Drayya had compiled a list of names both familiar and unfamiliar. As expected of her cunning nature, she had chosen the best of both Marché and Roland's forces to fill her own ranks. Neither of them would be happy to hear that their finest subordinates were about to be yanked away from them.
"You can convince them yourself." She said, "-Not that they're in any position to refuse."
"There's no need to worry. We've already agreed upon the particulars." Drayya replied, "What concerns me the most is the amount of necromancers we have to work with. At this rate, we'll have to leave more than half of our thralls behind when we march on the north."
"That's true." Lieze wandered over to the chamber's singular window, "But it's not productive to rely on numbers. That's why we're taking the time to empower our existing thralls using alchemy. A Briarknight or Rot Behemoth, no matter how powerful, is still a single thrall. The amount of ground we can gain will be reduced, but that just means we'll have to play our cards carefully."
Drayya grumbled and folded her arms, "Do you think we'll find any necromancers in the Dwarven Mountains?"
"Perhaps. But I wouldn't rely on that." Lieze observed the glossy overview of the city, picking out clusters of disorganised Graveawalkers shambling down the streets, "Baccharum is our trump card. He'll provide us with information - up until the moment he decides to betray us, that is."
"Do you think he will?"
"Almost certainly." She nodded, "-But he'll be coy about it, waiting for the perfect opportunity to shift allegiances and dismantle the Order in one fell swoop. We'll have to consider his info with that possibility in mind, or else we're bound to fall into a trap."
Few outsiders would aid the Order unconditionally. With an objective so derisive and evil as omnicide, there wasn't any glory or influence to be gained by defecting from one's faction to join it. Only those with a greater understanding of the world and its suffering - so-called 'true' necromancers - could stomach its ideals.
Lieze furrowed her brow as a pair of hands came to rest on her shoulders, "...What are you doing?"
"Unbelievable…" Drayya ran her fingers across the bumps and thorns hidden beneath her robe, "How can you live like this? It must be a nightmare getting dressed in the morning…"
Lieze swatted her hands away, "It's a small price to pay for the power I've been granted."
"But isn't it painful?" She asked.
"What does it matter whether it's painful or not?" Lieze frowned, "Pain - both of the mind and the body - is superficial. The concept of 'pain' does not exist for those who have attained immortal spirituality, and neither are they capable of 'despair', or 'anxiety', or 'pride'."
Drayya paused. She stared at Lieze like a specimen under glass, then sighed. "...But it is painful?"
"...Yes." She turned around, "It's very painful."
Agonising, in fact. What remained of her mortal flesh had been caught within a shifting labyrinth of evergrown bark. Her muscles spasmed and tore. Her throat prickled with a sickly sensation whenever she breathed. A constant headache thrummed in her skull. She awoke in cold sweats every night. Her eyes stung with acidic agony.
But she endured, for it was all imaginary. She cared not for the wellbeing of her mortal self. Pain was tolerable - welcomed, even, if only to ripen her dream of an existence beyond feeling and beyond suffering. She lived on out of selflessness, much to the protests of her kind.
Drayya observed the ferocity in her corrupted eyes with a complicated expression. She reached out a hand and brushed the backs of her fingers against Lieze's hair.
"At least this is still the same." She said, "As long as your hair remains the same colour, I'll always recognise you."
Lieze took a step back, "Don't treat me like a child."
"You always have to make things difficult, don't you?" She smiled, "Look - you can touch my hair if you want to. You used to love doing that."
As soon as her hand wrapped around the girl's wrist, it was yanked away.
"You've been acting strange lately." Lieze said, "We're not children anymore, Drayya. You know this isn't how a necromancer should be conducting herself. Obsessing over these physical, transient things will do you no good in the long term."
She'd crossed some kind of invisible, ambiguous line. Drayya didn't seem so much offended as hurt by the statement. Lieze detested social expectations more than anything - she could never parse the intriguing boundaries within which the human experience was conducted. She didn't much understand people beyond their fear and anger.
Drayya swallowed, "...What's wrong? I thought, maybe-"
"No." Lieze shook her head, "I'm beyond all of this now. I won't ruin myself with the taint of desire. It's only thanks to my discipline that we've managed to come as far as we have. These emotions, these feelings - I know they're not real."
A pause.
Drayya opened her mouth, then closed it again, "But-"
"There's nothing more to be said." She interrupted, "I've done enough to satisfy you, haven't I? The 'Lieze' you know is still here, and I've sacrificed the possibility of supreme power to guarantee that. Are you really going to demand more of me?"
Drayya lowered her head.
"But I'm not demanding anything…" She pleaded, "I just want you to relax a little."
"There's too much on our plates to be thinking about relaxing." Lieze folded her arms.
That was usually the kind of dismissive attitude that would send Drayya into a terrible huff. Lieze expected a torrent of abuse to flood out her mouth at any second, but the girl merely sighed and straightened out her expression.
"Fine." She said, "That's fine."
Baccharum's first missive was received the following day. The letter was sent by Direcrown - a type of crimson-feathered bird of prey native to the northern mountains. It confirmed, at the very least, that the Elf was successful in coaxing his way into the Dwarven homeland.
To those it may concern,
These mountains are much too hot and much too bright. The Dwarves do not trust Elves, but recent events have piqued their interest in establishing some degree of diplomacy between their plains and the deep forests of ancient Akzhem. As you might expect, news of a rather troublesome, corpse-obsessed faction has spread like wildfire across the north. Preparations for a truly spectacular war have already begun in earnest.
Are you familiar with the Dwarven diet? What little soil festers here is arid and inhospitable, but there is a particular tuber that takes to the dirt well. The Dwarves call it 'Pinroot' for its slender shape, and it slithers its way into just about every breakfast, lunch, and dinner they enjoy. It's a bit like a potato if you managed to suck every last drop of moisture out from it. I tell you, I needed almost an entire litre of water just to…
"Gods - is this the report of a spy or the diary of a travelling gourmand?" Roland flipped through the sheets of yellowed parchment, "It just goes on and on! Ten pages of drivel about the sawdust they call food up there!"
"Skip to the end." Lieze ordered, "If he has anything of note to say, it'll be there."
Roland did as she asked, handing over the final sheet. She scanned the lengthy text describing fruits, spices, and vegetables for any sign of useful information.
-And it must be said that Alberich - who you must know is the ruler of this land - is supposedly invincible. Not metaphorically, but literally. He wears a suit of armour forged by Elvenkind from a star that fell from the heavens. I'm not certain how authentic these rumours are, but reputable information will be a rarity until I nestle myself into the depths of Dwarven parliament.
-B
"Alberich… the king of the Dwarves." Lieze muttered, "Historians enjoy expounding on his supposed ruthlessness, but how fearsome can he really be? Any king who claims to be invincible must be hiding something."
Marché placed his hand on the table, "Invincible or not, we've got more to worry about than a single man. Unlike humanity, Dwarves are no strangers to war, and their experience in the art of defence far outclasses that of the late Ricta bloodline."
"How do you suppose we overcome experience?" Lieze replied, "With mindfulness and patience. Charging headfirst towards the mountains will see us swiftly defeated. We require more knowledge to move forward - knowledge that we cannot rely on Baccharum to gather."
"Hm." Roland screeched his seat back and placed both feet on the table, "What are you suggesting?"
"An expedition." She began, "A small group will disguise themselves as refugees and use their cover to perform reconnaissance on the Dwarven Mountains. It will also give us a good idea of what we'll need to break through the border."
Roland and Marché exchanged glances. They both understood what was about to be said.
"...And you'd like for the two of us to lead this group?" Marché asked.
"Very perceptive." Lieze commended, "How did you know?"
"You couldn't go - as much as I'm sure you would like to." Roland crossed his arms, "That white hair of yours stands out too much. The refugees would identify you. But all those who have laid eyes on myself or Marché are already dead. We could enter without risk of detection."
"What about Drayya?" Marché asked.
"Well - she isn't here, is she?" Roland glanced from side to side, "...Where is she, Lieze? I was under the impression that this was an important discussion."
"Don't worry about her for now." Lieze paused, "Can I trust the two of you to carry out this mission?"
More than a simple act of subterfuge, placing Marché and Roland together would test their ability to cooperate. The two of them seemed to tolerate one-another, but Lieze wanted to see how sturdy their alliance would prove under pressure. The last thing she wanted was for her followers to lose heart at a critical juncture.
"Naturally!" Roland grinned, "Sounds easy."
"I don't have much reason to refuse." Marché shrugged his shoulders, "Surely we can't take too many cultists with us? There's still plenty of work to do here."
"You'll take six necromancers with you." Lieze said, "Choose whoever you like, but do try to bring them - and yourselves - back in one piece."
"Hm." Roland stood, "Marché - you seem devoted enough to our cause, but I've yet to see you in action. This will be a good chance to see if your mettle's up to the task."
"I'll gladly prove myself, if that's what you desire." He replied, "I'd also like to see just how a Deathguard composes himself in enemy territory."
The two of them departed from the dining room. Lieze watched them with a tired expression.
"I can't figure out if those two want to be allies or enemies…" She thought, "I suppose we'll find out soon enough."
Her hand came up to wave the others out of the room, "Leave."
One by one, the cultists cleared out, leaving Lieze alone to her thoughts. Or - she would have been alone, were it not for the presence lingering just beyond the entrance.
"...I know you're there, Drayya." She said, "Are you afraid to face me?"
The door opened, and through the crack slipped Drayya's silhouette. She moved like a thief in the night with her back to the wall, as if afraid of being spotted.
"Were you listening in?" Lieze asked, "If you have something to say, then say it."
She watched closely as Drayya disconnected from the wall and came to stand over her at the table's edge.
"Lieze…" She muttered, "Could you do something for me?"
"Hm." Lieze hesitated, "...What is it?"
Something glittered in the shaft of light beaming in from a nearby window - the cold steel of a blade. Drayya pointed the dagger right at her face, mere inches away from paring Lieze's corrupted flesh.
She exhaled, "...Could you kill me?"