Thorne stood atop the ramparts now, looking down at the sea of bone. The speech had done its job; the fear in the air had been replaced by a cold, sharp focus. To his left and right, the archers of Silverleaf lined the wooden walkway, their knuckles white as they gripped their bows. Below, the spearmen locked their shields together, creating a wall of steel behind the timber gate.
The silence returned, but it was different now. It was the deep breath before the plunge.
The High Lich, floating above the horde, sensed the change in the village's spirit. The green flames in its eye sockets narrowed. It raised its skull-topped staff high into the air.
The jaw of the Lich opened, and a sound spilled out that made the very air vibrate—a language dead for a thousand years, rasping and guttural like stones grinding together.
"Klaathu... Verata... Nekros."
The command rippled through the army of the dead. The skeletons clicked their jaws in unison. The wolves howled.
And then, they charged.
The horde moved like a landslide, a chaotic tumble of bone and rusted iron rushing toward the village walls.
Thorne did not flinch. He raised his heavy hand. "ARCHERS! DRAW!"
Fifty bows were raised in perfect synchronization. The archers of Silverleaf did not use ordinary steel tips. As they pulled back the strings, they channeled their internal energy—the mana of the forest. The arrowheads ignited with a brilliant, swirling green tinge. It was the element of Wind, sharpened to a molecular edge.
"LOOSE!" Thorne roared.
The air shrieked. Fifty streaks of emerald light arched over the wall and slammed into the front lines of the undead.
The effect was instantaneous. The arrows did not merely pierce; they obliterated. Upon impact, the green energy detonated, releasing a violent burst of pressurized wind. The skeletons didn't just fall; they vanished, ground into fine white dust in the blink of an eye. Ribcages shattered into powder. Skulls disintegrated.
For a moment, it seemed like an easy victory. The first wave was wiped from existence before they could even touch the wood.
The High Lich watched his minions turn to dust, but the creature did not recoil. Instead, the skeletal mouth twisted into a mockery of a smile.
It spun its staff, slamming the butt end into the frozen earth.
"Morath... Goru... Sanguis!"
Dark purple energy coiled around the staff, then shot forward like seeking vipers. The magic bypassed the smaller skeletons and struck the larger corpses in the back ranks—the Dead Orcs.
These were the bodies of colossal brutes, fallen warriors from the savage tribes of the south. As the purple magic hit them, their rotting flesh stitched itself back together. Their muscles swelled, tearing through their dead skin. Their eyes, once dull and empty, ignited with a furious crimson glow.
Their skin hardened, turning the color of iron.
"Focus fire on the big ones!" the archer captain screamed. "Bring them down!"
The green arrows flew again. They struck the enchanted Orcs, but this time, there was no disintegration. The arrows bounced off the hardened, iron-like skin with harmless sparks.
The enchanted Orcs roared—a sound of wet, gargling rage—and sprinted toward the wall.
"Brace!" Thorne shouted to the spearmen below. "THEY ARE HITTING THE GATES!"
The first Orc slammed into the heavy timber. The entire palisade shook, knocking dust from the planks. Then a second hit. Then a third.
CRACK.
A massive, iron-hard fist punched straight through the solid wood. Splinters the size of spears flew backward, injuring two guards.
The wood groaned, unable to withstand the magically enhanced strength. With a final, thunderous crash, the gates didn't just open—they shattered.
Through the dust and debris, the Red-Eyed Orcs charged in, followed by a river of wolves and skeletons.
"HOLD THEM!" Thorne yelled, leaping from the ramparts. He landed in the mud with a heavy thud, standing directly in the path of the lead Orc.
The Orc, towering over even the Chieftain, swung a rusted battleaxe.
Thorne didn't dodge. He stepped into the swing, his black-iron warhammer glowing with a dull orange heat.
CLANG.
Metal met metal. The shockwave blew the rain of splinters away. Thorne gritted his teeth, his boots sliding backward in the mud, but he held the blow. With a roar, he twisted his hips and swung his hammer upward, catching the Orc under the chin.
The enchantment held the skin together, but it couldn't stop the physics. The Orc's head snapped back with a sickening crunch, and the massive body collapsed.
But behind it, three more Orcs pushed through the breach.
The line was broken. The battle for the wall was over; the battle for the streets had begun.
The tide of battle had begun to turn. Thorne's hammer was a blur of destruction, smashing through the enchanted Orcs, while the spearmen, emboldened by their Chieftain, held the line. The skeletons were crumbling. Hope was returning to the eyes of the defenders.
Then, the High Lich drifted through the shattered remains of the gate.
He did not cast spells of fire or lightning. He simply existed, a void of cold that sucked the warmth from the air. The fighting near him slowed, as the sheer pressure of his aura made it difficult to breathe.
The Lich ignored the chaos. His burning green eyes were fixed on the center of the village—on the Elder Oak. He could feel it: the pulsing, delicious soul of the Spirit trapped within. It was a feast that would grant him godhood.
But as he floated forward, he paused.
For a brief second, his gaze flicked to the right, toward the Chieftain's longhouse. He sensed a spark there. It was faint, buried under layers of mortality, yet... potent. It felt old. Older than the trees.
The Lich hesitated, his bony fingers tightening on his staff. Another spirit? No. It is too small. Too weak to matter.
He dismissed the anomaly. The Tree was the prize.
The Lich raised his staff high. The skull atop it screamed—a high, piercing wail that shattered glass in the nearby windows.
"Surgite... et servite." (Rise... and serve.)
The magic didn't strike the living. It sank into the mud.
Joran, the young scout who had sounded the bell, was standing over the body of his friend, Kaelen, who had taken a spear to the chest moments ago. Joran was panting, wiping sweat from his eyes, relieved that the immediate danger was over.
Below him, Kaelen's eyes snapped open. They were no longer blue. They were burning green.
"Kaelen?" Joran whispered, his voice trembling. " You're... alive?"
Kaelen didn't speak. He reached up with unnatural speed, grabbing Joran by the throat. There was no recognition in the dead man's face, only a hunger for violence.
"No! It's me! It's Joran!" the scout screamed, struggling to pull the hand away. He raised his dagger, but his hand froze. He couldn't do it. He couldn't stab his brother-in-arms.
CRACK.
Kaelen squeezed. Joran went limp, falling into the mud. Moments later, Joran stood up again, his eyes turning green.
Across the battlefield, the scene repeated itself. Fathers faced dead sons. Wives faced dead husbands. The line of defense faltered not because of weakness, but because of love. The villagers hesitated to strike the faces they knew, and that hesitation cost them their lives.
Thorne watched his line crumble in horror. "Do not hesitate!" he roared, swinging his hammer to crush a risen neighbor. "They are gone! Destroy the vessels!"
But the morale was broken. The villagers were backing away, terrified.
Suddenly, a low hum filled the air.
It started as a vibration in the soles of their feet, then rose to a deafening resonance. The Elder Oak in the village square erupted with light.
It wasn't the usual soft blue glow. It was a blinding, radiant gold.
The Spirit of the Tree had awakened.
Roots burst from the ground, not to attack, but to touch the living defenders. A golden aura enveloped every villager of Silverleaf.
A spearman, exhausted and bleeding, felt his wounds knit together in seconds. An archer, out of mana, felt a surge of power rush through her veins, hotter and stronger than before.
The Blessing of the World Tree washed over them. It didn't just heal their bodies; it steeled their minds. The grief and horror of fighting their dead friends vanished, replaced by a calm, holy clarity. They understood now: to honor the dead, they had to free them.
"The Tree stands with us!" Thorne shouted, his own body glowing with the golden aura, his strength doubled. "SEND THEM TO REST!"
The villagers roared, their eyes glowing gold to match the enemy's green. They surged forward with renewed speed and power, their weapons cutting through the undead with blinding efficiency.