Marché and Roland barrelled through the mountain, taking haphazard corners around the labyrinthine passageways in an effort to separate themselves from Mime. A necromancer's strategy generally involved never allowing the enemy to draw close. Failing that, all they could rely on was a swift and graceless retreat.
The two of them descended as far as they dared, stealing into an abandoned iron mine. The cavernous maze provided an excellent opportunity to slide into the shadows, where Marché could take a moment to catch his breath and think up a strategy to avoid their encroaching executions.
"Hah… how many Gravewalkers do we have?" He counted the rotten scalps among them, "...7? Not nearly enough for a direct confrontation. What are we going to do?"
"Keep it together…" Roland exhaled, "Just keep it together… it's not over for us yet. A mine like this is sure to have some deathtraps sitting around. Let's have a look at what the Dwarves down here were working with before we start worrying about Mime."
A singular rail led them down the main shaft, from which branches of sculpted rock broke off into the darkness. A single minecart filled with scraps of ore was sitting at the top of the incline. Marché kept an eye out for anything resembling blast powder, leaning down to retrieve a lantern next to a discarded pickaxe. The lower they descended, the more worried he became that they were wandering towards a dead end.
"The supports are sturdy… this mine is still active." Roland muttered, "It was probably evacuated when Lieze began her attack. If we reach the bottom, we might end up encountering some barrels of blast powder."
"It looks like some of these passages loop back around to the entrance." Marché shined his lantern in the direction of the secondary shafts, "We could use them to outmanoeuvre Mime and his men."
"-And we can use the thralls as bait to lead them in the wrong direction…" Roland nodded his head along to the idea, "I think we might have a plan…"
...
..
.
As Mime's platoon entered the mine, torches were lit to breach the impenetrable darkness, aided by the golden light emanating from Mime's mace. He raised his head and sniffed at the stale air, picking out the lingering hint of rot from the sickly stench of iron.
"Spread out." He commanded, "Keep an eye on every shaft leading towards the exit. If you encounter the necromancers, focus on alarming everyone else before you engage them. Understood?"
"Yes, sir!" The rugged voices of his men replied to his words with infallible loyalty. A detachment remained by the entrance to prevent any chance of escape while the rest split off into groups, descending into the depths of the mine on a hunt for necromancers. Mime himself tackled the main shaft, placing a greave against the minecart and launching it into the darkness to prevent it from being used as a trap.
The first group of soldiers emerged into the mine's expansive masonry workshop, where boulders dislodged from the quarry were delivered to be chiselled into blocks. They understood the intrinsic danger of such a place, particularly in how many blind spots there were, and so proceeded through the room carefully, making sure to watch one-another's backs.
When the soldiers were clear from the entrance, Marché peered out from his hiding spot behind a stack of stone blocks. He was fresh out of mana with no hope of recovery, meaning he would have to rely on less graceful methods to defeat Mime's troops. He counted six Dwarves in total before yanking his head behind cover. Four Gravewalkers were also hidden in the room, but it wouldn't be long before they were discovered.
The key to Marché's victory would be the tight spaces between the stacks of granite blocks. It wasn't particularly difficult to find one's way out of the cluster, but the confined area would turn swinging an axe into quite the troublesome prospect. Marché directed his Gravewalkers towards those segmented pillars, making sure to keep an eye on the Dwarves' progress as they scoured the room.
"Oi!" One of them shouted, "It's a fuckin' thrall!"
As soon as they caught sight of a Gravewalker, Marché commanded it to retreat into the maze of stacked stone, tempting his enemies to follow suit.
"Get after it, before it runs away!" Another shouted, "It'll lead us straight to the necromancer!"
Once they had been baited into following, Marché clutched the handles of his sword and shield and readied himself for an inevitable confrontation. He left the safety of his cover and followed after the Dwarves, gathering the other three Gravewalkers and placing each of them at an 'entrance' to the maze of stone blocks.
He'd already examined the layout beforehand and intentionally commanded the baiting Gravewalker to approach a dead end. He followed the Dwarves' lamplight while trying to mask the sounds of his footsteps, eventually ending up just around the corner of their position. Busying themselves with butchering the trapped Gravewalker, there was no better opportunity for Marché to attack.
"Eh?" One of the soldiers turned his head, "Oi! Behind us!"
There was no time to hesitate. Marché's pitiable entourage fell upon them in a moment of weakness, exploiting their surprise to deadly effect. It was the first time he ever fought with the fear of death in his spirit - the first time he had ever met an enemy face-to-face, outnumbered, and not quite confident that he would emerge from the battle alive.
He wielded his sword in an amateurish fashion, using it more like an oversized, unwieldy knife than a war blade. His first swing was aimed low, where the soldiers' iron armour gave way to unprotected burlap trousers. A cry of pain told Marché that he'd managed to strike true, but once the element of surprise had disintegrated, he was forced to lift his shield as an axe soared down from above. The blade howled as it broke clean through the iron board, forcing the shield back with such intensity that it collided with Marché's forehead. A searing pain echoed through his skull as he was knocked to the ground.
A Gravewalker leapt forward to tackle the crippled warrior, lashing out with its gaping maw to tear chunks from the unfortunate soldier's face. The Dwarves behind him made an effort to shove their way through the confined space, forced to hold their axes aloft in a predictable manner to avoid deflecting their own blows on walls.
Marché scrambled to his feet and hugged the shield close to his body before charging forward. He wasn't a particularly tall or strong man by any means, but he had the advantage in size against any Dwarf. A good shunt from his weight took advantage of a soldier's hefty armour, knocking him off-balance and creating a kind of domino effect when he fell backwards, taking down the entire group with him.
Gravewalkers, much like their masters, were opportunistic attackers, and gleefully took advantage of the moment to swarm the struggling soldiers. Their magically-enhanced strength worked to exaggerate the Dwarves' burden, forcing them to expend crucial stamina on the simple act of rising. With one combatant too wounded to consider the idea, Marché stood over the last remaining Dwarf, stepping onto the handle on his axe to prevent any unforeseen counterattacks.
"Oi! They're down here!" The Dwarf reached over to grab hold of Marché's ankle in a bid to regain control, screaming as fiercely as his vocal cords would allow, "In the mason's-"
His cries were cut off by the blade sinking into his mouth. Marché grabbed the hilt of his sword with both hands and slit the Dwarf's mouth from cheek to cheek. His Gravewalkers saw to the other soldiers, clawing and biting at every inch of exposed flesh while their victims struggled to fight back. Once the deed was done, Marché took a step back from the carnage, releasing a breath he had been holding since the beginning of the encounter.
He had often heard adventurers and their ilk discussing the thrill of combat - how their blood boiled in the presence of a worthy opponent, or how a victory snatched from the jaws of defeat was sweeter than any wine. Lingering in the afterglow of adrenaline, Marché realised that those men - however wide their smiles - were liars of the highest order. Never before had he felt so drained of vigour.
"I can't remain here…" He panted, "It's a shame, but without any mana, I'll have to leave these corpses as they are… unless I could bring Roland around."
His stomach sank as he realised the battle was far from over. He had only killed a fraction of Mime's soldiers, and there was still the problem of the man himself to address. Mindful of the soldier's final scream for aid, he gathered his Gravewalkers and sprinted towards the workshop's entrance.
...
..
.
Roland hadn't been quite so conservative in his strategizing, owing mainly to his choice of locale. As he expected, the miners evacuated from the premises hadn't been given the time to store or hide their supply of blast powder. Barrels of the stuff were scattered around the mine's lowest depth, and the darkness presented a number of opportunities to hide them behind the wooden support beams.
"All I need to do now is not blow myself up. Or trap myself in a prison of rubble." He surveyed his work with folded arms, "How hard can it be?"
He placed his Gravewalker near the bottom of a railed slope to draw in any Dwarven search parties. It wasn't long before a chorus of marching greaves was tumbling down the passage. Roland had positioned the barrels in such a way as to trigger a chain reaction if one was detonated, but he would have to switch positions with the incoming guards if he didn't want to get caught up in the explosion.
With a grunt, he vaulted into a discarded minecart resting against the wall, hugging an unlit torch close to his chest and trying to make himself appear as small as possible.
"There! I see an undead!" He could hear the Dwarves' voices echoing down the shaft, "You! Go get the others! Keep them on standby in case we need reinforcements!"
"There's going to be a welcome party waiting for me at the top of the incline…" Roland clicked his tongue, "I'll just have to use a [Blood Shield] to defend myself and hope that none of them are fast runners…"
Five soldiers huddled into the unfinished cavern, chasing after the Gravewalker lingering in plain sight and ignoring Roland's shadowed hiding spot. He commanded the thrall to lead them deeper into the mine before leaping out of the minecart and sprinting towards a lit sconce, setting his torch aflame while his pursuers were distracted.
"Turn back!" A Dwarf shouted, "He's duped us! He's by the mineshaft!"
He was detected almost instantly, but it didn't matter - he had already won. Roland took a few laboured steps onto the incline and tossed the torch. The black grains of explosive powder he'd sown across the floor burst like firecrackers in the presence of fire, spreading across the ground in waves of crackling light.
When the miniature blasts reached the blast powder barrels, Roland was thrown onto his back as a cluster of explosions filled the air with noise. A stuffy, acrid smell wafted into his nostrils after the chaos ceased in the next moment. He could hear the muffled cries of surviving Dwarves behind the wall of collapsed rubble.
"Oi! What's goin' on down there!?" From above, he heard another voice, "Hang on - we're comin' to help!"
"Oh no…" Roland shook his head from side to side, searching for a convenient exit that simply didn't exist, "I'm trapped…"