Chapter 36: The General of the Dead
The relentless pounding against the gates was a drumbeat of doom. Though the resonance hammers shattered Reanimate after Reanimate, the defenders were tiring. The unnatural green fog seemed to sap their strength, filling their lungs with a cold exhaustion. The endless, silent advance of the dead was fraying their nerves.
From his position on the wall, Alistair watched the swirling fog. He could feel the source of the corruption—a dark, pulsing heart of hatred—holding its position just beyond the tree line. It was waiting.
"He is testing us," Alistair said, his voice low. "Wearing us down. These... things are just tools to him."
Grok smashed his hammer down on a Reanimate that had managed to claw its way partway up the palisade. "He was always a patient hunter," the chieftain grunted. "He would stalk a rock-beast for days, waiting for the perfect moment to strike."
Thora nocked another arrow, her face grim. "He is not hunting a beast now. He is hunting a settlement. He will wait until we are at our weakest."
As if on cue, the mindless pounding at the gates suddenly stopped. The Reanimates, which had been a seething, pressing mob, now stepped back in unnerving unison. They did not retreat. They simply parted, forming a wide corridor that led from the tree line to the main gate.
The silence that fell was more terrifying than the noise.
Then, a new figure emerged from the fog.
It was Varg. But he was transformed. He was taller, his frame swollen with raw, corrupt power. Cracks in his grey skin pulsed with the same sickly green light that animated his army. In one hand, he carried a massive, crude axe, its head now a jagged shard of the same glowing crystal that infested the northern crags. His eyes were no longer those of a bitter warrior; they were pools of solid, malevolent green energy.
He walked with a slow, deliberate confidence down the corridor of his own dead, his gaze fixed on Alistair atop the wall.
[SCAN: VARG, THE BLIGHT-BOUND. TIER-3 CORRUPTED ENTITY. STATUS: FUSED WITH ANOMALOUS CORRUPTION SOURCE. EXTREME DANGER.]
"Earth-Shaker!" Varg's voice was no longer a Graxian roar. It was a layered, discordant sound, like grinding stone and tearing metal, that echoed unnaturally in the still air. "You who hides behind walls and tricks! You who poisons my people with soft words and weaker ways! Come out! Face the true strength of the Graxians!"
He raised his crystalline axe, and the green light within it flared. All around him, the Reanimates let out a silent, collective shudder, their own inner glow brightening in response.
"He challenges you," Thora said, her hand tightening on her spear. "It is a trap."
"Of course it is," Alistair replied, his eyes never leaving Varg. "But if I do not answer, he will simply command his army to tear these walls down, and we will have lost our best warriors in the process. He has engineered this."
Alistair knew what he had to do. He could not let his people bear the full brunt of Varg's corrupted power. The fight had become personal. The Blight-Bound wanted the Steward.
"Lower the gate," Alistair commanded.
Grok grabbed his arm. "No. It is what he wants. He is no longer one of us. He is a monster."
"And I am the Earth-Shaker," Alistair said, pulling his arm free. "This is my responsibility. Hold the wall. If this goes badly... be ready."
The heavy wooden gate groaned as it was raised just enough for Alistair to step through. He carried no hammer, no spear. He walked out into the field of battle, alone, the ranks of silent Reanimates watching him with their empty eyes.
He stopped twenty paces from Varg. The corrupting fog curled around his ankles, cold and invasive.
"Your borrowed power suits you, Varg," Alistair said, his voice calm, carrying without need for shouting. "It has the same hollow ring as your arguments."
Varg's lipless mouth twisted into a ghastly smile. "Borrowed? No, outsider. I have been *chosen*. The deep power of this world saw the weakness you and Grok represent. It gave me the strength to scour that weakness clean!"
He gestured with his axe, and the ground at Alistair's feet began to tremble. Sharp spikes of corrupted, glowing crystal erupted from the soil, trying to impale him.
Alistair was ready. He stomped his foot, and a wave of pure, brown earth shot out, smashing the crystal spikes to dust before they could fully form. "You command a pale imitation, Varg. A sickness. I command the living earth itself."
With a roar of fury, Varg charged.