

“Pikemen.” Again, the bishop spoke, and again did the procession follow his commands with inhuman subservience, “Charge.”

There was no inspiring battle cry to accompany their assault, only the deafening chorus of their feet striking against the damp road. They were disciplined creatures - coaxed or beaten into submission by the Church. Executors of a divine will, and nothing more.

To those priests, victory seemed inevitable. And yet, as the pikemen soared ever further from the main group, the bishop was enlightened to a strange sound originating from his right. Looking over, the colour drained from his wrinkled face as countless pairs of lifeless eyes emerged from a nearby alleyway. Seconds later, there came another sound - from his left, that time. He didn’t need to waste time looking before making a decision.

“Pikemen! Retreat!” All of a sudden, his voice had lost its calm, “Back to the southern district!”

His folly had arrived in two parts. First, by splitting his forces with the expectation of receiving no counterattack, and second, by leading his entire force down a street flanked with countless alleyways. He was no leader or general - indeed, many would have claimed he wasn’t much of a bishop, either.

The Briarknight once known as Helmach was imperceptible as it leapt through the crisp night air. Only the moonlight gleam of its wicked greatsword, stained with the blood of countless soldiers, was visible in the darkness. Following in its wake were three other Briarknights - the reanimated corpses of Stürm, Noel, and Louanbona, each crashing into the shortsword-and-scripture-wielding priests with reckless abandon. Those with the sense to distance themselves from the thralls found any and all escape routes blocked by an ocean of Gravewalkers flooding from the alleyways, backed by hooded necromancers who had been expecting their fruitless attempts.

Lieze observed from afar, hidden in the shadows of one such alleyway. The countless nameplates hovering over the combatants’ heads made it impossible to perform any kind of deep analysis into the battle. The only number that really mattered was the indomitable [84] representing the Helmach-Briarknight’s level, and the sheer volume of thralls moving to attack the group of priests.

Split in two, the procession had no hope of victory. The pikemen made a valiant effort to form a defensive perimeter around the censer-wielding casters, but that, too, proved to be a strategic failure. As yet more Gravewalkers charged from the direction of the cemetery, the encirclement only served to seal the casters’ fates as the pikemen were overwhelmed with numbers.

Secret Quest "Great Victory" Complete!

Description - Defeat over 100 combatants in a single battle

Reward - 3,000xp

Level Up!

You are now level [28]

HP + 25 MP + 30

MIND + 1

Lieze’s heart felt at ease hearing the hopeless screams of her enemies filling the district with terror. She found herself wishing for a moment that all of Tonberg’s soldiers would be as inexperienced in the future, but she knew that letting her guard down simply wasn’t possible.

Soon, there was nothing left on that lonely street apart from necromancers and corpses - both the living and dead varieties. The ringing in Lieze’s ears ceased, and for a glorious few moments, there was nothing but silence.

“Lieze.”

Drayya broke that silence. Her expression was disappointed as she crossed the sea of corpses towards her comrade. She had been expecting much more from the battle.

“Our first real victory.” Lieze declared.

“If only all of them could come so easily…” She replied, “-But this battle won’t have gone unnoticed. Not when those priests were slinging spells so high you could have seen them from the Dwarven Mountains.”

“All the more important that we get to work, then.” Lieze said, “After all, every soldier who perishes in service to the crown is another added to our ranks.”