Green, pressed to the ground next to the Lord, whispered softly, his voice tense but rational: "My lord, there are too many of them. Dozens. Perhaps even a hundred. They have an overwhelming numerical advantage, especially in this enclosed space."
He glanced around the huge hall, which, despite its size, offered no room for tactical maneuvers. "Our 'Death Squads' are strong in maneuver and ranged combat, but here they won't be able to use their bows and rifles effectively. The 'Legion of the Dead' can withstand a direct assault, but they won't be able to break through such a mass if they surround us."
Father Tuk, still on his knees, raised his head. "Their chanting, Lord. It's not just sound. It affects the mind. The longer we stay here, the stronger the influence. They are trying to break our will before we even take a single step."
They were right. A frontal assault would be suicide. The Lord had limited forces at his disposal, and even the "Legion of the Dead" could not withstand a direct clash with so many fanatics in their own sanctuary, especially under the influence of their ritual chanting. His grenadiers, who could have used incendiary rounds, risked collapsing the catacomb vaults, burying them all if the force of the explosion was miscalculated in this confined space.
The Lord's gaze swept over the enormous pulsating mass on the altar. That was their focal point, their power. To destroy it—that was the main objective. But how to break through the fanatics, possessed by their faith, in a place where every move could lead to disaster?
"Numerical advantage is not an absolute victory," the Lord replied, his voice calm despite the growing threat. "We will not go head-on. We need cunning here. We must use their own fanaticism against them."
His eyes fell on the light blade at his belt—a weapon for close combat and surprise attacks—and on his modified heavy pistol—his "crushing argument in critical situations." The Spear of Longinus throbbed in his hand, its light growing brighter, as if it too awaited the moment to unleash its ancient power.
"Green," he called. "Are there any escape routes if something goes wrong? Or flanking routes that could lead us to another part of the hall, to the enemy's flank or rear?"
"The entrance is too narrow for a quick retreat, my lord," he answered, examining the walls. "But... there might be side passages. I saw several dark niches on our way here. Perhaps they lead to other tunnels. But it's a risk. We could run into traps or even larger groups."
"A risk we must take," the Lord said, already forming a plan. "Father Tuk, can you, with your voice, your prayers, break through their chanting? Drown it out, or at least create dissonance? Break their concentration?"
Father Tuk nodded, his eyes burning with determination. "My faith is strong, Lord. I can try. Their darkness is great, but the light of faith is stronger. I can try to weaken their mental defenses, to sow confusion in their ranks."
"Excellent," the Lord said, glancing at his rangers. "Your task is to be my eyes and ears. And when the time comes, my arrows. Green, you and I... we will make this move. Father Tuk, you will have to support us."
The plan began to take shape. If they could not defeat them with brute force, they must disrupt their ritual, weaken them mentally, and deliver a precise, devastating blow to their leader or directly to their "deity." This huge hall with its numerous cultists, their ritual chanting, and the pulsating mass on the altar—all of it had to fall.
The chanting, which pressed on the mind and filled every cell of the body with an unholy harmony, suddenly stopped. The ensuing silence was almost deafening, as if the world around had ceased to breathe. The tension in the air thickened, becoming almost physical.
All the cultists' gazes, previously fixed on the pulsating mass on the altar, now turned toward the Lord and his squad. Their heads turned slowly, in sync, though they were still hidden in the shadows. It seemed they sensed them not with their eyes, but with something else—an echo of their presence that had disturbed the peace of their ritual.
A figure in a hood, taller and more stately than the rest, approached the altar slowly and solemnly. It was clad in dark, flowing robes that seemed to absorb the light from the lanterns. An aura of sinister power emanated from it.
This was their leader. The same fanatic who had met them outside, or perhaps his superior. He raised a hand, revealing a pale palm covered in tattooed symbols, and placed it on the pulsating, slimy surface of the altar. A wave of dark energy rippled through the hall, as if in response to his touch. On the altar, at the point of contact, the slime bubbled and sparked.
And then he exclaimed, his voice, amplified by some unknown force, swept through the vast hall, shaking the very stones:
"OUTSIDERS!"
"OUTSIDERS!"—the echo of his voice reverberated from the vaults, filling the space with threat and fury. At that moment, every cultist in the hall, as if on a single command, drew their weapons—short, curved blades with a dull gleam, or obsidian ritual knives. Their faces, previously hidden by hoods, now turned to the Lord and his squad, and a fanatical, insane fire burned in their eyes.
They knew where they were.
They had been discovered. And there was no choice left but to fight.
The Spear of Longinus in the Lord's hand flashed with a bright, silver light, anticipating the battle. This was the "critical moment" for which his modified firearm—the heavy pistol—existed. But first—tactics.
Green, next to the Lord, tensed instantly, his hand already on the hilt of his rapier. Father Tuk, rising to his feet, gripped his iron-bound staff, his gaze full of resolve. The rangers took up combat positions, their bows ready. The hall filled with an ominous silence, heralding a storm.
The silence that followed the fanatic's cry was ominous, filled with unspoken threat. The Spear of Longinus throbbed in the Lord's hand, its light flickering like a living heart. He saw the faces of the cultists, their crazed eyes fixed directly on them. There were too many, and they were ready for battle. In this hall, where every step could be the last, a direct confrontation would be a disaster.
"Retreat!" the Lord commanded sharply but quietly, his voice like the whisper of a fallen leaf, yet heard by everyone in the squad. "There are too many of them. We will regroup and find another way."
Green, instantly grasping his thought, nodded and was ready to signal the rangers. His fencing skills were valuable in individual combat, but here, against dozens of madmen, they could not change the tide of battle.
"Father Tuk, cover the retreat!" the Lord ordered. The priest, despite his fear, reacted instantly. He raised his iron-bound mace and, turning towards the passage, began to recite ancient, protective prayers. His low, rolling voice did not possess magical power capable of stopping the cultists, but it was meant to bolster the spirit of our warriors and, perhaps, sow confusion among the enemy, especially if their "deity" did not approve of such interference. His presence was already a moral support.
The rangers, trained for instant reaction, began to fall back, covering each other. Their arrows, nocked and aimed, were held ready to meet any attempt at pursuit. They moved with incredible speed and silence, using every shadow and ledge for cover.
The cultists, hearing the Lord's command, let out a low, guttural roar. The leader at the altar drew a long, curved ritual dagger from under his robes, its blade glinting dully in the dim light. A few fanatics, those closer to their hiding spot, charged forward, their eyes burning with madness, their curved blades whistling through the air.
"Hold the position!" the Lord commanded, drawing his light, well-balanced blade for close combat. It was a weapon for surprise attacks, and it was needed now. The Spear of Longinus, whose power he was saving for a decisive strike against the "deity," remained ready, but he had no intention of revealing all his cards in a defensive retreat.
The Lord himself took a position in the center, covering the rangers and Father Tuk. The first cultists crashed into them, their fanatical roar filling the passage. The Lord's blade flashed in the gloom, meeting blow after blow, parrying ritual knives and blades. His movements were swift and calculated, each thrust aimed at disabling an opponent rather than engaging in a prolonged duel. Green acted like a shadow, his rapier gliding between enemies, delivering precise, disarming strikes to their arms and legs, not killing but neutralizing them.
"Back! Hold the line!" the Lord commanded again, fending off another fanatic. They had to hold out long enough to get out of this hell and find a new path. A path that would lead them straight to the heart of their "deity," but on their own terms.
The cultists moved with a frightening unnaturalness. They did not run, nor did they advance in a conventional military formation; rather, they slithered like snakes, flowing around our positions, writhing and seeping through the smallest gaps. Their bodies were astonishingly flexible, and their every lunge seemed part of a single, perverse dance. Their eyes, burning with madness, showed no fear—they met their death without fear, throwing themselves onto my blades and the rangers' arrows with fanatical determination. Each fallen cultist was just one drop in their endless stream.
They retreated slowly, step by step, fighting for every inch of the passage. This was not a flight, but a tactical withdrawal, designed to lure the enemy out of the vast hall where their numerical advantage would have been crushing. The Lord's light blade flashed through the air, parrying attacks, each of his strikes precise and deadly. He could feel the energy of the Spear of Longinus, though not used directly for attack, churning within him, anticipating the moment he would unleash its power upon their "deity."
Green, moving with the grace of a predator, was the Lord's shadow. His rapier found gaps in the cultists' fanatical defense, delivering swift, disarming blows. He did not kill, but disabled, preferring not to waste energy on those already doomed to madness.
"They don't feel pain, my lord!" Green exclaimed, parrying another cultist's strike. "Their minds are enslaved!"
Father Tuk, covering the rear, was a living wall. His heavy, iron-bound mace crashed down on the advancing cultists with crushing force. He did not slash, but stunned, his blows aimed at incapacitating rather than killing. He continuously chanted his protective prayers, his voice, though strained, sounding firm, as if trying to push back the darkness. The cultists flinched away from him as if from an invisible shield, their unnatural movements slowing for a moment when the words of faith fell upon them.
The rangers, while retreating, never stopped working. Their bows silently released arrows that found their targets in the dense enemy ranks, and their modified rifles roared, spitting out bursts of buckshot that swept away several cultists at once. They moved backward, their eyes, accustomed to the dark, tracking every enemy movement, anticipating their serpentine attacks.
The passage behind them began to narrow again, promising a more defensible position. They were on the verge of escaping the immediate danger of the great hall, but the cultists did not relent. Their leader, standing at the altar, watched them, and the Lord could feel his fury growing with every step they took in retreat. This fight was just beginning.
In the chaos of the retreat, as the serpentine figures of the cultists flowed around them from all sides and their fanatical roar filled the narrowing passage, something unexpected happened.
Hasan, who had been left up in the camp, should have been safe, but apparently, the insane chanting and the growing aura of evil had reached him as well. Suddenly, from around the bend in the tunnel they had just passed, a piercing shriek was heard. It was Hasan.
He burst right into the thick of the fight, seized by panic. In his hands, he held his small, unremarkable dagger, which looked like an ordinary kitchen knife. He wasn't fighting—he was just flailing his dagger in a panic, his movements utterly chaotic, stumbling, and ridiculous. But in Hasan's hands, as always, everything obeyed his inexplicable luck.
He stumbled, and his dagger somehow pierced the throat of an attacking cultist. He swung clumsily, trying to ward off another, and the blade, evading a parry, went straight into an eye socket, striking the brain. Another cultist, trying to grab him, slipped on the slime, and Hasan, falling, accidentally plunged the dagger into his stomach.
"He... what is he doing?" muttered Green, who froze for a moment, stunned by this absurd yet deadly spectacle.
"Hasan!" the Lord exclaimed, astonished.
His chaotic actions, his "Blade of Chance," which had miraculously found its mark, turned out to be surprisingly effective. He killed several more fanatics, creating an unexpected breach in their assault. It was enough to give them the respite they needed.
"Quickly! Let's go!" the Lord ordered, using this sudden moment of confusion among the cultists. They rushed forward, Father Tuk continuing to murmur prayers, Green covering the rear, and the rangers, despite their fatigue, maintaining combat formation. Hasan, still waving his dagger in some senseless agony, was grabbed by one of the rangers and literally dragged along toward the exit.
The last few meters of the tunnel were covered in absolute tension. They burst out of the stuffy, foul-smelling dungeon into the fresh, cold mountain air. The moon had already risen, bathing the gorge in a ghostly light.
They stopped, breathing heavily, and turned back to the entrance of the catacombs. From the darkness behind them came the furious, disappointed roar of the cultists, echoing through the gorge. However, they did not follow them outside. Perhaps their ritual forbade it, or perhaps their "deity" was bound to the dungeon. In any case, the squad was free.
The escape was successful, but the threat remained. Now they knew that something ancient had awakened in the mountains, and the Cult of the Serpent, strengthened by this awakening, posed a real threat not only to them but to the entire Empire. And what was even more alarming—this something, judging by the reaction of the Spear of Longinus, was closely connected to it. They had to decide what to do next.
Having barely escaped the cursed catacombs, they returned to their makeshift camp, located higher up the pass where the air was cleaner and the moon shone overhead. The warriors of the "Legion of the Dead" and the rest of the "Death Squads" were already waiting for them, their faces expressing alarm. They quickly assessed their losses—several rangers were wounded, but thankfully, no one had died. Hasan, pale and trembling, was laid by the fire, his dagger still clutched in his hand. His mad dance among the cultists, however accidental, had saved their lives.
The Lord approached the fire where Green and Father Tuk were waiting. The Spear of Longinus, which had been pulsating in his hand until now, had calmed, though its silvery glow had not completely faded. The heavy pistol on his hip, never used in the catacombs, felt too light after what they had been through.
"There are too many of them, and their fanaticism cannot be broken by a conventional attack," he began, addressing his advisors. "This Cult of the Serpent... it is more dangerous than we anticipated. They don't just worship something; they seek to awaken it. And the Spear... it seems to be the key to their goal or to their 'deity.'"
Green nodded, his face thoughtful. "We were in the lion's den. And we only got away because they dared not leave their hole. But this is a temporary respite, my lord. They will wait. And if they can awaken what sleeps... then the Mountain Empire will face a threat far greater than any external war."
Father Tuk, sitting by the fire, was still stroking his cross with trembling hands. "They worship a chthonic entity, Lord. Something from the depths of the earth. It's not demons, not ghosts. It's something primordial. And if it gets out... no one will be able to stop it. We must go back there. Destroy the ritual. Seal that evil away again."
They began to discuss their next steps when the silence was suddenly broken by a sharp, anxious shout.
"My Lord! Riders! A large group on camels! Approaching from the pass!"
One of the scouts, who had been on watch at the top of the cliff, scrambled down headfirst, his eyes wide with amazement. He pointed to the east, the direction they had come from. The dull thud of many hooves could be heard in the air, growing clearer and clearer. In the moonlight, against the dark rocks, silhouettes began to emerge—dozens, perhaps hundreds of figures, moving quickly and silently on their camels. Their weapons seemed to glint dully.
The tension in the camp instantly rose. They had just escaped one threat, and now another was approaching. Who were they? Bandits? Troops sent by the Emperor who had finally caught up with them? Or, what would be even worse, were they new forces of the Cult of the Serpent, coming to reinforce their brethren, having sensed the awakening of their god?
They were between a rock and a hard place. Below them—an ancient evil. Above them—an unknown army, approaching from the night.
The camp went on high alert as hundreds of shadows on camels approached along the pass. The sound of their hooves, amplified by the mountain echo, grew ever clearer, heralding an inevitable clash. The Lord's warriors, though tired after the skirmish in the catacombs, took their positions. The "Legion of the Dead" formed a solid wall, and the "Death Squads" took the flanks, preparing to repel an attack.
And then something unexpected happened. When the group was a few hundred meters away, several figures broke away from its ranks. They rode their camels straight toward the camp, showing no aggression but not slowing down either. The Lord ordered his warriors not to fire. "Lower your weapons, but be ready," was his command. The Spear of Longinus, which had been pulsating, suddenly calmed, its light becoming steady and even, as if it recognized the newcomers.
The riders rapidly closed the distance. Their silhouettes became clearer. They were Bedouins, dressed in light, flowing robes, their faces hidden by keffiyehs. They were armed, but their movements were not threatening. When they stopped a few dozen meters from the camp, dismounting from their camels, one of them stepped forward.
He was a tall, lean man with piercing, intelligent eyes that held centuries of desert wisdom. His face was weathered with wrinkles, and around his neck, he wore a necklace made of snake vertebrae. In his hands, he held a long, thin staff topped with a carved serpent's head. A strange aura of calm and focus emanated from him.
"I am Zakar," he said, his voice deep and steady, without a hint of hostility. "Leader of the Order of the Serpent Catchers."
Green, standing next to the Lord, instantly tensed, his hand resting on the hilt of his rapier. Father Tuk, who had just returned from tending to Hasan, who seemed to have developed a fever after his ordeal, raised an eyebrow in surprise. He was clearly familiar with this Order, or at least had heard of it.
"We know you were down there," Zakar continued, his gaze flicking to the Spear of Longinus, lingering on it for a fraction of a second before returning to the Lord's eyes. "We felt the awakening. The Serpent has stirred. And so we came."
His words were a confirmation of the Lord's worst fears and, at the same time, an answer to many questions. The Order of the Serpent Catchers. Their leader. These were not the cultists who worshiped the Serpent. Their name, "Serpent Catchers," suggested a very different relationship with the ancient entity. Perhaps they were guardians. Or hunters.
The Lord kept his eyes on him, assessing his words and his intentions. His Spear of Longinus remained calm. This was no coincidence. The meeting with Zakar and the Order of the Serpent Catchers was opening a new chapter in this story, and it could change the entire course of events.
Zakar, leader of the Order of the Serpent Catchers, stood with his piercing gaze fixed on the Lord, the atmosphere of the meeting as tense as a drawn bowstring. Every warrior in his camp, from the battle-hardened "Legion of the Dead" to the youngest rangers, froze in anticipation. The Lord felt the energy of the Spear of Longinus calm down, but it remained ready for action.
And then a piercing scream shattered the silence.
"Father!"
From behind the Lord's warriors, where the Sultan's concubines were being held under guard, one of them ran out. She was a young, fragile girl, one of those they had "rescued" from the harem of the fallen Sultan Achim. Her luxurious but now slightly disheveled clothes and jewelry spoke of her high birth. Her face was contorted with a mixture of fear, relief, and desperation.
She rushed forward, ignoring the stunned guards who failed to stop her, and threw herself directly at Zakar, falling into his arms.
Zakar, previously impassive, froze. His usually piercing eyes widened in surprise, and then something akin to shock and a deep, hidden pain flashed within them. He embraced the girl, his serpent-headed staff falling to the ground with a dull thud.
"My child... Anahita?" his voice, previously steady and commanding, trembled. He gently pushed her away to look at her face.
The situation changed in an instant. What had begun as a tense encounter with an unknown but potentially hostile faction had now turned into a personal drama. One of the Sultan's concubines, whom the Lord had considered merely a valuable asset, turned out to be the daughter of Zakar, the leader of the Order of the Serpent Catchers.
Green, standing beside the Lord, raised an eyebrow, his face a mask of astonishment. Father Tuk let out a soft whistle, his pragmatic mind already calculating the possible consequences of this unexpected connection. Even Hasan, who was still lying by the fire, seemed to lift his head, his fogged consciousness glancing toward Zakar and the girl.
The concubine, or rather, Anahita, was now clinging to her father, her shoulders shaking with sobs. This unexpected connection could either crush their hopes for an alliance or, conversely, open up entirely new possibilities. The question was how Zakar, this stern leader of the Order of the Serpent Catchers, would react to the fact that his daughter had been in their captivity, albeit "rescued" by them after the fall of the city. And how this would affect his attitude toward them and the ancient evil that had awakened in the catacombs.
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