Three hundred.

Between the soldiers Arthur and the Academy brought to protect Lyonesse, the Watch, and the city’s priests, Lyonesse’s defenders could gather a fighting force of three hundred to invade the dungeon. Every single church in the city had received a divine order to participate, the gods determined to see the undead wiped out for good.

The force only accepted people with at least 20 levels, as anyone else would be quickly killed and added to the undead army. Just as many soldiers would remain behind, to protect the citizens in case the rifts let monsters through; or if they failed, evacuate the city.

Not that Arthur doubted of their success, from what Gwen saw; the possibility of a glorious, heroic battle had infused the prince with hope and bravery. Her brother lived for such moments.

As the royal army gathered at the dungeon’s entrance, removing the wards and unearthing the buried entrance, Gwen was less enthusiastic. “Nidhogg…” Where did she hear a name like that?

“That is Walter’s true name.” Gwenhyfar turned towards Lady Yseult, whose famous beauty was now lessened by sorrow and anger. The priestess had summoned two [Daughters of Balder] and prepared to call a third.

“There has to be another explanation,” Annie insisted at her side, casting buffs on herself while utterly in denial. “Maybe he’s been manipulated?”

“Annie…” Gwen whispered. “I am sorry, but this is the truth. Hel’s priests confirmed that their goddess herself identified him as a dangerous undead.”

“It’s Hel, she can’t be trusted,” Annie protested, albeit weakly. Deep down, Gwen knew that her friend understood the painful truth. “It can’t be him…”

“The prophecies liken him to a dark dragon eating the roots of Yggdrasil, devouring the corpses of the wicked and leading the dead to the next world, after Ragnarok...” Lady Yseult’s eyes were red with tears at the monstrous betrayal. “But he never believed.”

A dark dragon?

The Linnorm. “Could Walter have been a dragon in disguise?”

“Father killed a dragon named Fafnir who could shapeshift into a man,” Arthur said with a smile. The prospect of slaying a wyrm excited him, while Ragnell and Morgane both glared at him with frustration. While Gwen understood that his carefree attitude was a mask to reassure his troops, it grated on the nerves to some.

“All along he…” Lady Yseult put her hands on her face, unable to finish her spell. “I was such a fool… I should have seen…”

“He hid for more than thirty years,” Gwen comforted her. “This isn’t your fault.”

“I let a snake inside our city, and now he poisoned it,” the priestess replied angrily, her serenity replaced by bitterness. “I trusted him! I trusted him!”

Gwen remained silent, letting her vent out her anger.

“He cured me, Your Highness.” The priestess let out a deep breath, wiping away her tears. “Was I a lab rat to him? Did he create his potions by murdering people?”

“I do not know,” Gwen replied. The necromancer struck her as a deluded madman who believed in his own lies; it wasn’t impossible that he had genuinely tried to help some people, if only to ease his guilty conscience.

Or maybe it was all a lie.

In the end, it didn’t matter. Walter Tye was a murderer and a criminal, ready to threaten a city when pushed. He couldn’t be allowed to escape again.

“Can you teleport us inside?” Gwen asked an elite royal [Battlemage], although she didn’t hope for much.

“Powerful wards block our teleportation past a certain point below, and magical protections only grow stronger as we scry down,” the warlock replied.

“All teleportation effects, or only ours?”

“Only ours.” So the undead could still summon reinforcements. “And past a certain point, godly wards prevent all forms of magical transport and divination.”

“Godly wards?” Gwen immediately put the two and two together. “The ‘root'."

“The serpent Nidhogg is also prophesied to eat the roots of Yggdrasil,” Lancelot declared. “Some analyses say that his success heralds the start of Ragnarok.”

“Where did you learn this?” Gwen asked while panic spread amidst the people present. The threat of Ragnarok struck fear in everyone; no wonder the gods had asked all their servants to participate.

“Calvert studied the prophecies recovered in the Pale Serpents’ citadel,” the royal knight replied calmly, as if repeating a script. “He believed the brotherhood’s name came from this legendary creature, whose founders venerated as a symbol of immortality.”

How could an ancient order older than Avalon venerate a shopkeeper? Something didn't add up.

Lady Yseult’s gaze turned to iron. “I will open the path,” she said. “All priests, with me. We will [Meld Stone] as deep as we can, and aim straight for their rotten heart.”

Having heard enough, Arthur nodded and raised his shining sword, [Excalibur]. Above them, the tears in the fabric of space were slowly expanding, purple mist seeping through.

“Everyone!” Arthur shouted. “Today we fight not for Avalon, but for all of Midgard! The forces of Ragnarok are arrayed against us, but we shall face them without fear! For if we die, we shall dine in Valhalla!”

Almost everyone shouted in response, except Annie.

Instead, much to Gwen’s horror, she coughed black blood.

The ceiling trembled, as Hagen summoned his ghostly steed. He activated his Perks, wreathing his mace in ice and darkness. “[Sinful Aura], [Frostbane].”

The Dullahan had gathered their troops in a great mausoleum, in the ruins of Level Three. Three hundred meters long and eighty meters wide, the underground vault was tall enough to allow flyers to move inside; three large stone bridges crossed the whole hall, surrounded by pits full of tombs. Undead, golems, goblins, elementals, and other monsters were assembled in checkpoints on each of them, with the largest force protecting stairs leading down.

The souls freed from the [Death Coach] had invaded the ruins, either haunting the area as specters or possessing the corpses within the tombs. Meanwhile, stone tablets hung in the back behind the undead forces, each holding a [Dark Spirit] bound by the chief’s staff; slime cauldrons also constantly produced more monsters, the defenders having spared no expense.

Everywhere, tears to Helheim opened, spilling out a nasty purple fog into the dungeon, sapping the strength of the living. While Hagen’s troops were immunized to its effects, their visibility would plummet with time.

Their enemies wouldn’t have much choice but go through this area if they wanted to reach Nastrond in time to interrupt the ritual. The other tunnels had been condemned, booby-trapped, or too small to allow anything but a small force to move through.

As for the undercity, besides the golems, Hagen had to fully evacuate it. The ritual had expanded to cover the entire undercity, threatening anyone caught within; the living had their blood drained, and the undead’s souls pulled from their fleshy shell.

Ghostring emerged from the ceiling, the ghost having returned from his scouting.

“So?” Hagen asked.

“They'll arrive any minute now,” Ghostring said. “They’re bypassing Level Two with [Meld Stone] spells and aiming straight for Level Three. They separated their troops into two forces, each royal leading one. I would say four hundred in total, maybe less.”

“Army composition? Average level?”

“Mostly fighters and rogues for the first force, more spellcasters and summons for the second; most seem to be in their thirties, with a few elites in the midst. Too many priests and inquisitors for advanced scouting.”

As Hagen had anticipated, they would keep their mages in the back. Hagen guessed that the second force would keep bolstering itself with summons, and only enter battle prematurely if the first wave was threatened with decimation.

The royal army had the undead outnumbered, although they had the advantage of the terrain and stronger magic. So far, the Dullahan thought their odds were roughly even.

“We’re going to play attrition,” Hagen said. “We don’t have to win, just delay them; the longer the battle lasts, the worse it will get for them. Boneater and the goblins at the left, Duke at the right; Ghostring, you, Spook, and Many-Swarm, you move behind their lines and aim for the commanders. We keep the Linnorm at the back to protect Nastrond’s entrance as a last line of defense. If we hold the line, we’re going to win this handily.”

“Easier said than done,” the ghost replied. “One of their elites is Lancelot of the Lake.”

“That level 80 boy?” That was bad. A warrior with a level that high was worth an entire army.

“There’s something wrong about him,” Ghostring explained. “Not just the level. I feel my will being sapped in his presence, like I might get [Enthralled] if I approach him too closely.”

Automatically [Enthrall] ghosts? But the only classes Hagen knew with that power were [Deathlord] and...

“No undead approaches Lancelot,” the Dullahan ordered, unwilling to take the risk. “Not even our elites. Send slimes and golems to keep him busy. We can’t kill him, but his priority will be to protect the prince and princess. We can contain him.”

Duke seized the right bridge, commanding a group of draugr, zombies, and flesh golems; while the goblins defended the left bridge, their skin covered in spell tattoos. Hagen held the central stairway with a group of elementals and summoned demons. Slimes slithered in between the tombs, hungering for flesh.

They arrived with a bang.

Literally, they blew up the mausoleum’s entrance with spells and explosives, before pouring through from the higher levels by the dozens, a tide of men and women. [Archers] with fiery bows, ax-wielding [Warmasters], armored [Heavy Knights], sneaky rogues equipped with swords and crossbows, singing bards… A few Hel Inquisitors and priests assisted them, casting light spells to illuminate the mausoleum and provide visibility.

Immediately, as they took their first steps on the bridges, the soldiers triggered Walter’s traps. Symbols appeared beneath them, instantly slaying or turning berserk the weak-willed. Other runes unleashed fiery detonations, blasting apart knights and archers into mangled, bloody messes. The archers and casters among Hagen’s forces unleashed a volley of spells and arrows, the attackers retaliating with their own projectiles. Ghostring floated through the ground below, to fulfill his own mission.

Immediately seizing the initiative, the attackers who survived the first traps divided to take the bridges, separating into three forces.

The force attacking the right bridge was comically small compared to the others, but the shining, armored knight at the helm radiated overwhelming power. Hagen identified him as Lancelot of the Lake, and every instinct in the Dullahan’s body told him to avoid the knight like Surtr himself. Hel Inquisitors backed him up, clearly eager to massacre undead.

As for the central and largest army… Prince Arthur led it himself, his body covered in blue plate armor, carrying a shining sword in one hand and a shield in the other. He rode the back of a white horse, and mounted knights backed him up.

...

Cavalry, underground?

Hagen couldn’t believe the prince would be that arrogant. At least the Dullahan’s mount was a phantom, with greater maneuverability. Then again, the prince’s horse looked like a supernatural creature in its own right, some kind of half-angel, shiny unicorn...

“Charge!” Prince Arthur ordered, riding at the helm backed by armored riders. Immediately, the royal army attempted to cross the bridges, bards empowering them with songs; they screamed like madmen, finding nothing better than to attack in human waves.

These martyrs were all the same. Foolishly courting death in the hope of gaining a postmortem reward. They would rather earn glory and threaten their side’s chances of winning, than follow an effective strategy.

Disgusting.

Hagen raised his hand. Winged fiends, ghosts, and air elementals flew above the pits to flank the fighters on the bridges. They focused on tossing defenseless soldiers into the pits, where ravenous undead emerged from the tombs. They promptly devoured anyone unfortunate enough to fall within their grasp and started climbing their way out.

Much to Hagen’s shock though, arrows and spells bounced off the Prince’s skin, like wind against a mountain. Fiends’ spears shattered when they tried to pierce his hide, while his shining sword cut a swath of devastation forward. This invulnerable, unstoppable force slowly carved a path through the central bridge, while a barbarian woman wielding an icy ax followed him like a shadow.

As for Lancelot of the Lake, he was even worse. An armored figure on foot, he was a [Hastened] whirlwind cutting through anything in his path with a mighty, two-handed claymore. There was no technique, no spells, no fancy movement. He was just strong.

In fact, Hagen could have sworn that he was pulling his punches; the Royal Knight could have already reached the other end of the bridge if he had gone all out, but he didn’t bother. Two mighty flesh golems, one created from the remains of the slain Earthlander Ryoma, had engaged him; yet his blade cut through their thick skin like butter.

For some reason, the undead avoided him. They didn’t turn to fight against their kindred, but they didn’t attack Lancelot even when he entered their range. Even Duke seemed uneasy, forgoing a chance at flanking the Royal Knight to focus on his escort instead, skewering a Hel Inquisitor and parrying another’s quarterstaff. Unlike everyone else, the goblins had the left bridge covered, their rains of arrows and suppression fire preventing attackers from gaining an inch of terrain.

“[Call the Black Hounds],” Hagen said, two shadowy mastiffs appearing at his side. His phantom steed riding on the air rather than stone, the Dullahan charged forward, to welcome the invaders with the bite of his weapon. Specters and [Dark Spirits] followed him, a ghostly wild hunt ready to devour the living.

Bashing a knight's face in, Hagen aimed straight for the prince.

He couldn’t wait to be called the Kingslayer.

From the noise, her brother had engaged the defenders.

And from the tremors below, the ritual grew in intensity. Time was running out.

Leading a small force of twenty in narrow catacombs, Gwen held her blade with great anxiety. The princess had a royal mage shapeshifted into her, and put in charge of the second wave; this would distract the undead and their diviners, while the princess and an elite force would slip around the battlefield through tunnels, to interrupt the ritual directly.

Alongside the core team that she had assaulted the dungeon with, replacing Walter with a much more anxious Percy, she had received the backing of two Hel Inquisitors, one [Battlemage], and one elite knight; each of them carried torches to see in the darkness. She had favored quality over quantity, an elite troop that would aim straight for Walter’s throat while the rest of the army kept his minions busy.

“You’re alright?” Takeru whispered to Annie, low enough to make sure no one listened; or at least, he thought so.

“No,” she replied. The witch was by far the most depressed member of the group. “I don’t feel well…”

“You should have stayed behind,” the archer replied bluntly. “You’re weak.”

Gwen would have agreed if they didn’t need any fighter available, and Annie was one of their best.

“I can still kick your ass, stupid,” the witch replied grimly. “It’s not the illness, it’s the thought of…” She bite her lower lip.

“You don’t have to do him in yourself,” the bowman replied, having watched her protectively since they entered the dungeon. “I can do it for you. Just buff me up.”

“I don’t want to ‘do in’ anyone, Takeru. I just want it to end well.”

She was too kind for this world. Still, Annie was a model of stability, compared to Percy. “Why did you join?” Gwen asked the former squire, whose every step breathed nervousness.

“He killed Sir Sigurd, but then he helped me,” the young man replied, “I… I know it’s strange, but I don’t think Mr. Tye is all that bad.”

“You don’t think, or you don’t want to admit it?” Gwen asked sharply. In retrospect, she realized a lot of Walter’s ‘help’ was a manipulation tactic; even saving her from that giant had probably been an assassination attempt gone wrong.

“I think he is a good person in a bad position,” Percy replied, more firmly. “At least I want to believe he is. I want to try talking it out, even if… you think I’m foolish, Your Highness?”

“No.” But they already tried talking once, and it ended in blood all the same.

The group finally left the tunnels, entering a dark, massive flagstone supported by two rows of crimson pillars. The flickers of the torches revealed mosaics on the walls, and purple smoke seemed to ooze from the T-shaped end of the hall, slipping through stones.

The inquisitors and the knight went first, activating their [Spell Purge] and defenses to clear the way. When certain there weren’t undead in the area, they gestured to Gwen and the rest of the group. Lady Yseult went first, her gaze full of grim determination, backed by the other spellcasters. Gwen and the archers closed the march.

The princess stayed on her guard, as she eyed the wall from which the mists seeped through. “The necromantic energies come from there,” a Hel Inquisitor confirmed her thoughts. “I can feel it.”

“Meld the wall,” Gwen ordered the spellcasters. “The necromancer must be right beyond it.”

“You know,” Takeru mused, readying his sacred bow. “We never found the true loot.”

“Is this all you care about?” Percy snapped, more disappointed than angry, “Money—”

Blood fell on the ground, alongside Percy’s head.

The shock caused Gwen to fall still for a split second, as the squire fell dead at her side, his remains magically turning to dust. She heard Annie scream and noticed a clawed mummy emerge from the shadows. How did he sneak up on—

The assassin’s hands lunged at Gwen’s throat, the killer moving as swiftly as a panther.

She didn’t have the time to raise her blade; he was already upon her.

“Gwen!” Faster, Takeru moved in front of Gwen and pushed her behind, turning his body into a shield and readying his bow.

The mummy clawed the Earthlander’s throat before he could fire an arrow, cutting through the jugular and narrowly avoiding an outright beheading. Takeru collapsed on his back, bleeding a full puddle within seconds.

However, he gave the team enough time to mobilize. Gwen raised her blade and parried another clawed attack, pushing the assassin back with a thrust, while Yseult immediately moved to heal Takeru’s wound.

At the same time, a flood of white rats entered the room through holes in the hall, immediately swarming the royal knight and slipping inside his armor. The warrior screamed as he fell on his back, the ravenous rodents eating him alive.

A purple ghost, one that Gwen had seen assist the undead more than once, slipped from below Annie and entered her body from behind before she could spellcast. Behind Gwen, the princess heard the sound of an explosion, of a body thrown against a wall.

“Morgane!” Gwen shouted, her heart suddenly fearing for her half-sister’s life, as she glimpsed in her direction.

Morgane had shot the Battlemage in the back, blasting his head with a fire spell and propelled the corpse against a pillar. She immediately cast another spell on an inquisitor but failed to bypass his [Spell Purge] protection.

The betrayal horrified Gwen, who thought she had been possessed… until Morgane opened her mouth.

“Kill the inquisitors!” the witch ordered the rat swarm, as it finished eating the knight and circled the Hel priests. Then, her sister turned to face Gwen.

Sharp fangs had grown through her lips; her skin had turned deathly pale, her eyes dark crimson, and her nails into black claws. She retained her beauty and deadly grace but now looked more like a snarling beast than a human.

“What’s wrong, Gwen?” The vampiric monster wearing her half-sister’s face smirked at the princess. “Your amulet didn’t tingle?”

A vampire.

How? She had walked under the sun hours ago! Was she a…

“All along,” Gwen realized, horrified. “You were with them all along.”

“Your Highness, behind me!” Lady Yseult ordered, raising a shield of light around them and the dying Takeru. She had managed to close the gaping wound, but the archer had lost so much blood, any hit might finish him off.

“Your halfbreed of a sister is dead,” 'Morgane' taunted Gwen. “She moaned like a whore when I took her flesh as my own, and she’s been rotting in Helheim for months. Now, Spook, grab the priestess, alive.”

No answer.

“Spook?” the vampire repeated.

“God… has returned…”

It took a second for Gwen to identify the speaker.

“You can talk?” the specter possessing Annie spoke through her lips, half-surprised, half-worried.

“I… I did things…” the mummy, 'Spook,' whispered, his raspy voice full of malice. “I did… sweet and terrible things...”

The undead chuckled to himself, singing a low tune. He let out a small laugh of pure dark, bliss, as he slowly circled a terrified Gwen with what passed for predatory hunger. His claws radiated with necrotic energy, and in their reflection, the princess saw Percy's trapped soul.

“Your blood... I remember… you… and Earthlanders…” The mummy assassin’s expression turned into one of pure, unbridled hatred. “You killed me!”

The undead’s claws lunged for Gwen’s throat and slashed through Yseult’s magical shield. Blades clashed as the room erupted into chaos.