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The first signs of the impending trouble appeared before sunset. The air grew heavy, filled with the scent of ozone and something subtly alien, as if the desert itself was preparing for something unusual. That night, as the Legion of the Dead stood like a silent wall around the camp and the Death Squads took their positions, a shadow flickered in the distance on the crest of a nearby dune. It was too fast, too silent for any ordinary desert dweller.
The Lord of the North, his senses sharpened to a razor's edge by the Spear, felt it first. A chill, not from the night's cool, but from something else entirely, ran down his skin. He gave a sign to Green, who slipped into the darkness as silently as a shadow to investigate.
Less than half an hour later, a short, muffled cry was heard from the night, followed by silence. Green returned, his face tense, and in his hand, he held a strange, twisting dagger resembling a serpent's fang.
"Lord, that was no mere bandit," Green whispered, his voice unusually grave. "He was dressed in rags, but around his neck hung an amulet shaped like a snake, and his eyes... they burned with madness."
At that moment, a man leaped out from behind the dune. He was gaunt, his skin covered in tattoos of writhing snakes, and his eyes gleamed madly in the torchlight. In his hands, he held a serpentine dagger identical to the one Green had brought. He didn't shout or threaten, merely muttered something in an ancient, guttural language, the words of which seemed to penetrate the mind directly, causing a slight dizziness.
"Glory to the Great Serpent! The Spear belongs to him! It has awakened us!" the cultist hissed, his voice full of fanatical obsession. He lunged forward, ignoring the pikes of the Legion of the Dead, his movements unnaturally swift and agile.
One of the Legion warriors met his charge without flinching, but the cultist, like a snake, twisted away, his dagger merely scraping against the armor. Father Tuck, standing nearby, swung his iron-bound mace. The blow was powerful, but instead of falling, the cultist only staggered, his eyes blazing even brighter as he tried to strike back.
The Lord of the North stepped forward. The Spear of Longinus in his hands seemed to come alive, emitting a faint glow. He did not wait for the cultist to attack again. With a single, precise, calculated movement that had become intuitive to him, the Lord of the North struck. The Spear pierced the cultist, who collapsed onto the sand with a short, gurgling sound. But even in death, his eyes remained wide open, a mad, fanatical smile frozen on his face. On his chest, under his torn clothes, another, larger snake-shaped amulet was visible, now glowing dimly as if some dark energy still lingered within it.
"This is only the beginning, my lord," Green said quietly, looking at the dead cultist. "The Spear has awakened something that has slept for centuries. And they will come for it."
The Lord of the North nodded, his gaze fixed on the vast desert beyond, where it now seemed something more than just sand and stone was hiding. The journey home promised to be far more dangerous than the Crusade.
Green, being a rational and pragmatic man, carefully examined the cultist's body. He quickly checked the amulet, which now glowed faintly, and the dagger he had brought to the Lord. "This is no mere fanatic, my lord," Green said quietly, his eyes narrowing. "There was an unnatural strength about him. And the way he moved... It wasn't human." He picked up the cultist's dropped dagger, studying it intently. "A strange weapon, as if it were alive." Green was already beginning to analyze the new threat, considering how it would affect their route and security. He was focused on gathering information and understanding the nature of this "ancient evil" the cultist had spoken of.
Father Tuck, despite his pragmatism, was shaken by what he had seen. The blow from his mace, which should have crushed his opponent, had only made the cultist stagger. "In the name of the Light!" he exclaimed, making the sign of the cross. "That man was possessed! There was no fear in him, only madness and some kind of filth." He approached the body, examining it cautiously without touching it. His faith, usually unshakeable, had encountered something beyond the scope of ordinary evil. "The Spear... it draws them. These creatures sensed its power." He began to recite a quiet prayer, his voice filled with both anxiety and determination. Father Tuck understood that they were facing a struggle not just against flesh and blood, but against something far darker.
Hassan, as always, proved unpredictable. Upon seeing the fight, he first hid behind the nearest camel, trembling with fear. But when it was over and the cultist had fallen, Hassan cautiously peeked out. "Oh, merciful Allah! What was that?" he cried, clutching his modest dagger to his chest like a talisman. He warily approached the cultist's body, but his gaze lingered on the glowing amulet. "Oh, this is... this is the work of ancient masters! You could get a fortune for an amulet like this on the black market in the Eastern lands!" His fear quickly gave way to greed and curiosity. "Lord, let me examine it! Perhaps he has something else of value! Perhaps it's good luck that we met him, not misfortune!" Hassan was already mentally calculating the potential profit from any find, completely ignoring the threat the cultist represented.
The Lord gives the order to make camp, and the veterans of his army, without asking unnecessary questions, get to work. The "Legion of the Dead" forms a circular defense, their heavy armor appearing like an impenetrable wall even in the middle of the desert. The "Death Squads" disperse, taking up strategic positions, their experience allowing them to vanish into the pre-dawn haze, becoming invisible sentinels.
Green silently begins to study the dead fanatic. He turns the body over, methodically searching every pocket, every seam of the clothing. His fingers trace the twisting lines of the tattoos on the cultist's chest. These are not mere drawings—they form a complex pattern in which Green recognizes elements of long-forgotten symbols, possibly related to ancient serpent deities.
Green examines the amulet, already taken from the fanatic, under the light of a camp lantern. He mutters something about the "strange metalwork" and the "unfamiliar runes" engraved on it. The dagger, resembling a serpent's fang, piques his particular interest; he feels as though the blade itself is pulsating with its own life, even when not in use.
Meanwhile, the Lord summons Father Tuck. "What do you know of these, priest?" he asks, gesturing with a nod toward the body.
Father Tuck, his face still marked by the recent shock, sighs heavily. "My Lord," he begins, "the Church has always fought against heresies, and the Serpent Cult... it is one of the most ancient manifestations of darkness. They worship not a deity, but rather an entity that dwells in the shadows, feeding on chaos and fear. Their followers often become possessed, losing their minds but gaining unnatural strength and resilience."
He runs a hand over his own protective charm. "Their symbols are found in forgotten scrolls, in tales of ancient kingdoms swallowed by the sands. It is said they sleep for millennia, but awaken when a powerful source of energy appears... or when something shifts the balance of the world." In his words, there is not only knowledge but also deep anxiety.
Hassan, who had at first tried to sidle up to Green to "help" search for valuables, receives a stern look from the Lord. "Stay out of it, Hassan," the Lord says, and the merchant instantly recoils. He mutters something under his breath about "lost opportunities" and the "incomprehensibility of northerners," but steps aside, nervously stroking his "Blade of Chance." Nevertheless, his eyes continue to scan the surroundings, as if he is looking for something entirely different from everyone else, perhaps intuitively sensing something the others are missing.
While Green and Father Tuck are absorbed in their investigations, the Lord sends out small groups of scouts. The "Life-Hussars," known for their agility, move easily over the dunes, while the modernized archers take up concealed positions, their optical sights scanning the horizon. The task is clear: find any traces, any shelter the cultist might have used. The Lord's goal is not just to destroy the enemy, but to understand its nature and origin. The "Honey Mug" is his impregnable fortress, and he will not allow a threat to approach it until he is fully prepared.
The Lord did not wait for the results of conventional reconnaissance. With a looming threat, the sharpest eyes and the most perceptive mind were required. He assembled the best of his jaegers—elite trackers from the "Death Squads," whose keen eyes, enhanced by modernized optical sights, were no less sharp than a bird of prey's, capable of distinguishing the smallest details at vast distances, even through the desert haze.
"Green," he addressed his faithful advisor, whose insight had saved him from fatal mistakes more than once. "You will lead them. Find me the source of this plague. Do not engage, only reconnoiter. I want to know what we are facing before we act."
Green, whose mastery of the light blade was as honed as his mind, nodded silently. He instantly understood the gravity of the situation and the importance of this mission. The jaegers, like shadows, moved silently behind him, their boots leaving almost no tracks in the sand. Each of them was the embodiment of discipline and lethal efficiency, the perfect instruments for such a delicate and dangerous task.
After several tense hours, as the sun began to dip toward the horizon, painting the sands in crimson hues, the silhouettes of Green and his jaegers appeared on the crest of a distant dune. They moved with the same silence with which they had departed, but their appearance was a signal.
Green approached the Lord, his face serious, a mixture of warning and... discovery in his eyes. "My Lord," he began, "we found them. Not a camp on the surface, but something much deeper." He spread an impromptu map drawn with charcoal on the sand, pointing to a spot several leagues from their current position. "In that place, hidden among a jumble of rocks and the ruins of ancient structures, we discovered an entrance. Inconspicuous, almost completely buried in sand, but our jaegers noticed fresh tracks—prints of bare feet and something resembling the trails of slithering snakes."
The jaegers standing behind Green confirmed his words, their usually imperturbable faces expressing restrained tension. One of them, his lips tight, added: "Lord, it smells... different there. Not just of sand. Something musty, but at the same time... alive. And there was a feeling as if we were being watched from within."
Green continued: "The entrance leads to ancient catacombs. Apparently, they are vast and go deep underground. This is not just a shelter for fanatics; it is most likely their sanctuary or lair. The very 'ancient evil' the priest spoke of may be connected to this place. And it is quite likely that the cultist you... stopped, came from there." There was not a shadow of a doubt in his voice. The tracks they found, the unusual smell, and the feeling of being watched—all pointed to the fact that this was not just a group of madmen, but part of something much larger and more ancient, hidden beneath the desert sands.
When the sun finally disappeared behind the peaks, plunging the gorge into a cold blue, the Lord gave the order to prepare for the descent into the catacombs. There was no time to delay. At night, the evil felt more acute, and the longer they waited, the more time they gave it to strengthen. The "Legion of the Dead" took up a defensive position around the entrance, their heavy armor blending with the shadows of the rocks, creating an impenetrable wall. The grenadiers dispersed, ready to unleash fire on anyone who dared to approach.
The Lord assembled a small but elite squad for the reconnaissance mission itself: Green with his rapier, a few of the most agile jaegers from the "Death Squads" capable of seeing in near-total darkness, and, of course, himself, with the Spear of Longinus in hand. Father Tuck, though frightened, insisted on accompanying them, understanding the importance of ancient knowledge. They left Hassan in the camp under guard; his state was too unstable for such an environment.
The entrance to the catacombs was narrow, barely wide enough for one person to pass. It was almost completely hidden by moss-covered boulders and rock fragments, as if the mountain itself were trying to conceal this ancient wound. Above the entrance, the very Symbols of Oblivion that Tuck had spoken of were visible, carved crudely but with clear fanaticism. A dampness and the smell of decay, mixed with something acrid, almost metallic, emanated from within. The cold the scouts had mentioned was palpable; it penetrated their clothing, making even the hardened warriors shiver.
"Lanterns forward," the Lord commanded, his voice echoing in the encroaching silence. The jaegers lit dim oil lanterns, their light only emphasizing the impenetrable darkness that reigned inside. The wolves they had brought with them whined restlessly, their senses picking up something deep below.
Green walked beside the Lord, his rapier drawn. "This place breathes death, my lord," he whispered, his gaze sweeping over the walls. "Be careful. We don't know what awaits us here."
The first steps were down a steep, slippery slope. The stones underfoot were wet and covered in some kind of slimy ooze. The walls were carved into the rock itself, but the work was crude, without elegance, as if done in a hurry or by those who cared little for beauty. In some sections, there were traces of claws, very large ones, or signs that something heavy had once been dragged across the floor.
The Spear of Longinus in the Lord's hand pulsed more strongly, its silvery glow becoming more noticeable. It carried not only power but also a sense of antiquity that resonated with this place. He could feel the energy of evil growing stronger the deeper they descended.
"Look!" whispered one of the jaegers, pointing ahead. In the dim light of the lanterns, they saw the first signs of the fanatic's presence. Fresh, hastily drawn Symbols of Oblivion appeared on the walls, seemingly made with something dark and sticky, resembling dried blood. And on the floor lay scraps of cloth, similar to the rags of the cultist they had seen outside.
They moved on, the air growing heavier, and the rustling sounds the jaeger had mentioned became more distinct. It wasn't the wind or falling rocks, but something else... something that crawled, scraped, and breathed in the darkness, waiting for them in the depths of these forgotten catacombs. The squad was on the right path. And that path led straight to the ancient evil.
The oppressive silence of the catacombs felt tangible. The air was thick with the smell of decay and an unknown, ancient threat. Father Tuck, his face focused, almost absent, intently studied the symbols carved into the walls, and then the fresh ones, drawn with something dark and sticky, resembling dried blood.
"The Symbols of Oblivion... I thought as much," he whispered, his voice muffled, as if dissolving in the musty air of the dungeon. He traced a finger over one of the symbols, which depicted a writhing figure resembling a serpent swallowing its own tail, or something sleeping, coiled up. "These... these are the signs of the Serpent Cult."
His words echoed in the narrow passage. The Lord could feel the Spear of Longinus in his hand pulsating more strongly, its glow intensifying, casting bizarre shadows on the ancient walls.
"The Serpent Cult?" the Lord asked, his voice steady despite the mounting tension.
Father Tuck nodded, his eyes wide. "Yes, my Lord. One of the most ancient cults, with roots that go deep into forgotten eras, even before the rise of the Empire. Their faith is based on the worship of a certain Serpent Deity—an ancient, chthonic entity that, they believe, sleeps in the bowels of the earth. They believe that when it awakens, it will devour the world and grant them immortality and absolute power over what remains."
He ran his hand over the walls, where fresh symbols were interspersed with faded, ancient images of snakes and writhing forms. "This place... this is likely their sanctuary. Or, more likely, a prison for their god. They could have been secretly worshipping it here for centuries, waiting for a sign. And our Spear, my Lord, may be that very sign."
Green, who had been listening intently, frowned. "If that's the case, then the fanatic isn't just looking for something. He's trying to free this... deity? Or establish contact with it?"
"Precisely," Father Tuck confirmed. "And judging by the Spear's activity and these fresh signs, he is very close to his goal. We have entered the lair of a sleeping evil, my Lord. And its inhabitants must have felt our approach."
The rustling from the depths of the catacombs grew louder. Now it was not just a scraping sound, but a sound like the slow, heavy movement of something very large, crawling over stone. The air became denser, filled with a smell resembling ammonia and decaying flesh. Their presence had stirred the ancient darkness, and they were in the very heart of the Serpent Cult's lair.
They continued to move silently, Father Tuck confidently leading the squad through the winding labyrinth. The deeper they went, the clearer the choral chanting became. A multitude of deep, low voices created an unholy harmony that penetrated to the very bone. This was not the chaotic screaming of madmen, but an organized, ritualistic choir, filled with an ancient, dark power. It came from a distance, but its vibrations could be felt in the very earth, causing the air around them to tremble.
The Lord felt the Spear of Longinus in his hand pulse with new strength, its silvery glow becoming brighter, casting bizarre shadows on the twisting symbols on the walls. The Spear seemed to vibrate in unison with the chanting, but it was not in agreement, but rather a challenge.
Green, walking beside him, gripped the hilt of his rapier, his face tense. "This... this is an unholy liturgy, my lord," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the rising chant. "There are many of them. And they are doing something."
Father Tuck stared straight ahead. "They are summoning. Or feeding. This Serpent Deity. They are trying to awaken it or grant it power!" He began to recite prayers, his voice quiet but insistent, as if he were trying to create a shield of words against this dark choir.
The jaegers, accustomed to silence and stealth, froze, their faces expressing alarm. They were at their destination. Or, rather, in its very heart. The chanting was clearly coming from the depths, indicating the place where the cultists were performing their ritual. The time for decisive action had come.
With every meter, the chanting grew louder, and the air heavier, saturated with the smell of ammonia, decay, and something else, more acrid, almost acidic. The tunnel they were crawling through gradually widened, allowing them to stand up straight, and then transformed into a wide passage.
Finally, Father Tuck, who was carefully making his way forward as if afraid to wake something sleeping, gave the signal to stop. They dropped to the ground, crawling the last few meters, and cautiously peeked out from behind a huge boulder that served as natural cover.
A vast, grotesque hall opened up before their eyes. Its scale was astounding: the vaulted ceiling was lost somewhere in the darkness, only occasionally illuminated by flickering reflections from smooth, damp surfaces. The walls of the hall were not simply carved from stone—they seemed to have been formed by nature itself, but with a creepy, organic distortion. Everywhere, there were huge, natural columns resembling writhing serpentine bodies or petrified giant roots.
In the center of the hall, around a towering, slime-covered altar, dozens of cultists had gathered. There were far more of them than they had expected. They were dressed in the same rags as the fanatic outside, their faces hidden by deep hoods, but their movements were synchronized, filled with a strange, fanatical energy. They swayed in time with their choral chant, raising their hands to the sky or lowering them toward the altar, as if transferring their life force to it.
The chanting here, at its very source, was almost unbearable. It penetrated the bones, every cell of the body, causing dizziness and nausea. It was not just a sound, but something more—a mental assault that distorted perception and threatened sanity.
The Spear of Longinus in the Lord's hand burned brighter than ever, its silver light dancing on the walls, as if pushing back the darkness. It vibrated so strongly that it seemed it would break free from his grasp, as if it itself was drawn to whatever was in the center of this hall.
On the altar itself, or under it, or perhaps it was the altar itself, they saw something that made their hearts clench. In the dim light, it looked like a huge, writhing mass, covered in shimmering slime, which pulsed slowly in time with the cultists' chanting. It was something alive, enormous, and it was clearly the object of their ritual.
The ancient evil, the Serpent Cult—all of it had become a tangible reality. Green, lying next to him, gritted his teeth. His face was tense, but he maintained his composure. The jaegers froze, their eyes, accustomed to hunting at night, now staring in horror at the shimmering nightmare of the hall. Father Tuck fell to his knees, his lips moving in a frantic prayer, but his gaze was fixed on the altar with its disgusting mass.
They had found the lair. Now they had to decide how to destroy it.
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