"Yah!" Weisar yelled, smashing a skull to fragments.

He pulled his warhammer back and gripping it with both hands, spun it in a circle. Normally, spinning during combat was a bad idea, but his Berserker Class granted him increased damage and damage resistance for such over-the-top, dramatic actions. He had no idea how it worked—probably something about the System using his mana to harden his skin and reinforce his muscles or something.

Dink!

An arrow deflected off his hardened flesh as three skeletons fell to the fury of his swing. The rage and bloodlust that his Class invoked often clouded his mind, but little reminders of his own mortality—like an arrow pinging off his chest—were great for keeping him grounded.

He dashed back behind Jorge, the way cleared by his previous overextended spin, and his vision began to clear.

The battle had just started, yet close to half of the undead's frontlines had been defeated. Seven or eight had fallen to his party alone, if his count was correct, while somewhere between two and five fell as Ithshar's party barreled through their lines.

The elven group had gone charging straight into and through the frontlines, the strong elf woman shoving her shield forward no matter the obstacle before her. Ithshar and the good-natured elf man seemed to have enhanced the shield with some sort of light magic, as it glowed and cast an illusion of a much larger shield.

The quiet one was responsible for the kills. He seemed to vanish from one spot and reappear a distance away, dagger in hand. Normally, he would've thought it foolish to fight undead with only a dagger, yet the elf wielded his in ways Weisar had never considered.

He would appear next to a skeleton long enough to slice his dagger between vertebrae and, when it inevitably tumbled off, kick or throw the skull away. This didn't destroy the skeleton outright, but it was certainly removed from the fight. The skeletons' bodies would either amble around looking for their heads, or they would flail about wildly with whatever weapons they had, all sense of coordination and tactics gone.

The elf's dagger glowed with the same colored light as the other elves' magic, so Weisar assumed such a tactic wouldn't work with a plain steel dagger. The magic must sever whatever foul magic stitched the undead's bones together.

Several of their own group's foes had been slain before combat even started. Emile had obliterated at least three skulls with his sling during the charge, much to his own satisfaction. Not only did he swear by that thing, Weisar would frequently find him sitting around the camp, grinding rocks into his desired shape and chuckling to himself about, "Why pay for arrows when rocks are free?" or some such.

To his credit, they were undoubtedly more effective against undead than arrows, though perhaps broadheads shot from longbows might fare as well. In terms of medium to close range, at least, his sling was unmatched.

Jorge, while having no kills under his belt, had fulfilled his role dutifully, coraling skeletons into advantageous positions with his pike while keeping his shield up to protect his allies. The position of Tank was often underappreciated, ironically.

Everyone knew how essential it was, but it was also the easiest to forget in the heat of combat. It was easy to become so engrossed in dealing damage that one might not notice they weren't also taking any, thanks to the tank. However, if the tank messed up, everyone would notice.

Jorge was a hardened professional, fortunately, so there were no slip-ups.

"Gotta take the archers down," Weisar growled as arrows deflected off Jorge's shield, his battle fury barely restrained.

"Plan?" Jorge asked, his battlefield communication concise.

"Follow the Adamantines. Keep up, Emile. Jorge, brace!" Weisar shouted as he put his shoulder against Jorge's back.

He shoved Jorge forward so fast and suddenly that his feet left the ground, his legs snapping aside as the force drove his shield into his chest. If Weisar hadn't warned him to brace, he wondered if Jorge's shield would've gone flying to the side, his arms following the path his legs took.

They plowed into the skeletons' ranks, casting several infantry aside and sending them flying. Once they blasted through the line of archers, Weisar spun around and dropped Jorge, who landed on his feet and immediately raised his shield.

Several of the archers drew their swords and charged the group. Weisar smiled—just like that, without even killing any, the number of archers had been reduced.

He lowered his shoulder to charge into the ranks once again, but a cold chill of dread crawling up his spine stopped him. He slowly turned his head to the side, where he saw a cloud of wispy black smoke surrounding the elves, released by the giant knight in black plate armor.

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The sickly feeling of death it gave off nearly made his teeth chatter. The hairs on the back of his neck stood, and his arms were covered with bumps. He wasn't even in the radius of that attack and it filled him with terror! How bad would it be as the focus?

The elves barely even seemed to notice, a golden glow surrounding them all. The one-armed elf had his jaw set firmly and his arms held straight out to the side—or arm, that is. He seemed to be using some kind of buff spell, and he was in direct contest with the black knight—at least magically.

Physically, Ithshar was contesting it. She glowed like a miniature sun, her light mace clashing against its massive greatsword. She was extremely capable, but she seemed to be keeping her distance. If Weisar were to guess, she was focused only on keeping its attention as the other two elves whittled down its escort.

The shield woman tanked blows from all five Revenants, somehow managing to hold the attention of all five at once. The quiet one repeated his disappearing trick, sometimes stabbing a glowing dagger into an eye socket, other times appearing a few strides away and launching a glowing arrow into a head. Somehow, in the space between disappearing and reappearing, he'd managed to equip, draw, and knock a shortbow that had been on his back moments ago.

Weisar snapped back to his own reality as an arrow whizzed past his face. He shook the chills from the Barrowlord's aura away and charged forward, smashing through two skeletons and smashing one of the archer's skulls.

The battle proceeded this way for several minutes: Weisar thinned the archers, while Jorge and Emile drew the infantry's attention, steadily trimming their numbers.

Eventually, after Weisar slew the last archer and turned his attention on the remaining infantry, their behavior changed. The aggravated mob that had been in a shoving match with Jorge, trying to use their numbers to spread out and encircle him while he backpedaled, began to slouch. They lowered their weapons and wandered aimlessly about the battlefield, as if suddenly bored of combat.

Weisar looked over toward the battle with the advanced troops and witnessed a sight he would never forget.

The one-armed elf stood behind the Barrowlord, the butt of his staff somehow—impossibly—wedged between two plates in its greaves, where the ankle and leg joined, the staff's head glowing golden. He had his eyes closed, and Weisar could tell he'd just stopped biting his lip in concentration.

The quiet elf had his legs spread so far apart that Weissar's own groin ached empathetically. His left arm was pinning the giant's hand to the ground, while the right was withdrawing his glowing dagger from the joint of the Barrowlord's armpit.

The tank elf had the Barrowlord's other hand—its sword somehow several strides away, as if thrown—pinned to the ground. She had used her entire body to pin it down, apparently, for Weisar watched her rise to her knees and dust herself off.

Ithshar stood in front of the Barrowlord, who Weisar noted was headless—or helmetless—with her hands around the haft of a golden spear, rather than the mace she had earlier. It was plunged deep into the Barrowlord's chest cavity through the neck hole, and Weisar could see a residual golden glow fading from within. It had spilled out of every crack, every crease, and every crevice in the giant suit of armor, as if it had exploded inside.

He stood straight, looking at his men as he gulped down a knot in his throat. They all nodded at each other, thinking the same thing:

Are all Adamantines like this?

All three shook their heads and began the tiresome task of cleaning up the remaining undead.

"The battle is done. Our allies are victorious and no worse for wear," Lumenfall declared into Julia's head.

Julia smiled and nodded despite being completely invisible—Lumenfall could feel Julia's intentions, so it didn't matter.

She sat atop one of the intact crates, her legs crossed beneath her, and her arms crossed in front. After contemplating what to do, she'd decided simply to wait. If this was where the Nashiin staged the stolen caravan cargo, surely there should be someone coming to retrieve it, right?

"Guess if the Barrowlord and Revenants are down, we might as well clean up the stragglers. Could you take care of that?" she asked.

"Gladly," Lumenfall replied, the flash of light as she dashed into the tunnel the only hint of her passing.

Julia chuckled as she felt Lumenfall's glee. It was dramatic overkill, flooding the tunnel with her breath just to kill the few meandering, leaderless skeletons down there, but Julia had no desire to deny her the chance to let loose once in a while.

She sat in silence as she waited. Who would be coming to collect the cargo? How many would it be? Surely it wouldn't be other Nashiin, right? The purpose of this staging area must be to change hands from them, who would draw attention if they transported cargo, to a group that wouldn't—a merchant group, maybe?

What was the Nashiin's plan? Why attack caravans leaving Vazreth discreetly? Why only attack carriages heading this direction? If their goal was to damage trade for the city, surely they would attack openly, in all directions. That would spread word and fear throughout the merchants and discourage trade far more effectively than whatever this subterfuge was.

There was also the issue of why they might want to damage the city's trade at all. Everything Julia had seen so far suggested their leader was highly placed within the government of the city, at the very least. Surely it would be more effective to leverage the city's resources to their own end than to voluntarily harm a potential asset?

Julia's focus was disturbed by the sound of a distant commotion. She glanced up and, realizing the source of the sound was too far to see with her naked eyes, squinted through space to view an approaching train of wagons. These must be the forces coming to collect the "loot."

They were garbed in the colors of Vazreth's military.

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