“Everyone says that they don’t fear Death”--I drew Grave Oath from its sheath--“until my blade pierces their flesh.”
His eyes bulged with fear as they took in the sight of the enchanted blade. Its razor-sharp tip was the last thing he saw before I plunged the dagger through his right eyeball into his skull. He gasped and shuddered as the magic blade sucked his soul out and made his head shrivel like an apple rotting to a withered, dehydrated husk.
Rollar, one of the first members of my camp to awaken, walked over to me. He stretched his heavy limbs and stared at the fresh corpse of the sentry.
“Who’s he?” he asked. “A straggler from Rodrick’s Army?”
“Nope,” I said. “I didn’t think it would be happening so soon, but we’re going to be fighting another battle.”
“How soon?”
“Maybe 24 hours. This time, against an entirely new set of opponents.”
I briefed Rollar, and did the same with the others when they woke. The Crusader Army planned to catch us in the darkest hour before dawn the next day, so we would strike right before. It would work better if the enemy thought we were walking straight into their ambush. They wanted to use darkness as an ally, did they? Well, I was about to make the darkest hour a whole lot darker.
I told my plan to my party members, a simple point-by-point outline that involved Rami’s Wind powers as well as the assistance of my harpy, Talon. As soon as I finished and everyone understood, we set off.
I led those who served me through the steep, perilous mountain passage.
Rami-Xayon, sexy and deadly enjarta and Goddess of Wind. Rollar, my second-in-command, the northern barbarian who rode a direbear into battle, wielding the God of Thunder’s massive warhammer. My other northern barbarian, Drok the berserker, a tornado in battle who dual-wielded battle-axes, drank enough booze from the skulls of his enemies to kill a draft horse, and smelled like a downtown latrine. My Northern beauty, the platinum blond, tattooed wise woman Friya, with breasts like two ripe melons and a magic cloak that allowed her to shift into a werewolf. Elyse, the gorgeous Bishop of Erst, who commanded the power of Light and holy fire, a virtuous and highly educated cleric on the surface but a ravenous vixen between the sheets. Then there was Anna, the slim and sultry raven-haired tomboy-turned-beauty-goddess from my hometown, into whose sensual figure I’d resurrected the spirit of the dead Charm Goddess, bringing the total of living goddesses who served under me to a healthy two. Another beauty, of course, had very recently joined my party: the supreme strategist, dangerously attractive, violence-loving Layna, Webmaven of Aith, the cursed city of the Arachne, doomed to live in that web-choked place as half-spider, half-human beings forever. She had ventured out of her city and met us on the road after I’d defeated my uncle. She couldn’t remain outside of Aith for long, but she had wanted to see me again, and I couldn’t argue against that.
Finally, there was my first and oldest ally, Isu, the former goddess who’d been with me from the beginning. She had given up more than anyone to be with me: lost her divinity and forsaken her immortality to become a necromancer who served me. It was her magic dagger, Grave Oath, that had started this epic quest, allowing me to become a necromancer instead of just a crypt-diving assassin, then finally the living God of Death.
Oh, and not to forget, my faithful steed Fang, the undead lizard the size of a wine wagon who enjoyed using enemy troops as chew toys.
Two hours before dawn, I took Rami-Xayon aside so she could begin the first stage of my plan.
“Can you do it?” I asked her.
The Yengish warrior-turned-Wind goddess flashed a devilish grin at me. “Oh yes,” she said as a sudden breeze whipped her silky black hair across her beautiful face. “Using the power of the Wind never ceases to inspire me.”
Closing her eyes and clasping her hands together, she began to whisper an incantation that would call up a windstorm. These lifeless mountains were full of one thing, one thing that would work perfectly to our advantage when combined with wind: dust.
I ordered the others to wrap cloths around their faces to protect themselves from the dust storm that was now whipping through the mountain passes. The already dark night was now so pitch black that a person could barely see their hands in front of their faces.
Of course, this wasn’t a problem for my undead troops, the skeletons and zombies I’d resurrected from my uncle’s army. They didn’t need to breathe, and they didn’t need light to see. They had other senses, senses the living didn’t possess.
We pressed onward, making good time through the raging dust-storm. We needed to arrive at a spot close to the ambush point an hour or so earlier than the Crusaders were expecting us. Despite the dust storm and the darkness of night, I harnessed the senses of my undead troops to guide us.
Finally, we arrived at the small valley that preceded the main valley, around half a mile away, where the Crusader army was waiting to spring their trap on us.
I walked over to Fang and looked up through the howling dust at the figure mounted on the saddle, where I’d usually be sitting. It was uncanny to see exactly what my enemies would see moments before they died: seated on the giant lizard was me, in my full plate armor, looking pretty fucking resplendent.
“Damn, I look awesome,” I said with a grin.
The “me” on Fang was, of course, not actually me. It was Isu, dressed in my full plate armor. She’d fit into the armor easily enough, being smaller than me, but she kept complaining about the fact that her breasts were being painfully squashed inside the breastplate. They were a big pair, of course, and the breastplate was
