The night air was cool, and a light rain was beginning to fall. The moon didn't emerge from the clouds and Albie felt weaker in its absence. He could not trap moonlight tonight. In its absence a swarm of large bees flanked him. The drizzle that would send most bees home for shelter did not dissuade these monsters from following their master.
The armed patrols of the orange coats were gone tonight. Perhaps they didn't want to walk around with torches in the rain. Maybe they were still organizing. The sounds of hooves on coble stone echoed in the night. The sound wettened the dark mages appetite.
"Father," whispered Scabs tired voice in the mages mind. "We are on the move. Tonight, is a good night to kill the servants of Brand."
"I can't hear the foot patrols," responded Albie. "the cavalry still seems to be patrolling."
"Cavalry father?" inquired the dead priest.
"Solders who ride on great four-legged beasts my child," explained the mage. "They travel in smaller groups, but the horses are creatures of strong vitality. You will have to think of a way to stop them. They are fast and can run a man over. You will have to be clever."
The mind from beyond was quiet. "I shall observe these men and their beasts."
Scab ended his conversation with Albies mind. The young mage saw through the wights eye as he stood along with his following and walked into the night.
The bees flew off in search of orange. The dog sized bees darted into the night eager to find food for the hive. The young mage explored the streets alone looking into the broken windows of shops. Rotting food and dead store owners were on display. The bars and shops pillaged of their coin and liquor. Shelves nocked over unwanted merchandise scattered across floors. The orange coats took what they wanted from the stores and discarded the rest.
The next block had resisted the attackers. The windows were smashed. Many of the buildings were burnt or pitted by musket fire. The men of this part of the city armed with clubs and home-made spears. Albie found one barricade made from unpolished marble. The building behind it was a master work of stone craft named the Masons guild. The street was mostly empty except for chunks of rock and old bloodstains that the rain was starting to wash away. The masons seemed to but up a fight.
Albie circled the building once finding the building surrounded by large stones or well-made walls. He walked to the front of the building to climb the marble barricade that stood as tall as him. His body was week with hunger, and he couldn't manage the strength to pull himself over the wall. He stepped away and looked around for another way into the buildings yard. He looked across the street and saw a home made latter. Perhaps the orange coats had tried to assault the walls at one point.
Albie scaled the barricade with the ladder and was greeted by the sight of shredded men. On the other side of the wall was another layer of stone that went halfway up the outer wall. The defenders could stand on the slabs and see over the wall and duck down to avoid musket fire. But what killed these men was not a musket. Something had ripped the men on the barricade to limbs and paste. The center of the attack was scorched and five feet around it was a mess. A defender's musket was bent to uselessness. Albie walked further into the yard to see that the chaos of the assault was limited to the barricade. The inner yard was overgrown but green. Undisturbed by bodies. The guilds door was a blackened crater. The grate wooden doors looking like they had been struck by a hammer the size of a cow and shattered. Only a few pieces of wood clung to the lopsided hinges.
The fly's in the guild died as Albie passed. Their life drained to feed the starving mage. The feast of bodies and vomit ending. The guilds entry hall looked like a sick ward. The men didn't have any wounds. The strong bodies of the stone men seemed withered more by the ravages of disease than fighting. Dysentery, fever, strap every man showed signs of at least one. The further in the young mage went the worse the smell became. He pulled a mask from his pouches to keep the illnesses that spread through miasma at bay. If he threw a couple of these into the bank, he'd kill the orange coats in a few weeks. Better yet have them walk in.
"Scab," commanded Albie to the wight stalking a pair of horsemen. "I've found some excellent candidates for raising."
"What's wrong with the current stock?" asked Scab almost offended that the bodies he had weren't good enough.
"These stone masons are big fellows and died of illness," said Albie. "Send one a night against the bank and I bet it will catch."
"Ahh yes," responded Scab a fine idea for a slow death.
Albie pushed his memories of the stone mason's guild into his creations mind.
"I will find it father," declared Scab. "After I figure out how to kill the horsemen. They are as fast as you say. They simply slash at my men with their swords and ride away. They shout like they have won every time even though they don't kill the mindless."
"They are proud men," explained Albie. "They are too arrogant to think that their blows failed to kill. I think it's an exploitable weakness."
"A good incite father," said Scab. "I think I have almost solved the cavalry."
"Good I shall look around the guild fore useful things," declared Albie. "I know you will."
Albie stopped his connection with the wight to focus on looting. Searching a building like this was dangerous. The air was putrid and could kill a man without the ability to heal himself of illness. Or expected to live a long life.
He found a workshop full of tools for stone carving. An unfinished statue of a woman wearing crown sat half carved in the center of the room. On the other side was a portrait. The piece was named her majesty Queen Ester Glade.
The woman was attractive with a beautiful face and long dark hair. The painting showed her in a yellow dress.
Albie had never seen a picture of the queen before. The name Glade was barely recognizable to him as the kingdom he lived. The picture of the woman in the painting was his ultimate enemy. The woman who had cat killed. He pulled a chisel from a nearby worktable and stabbed it were her heart would be. The canvas tore as he stabbed it. The paint getting all over the chisel as Albie felt his rage resurface and he committed the woman's face to memory.
Albie looked at the chisel in his hand and remembered the carvings he did on the lurker. He decided it would be easier to do with better carving tools and set about collecting tools from the stations all over the workshop.
He stashed chisels and saws in his cloak and began to head to the exit when he heard a voice from the barricade.
"See," said the voice. "I told you one of the stone masons must have survived. Those grenadiers do shoddy work. What else would you expect from peasant solders."
"Your right," said the second. "Still likely the inside is full of bad air. We best be carefull."