Theo

  My steel boot drops into the mud, and the water seeps between the cracks, soaking my toes, in the frigid cold.

  I grit my teeth and turn, climbing up, and into the wagon. They are empty of coal, and we have begun our trek back. We are nearly half way back to Quesford. Our wagons are empty, and light barely leaving tracks through the mud.

  But in the distance we notice the green horde approaching. Not nearly as large as our horde, but just as deadly.

  As we wheel forward, our masses of undead shift, to stay between us and our opponents, but they grow closer to us, quicker, and quicker.

  First, we send a couple hundred of our undead off to distract them. Sadly they are turned to a paste, filled with chunks of shattered bones.

  As we push onward, they continue marching after us. Soon, they are so close, we can hear their ramblings, and rantings,

  Orcs. Green muscle bound beasts, weaker than Ogres, dumber than humans, yet far more prolific than both.

  As they grow closer I dismount, and the other necromancers climb high into the tops of the wagons.

  With a smash, I watch as the first Orc reaches our shambling front line. We have nearly 25 thousand troops, and they stretch far in either direction. But one zombie is no match for an orc, hell even 20 zombies isn't a match for an Orc. But a 50 to one ratio is something I will bet on, even in these conditions.

  Not to mention that D to C ranked specialized beasts sprinkled through our lines. Plus, me. A high ranking fighter like me, being A ranked. Can easily turn the tide of a battle.

  I rush forward, my Montante resting on my shoulder, and armored boots sink into the mud.

  I wear a full set of armor, with leathers, padding, and chainmail below it. To someone in a lower rank with a similar fighting style to me, they may abandon the armor to save speed, but an A ranker is quite strong enough to have both speed, and armor.

  I have no shield, instead favouring a 20 pound Montante, specially made, nearly as long as I am tall, with a pair of barbs sticking near the handle to allow for better control, and a better close up technique.

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  I whirl into battle, my body a whirlwind of blood, and steal. I swing my sword over my head, my momentum carrying me forward.

  I chop, and whirl, and every opponent I kill is drained of their blood, like nothing more than blood bags.

  Their bodies are torn apart, and the blood reforms as hard spikes circling my lower body, while my sword swings with a vengeance above my head.

  As I wing, and I chop, my sword resounds with a clang against a metal axe blade, but instead of it stopping my, my sword rebounds, and I spin, swinging back around, and chop into the left arm of the beast confronting me. I chops through with little effort, dropping it to the ground.

  He raises his right arm as if to chop into me, but with a ringing noise, the blood gathering near my hips, fires outwards, with a shot, a hole is torn in the poor bloke's torso. He collapses to the ground, and I rush onward in my rampage, my sword slicing body after body.

  10, 15, 20, 25, 30, 35, my kills keep climbing. I kill more, and faster than I can count, every body pours its blood free to aid me. A never ending feedback loop of kill, get stronger, kill, get stronger. Then with a spike of energy, my blood swings out in a ring, killing nearly all that remains before dissipating, and reforming around my waist.

  In an instant I am no longer surrounded. I've killed a third of the enemy forces, and they have begun to retreat.

  I chuckle, and the blood that gathers around me solidifies into hundreds of tiny little balls. I begin to cast a spell, my mana weaving a tapestry, and with a crack, every one of those balls of blood, fires off, at the escaping line, they bring down a hundred more before I chuckle, and stop firing at them.

  I turn back to my men, my sword swing lazily before I plant the tip in the soil. I lean resting my hands on the pommel, pushing my bum outwards lazily “That was fun lads.”

  I laugh, as my comrades poke their heads free from their wagons, where they shivered in fear through the entire battle. Most necromancers have little to no combat use other than raising the dead, because raising said dead is a very specialized field…

  I chuckle, and spin my sword one handed above my head, a feat of impressive strength, gaining oohs, and ahhs, from the untrained necromancers.

  I begin my walk, trekking through the mud, quickly I mount back up, on the cart.

  “We should get back to Questford. I haven't seen a horde that big in a while, and where there are hundreds, there are thousands. They will definitely try to raid Questford. Especially since all the money, and goods being produced, as well as it being such an easily defensible position. The hordes have been vying for a position they can hold against the kingdom for decades. But, they do not know how to develop land, they only know how to hold defenses, and take them. So, once Questford is able to put up some walls they will be perfect for the horde to occupy, and then hopefully hold against the Kingdom of Morovia. “ The other necromancers nod.

  “Yes, good idea, we should hurry.”