The first arrow struck Private Jenkins in the shoulder, punching through his tactical vest like it was made of tissue paper. He staggered backward with a look of surprise rather than pain—the kind of expression a man might have if someone unexpectedly splashed cold water on his face, not the look of someone who'd just been impaled by a projectile that glowed with sickly green energy.
"Contact!" Reid shouted, dropping to one knee and returning fire at the shambling figures emerging from the treeline. His bullets struck true, center mass as he'd been trained, but the undead knights barely flinched. One took three rounds to the chest and simply glanced down at the holes with mild curiosity before continuing its advance.
"Conventional weapons aren't working, Captain!" Williams called out, ejecting a spent magazine and slamming in a fresh one with practiced efficiency.
"No shit," Reid muttered, adjusting his aim to target the knights' heads. Even that proved minimally effective—the bullets tore through rotting flesh and bone, but the creatures kept moving, driven by something other than biological function. "Fall back to the caravan! Defensive perimeter around the civilians!"
The elven refugees huddled together, their faces masks of terror as the Death Guard closed in. The shadowhounds circled the perimeter, their obsidian bodies flowing like liquid darkness as they sought weaknesses in the defensive line.
Gareth had warned them about this. Reid cursed himself for not taking the knight's tactical advice more seriously. "These aren't zombies from your Earth fiction," Gareth had explained during one of their strategy sessions. "They're vessels animated by corrupted ley-line magic. You can't kill what's already dead."
As if summoned by Reid's thoughts, Gareth appeared at his side, his silver-white hair whipping in the wind that had begun to rise around them—an unnatural gale that carried the stench of decay.
"Aim for the runes," Gareth instructed, pointing to the glowing sigils etched into the armor of the approaching knights. "The markings channel the magic that animates them."
Reid relayed the order to his team, who adjusted their fire accordingly. This time, when bullets struck the glowing symbols, the undead knights reacted—lurching backward as if struck by physical force, dark energy spilling from the damaged runes like blood.
"It's working!" Williams shouted, his voice carrying a note of desperate hope.
But there were too many. For every knight that fell, two more emerged from the forest. The shadowhounds had begun picking off soldiers at the perimeter, their teeth capable of tearing through body armor with terrifying ease.
"We need to move," Reid decided, assessing their rapidly deteriorating position. "Singh! Status on the wounded?"
Lance Corporal Singh was kneeling beside Jenkins, who now lay pale and shivering on the ground, the arrow still protruding from his shoulder. The wound around it had turned an alarming shade of black, with veins of darkness spreading outward like cracks in glass.
"Necromantic poisoning," she reported grimly. "I've stabilized him, but we need to get these people to Avalon now."
Reid nodded, quickly formulating a plan. "Williams, take point with half the squad. Create a corridor toward Avalon. Gareth, I need intelligence—what's the most effective way to slow these things down?"
The knight dispatched a shadowhound with a fluid sword stroke before answering. "Fire. They fear it above all else. The undead remember their funeral pyres."
"Right." Reid turned to Thaelon, the elven leader. "Can your people create fire? Anything magical that might help us?"
Thaelon exchanged glances with the elderly elf who had spoken of ley-lines earlier. She stepped forward, leaning heavily on her staff.
"I am Elariel, once High Keeper of the Silvermist Groves," she said, her voice stronger than her frail appearance suggested. "And yes, Captain of Earth, we can summon fire."
Without further explanation, she raised her staff and began chanting in that crystalline language Reid had heard earlier. The blue markings on her skin brightened, and the tip of her staff ignited with azure flames that cast no heat but illuminated the surrounding area with stark clarity.
"When I strike the ground," she instructed, "have your warriors fire upon the flames. The combination of your weapons and our magic may create something... unexpected."
Reid didn't have time to question the improvised tactic. "On my mark!" he called to his team. "Target the flames when they appear! Three, two, one—"
Elariel slammed her staff into the earth. Blue fire erupted in a circle around their position, racing outward like a ripple in a pond. As it reached the first line of undead knights, Reid gave the order to fire.
The moment bullets struck the magical flames, something extraordinary happened. The fire transformed, shifting from blue to a brilliant white that seared the eyes. It leapt from one undead warrior to the next, consuming them with voracious intensity. The shadowhounds howled in what could only be described as terror, retreating back toward the treeline.
"Holy shit," Williams breathed, momentarily lowering his weapon in awe.
"The path is clear," Gareth announced, pointing toward Avalon. "But not for long. The Death Guard will regroup."
Reid didn't need to be told twice. "Move out! Double time! Wounded in the center, fighters on the perimeter!"
The caravan lurched into motion, elven children clutching their parents' hands as they ran alongside Task Force Valkyrie toward the relative safety of Forward Base Avalon. Behind them, the white fire continued to spread through the undead ranks, buying them precious minutes of retreat.
They were halfway to Avalon when the second wave hit.
These undead were different—larger, more heavily armored, with runes that pulsed with greater intensity. They burst from the ground itself, erupting from the earth in a shower of dirt and decayed vegetation.
"Ambush!" Reid shouted, spinning to face the new threat. "Circle formation! Protect the civilians!"
A massive knight, at least seven feet tall with armor that seemed fused to its rotting flesh, charged directly at Reid. He emptied his magazine into the creature's runic symbols, but it barely slowed, raising a massive blade that glowed with the same sickly green energy as the arrows.
Reid prepared to dodge, knowing he couldn't possibly block such a powerful blow, when a blur of motion intercepted the attack. Gareth stood between Reid and the undead champion, his sword meeting the creature's blade in a shower of sparks.
"This one is mine," Gareth growled, his eyes flashing with an intensity that reminded Reid that whatever else the knight might be, he wasn't entirely human. "Get your people to safety."
Reid hesitated only a moment before nodding and turning back to coordinate the retreat. All around him, chaos reigned. Soldiers fired desperately at advancing undead while elven spellcasters summoned barriers of light that slowed but couldn't stop the Death Guard's advance.
Singh moved from one wounded soldier to another, her medical kit abandoned in favor of something more unconventional. She was chanting softly in Punjabi, her hands glowing with a subtle golden light as she pressed them against injuries. Where her fingers touched, corruption receded and wounds began to close.
"Since when can you do that?" Reid asked as he paused beside her to provide covering fire.
"My grandmother was a healer in Punjab," Singh replied without looking up, her concentration fixed on Private Jenkins' wound. "I always thought her remedies were just folk medicine with a side of superstition. Turns out, some of those old mantras tap into something real." She glanced up briefly, a tired smile crossing her face. "Apparently, magic recognizes magic across worlds."
Before Reid could respond, a shadowhound leapt toward them from the side. He pivoted, raising his rifle, knowing he wouldn't be fast enough—
A brilliant flash of blue light struck the creature mid-air, freezing it solid. The petrified shadowhound shattered when it hit the ground, fragments of obsidian-like material scattering across the forest floor.
Dr. Whitaker stood several yards away, Elariel at her side, both women wielding staffs that pulsed with ley-line energy. The historian looked as surprised by what she'd done as Reid felt.
"I think I'm getting the hang of this!" she called out, her academic excitement somehow intact despite the life-or-death situation.
"Less commentary, more magic!" Reid shouted back, but he couldn't help the brief smile that crossed his face.
The smile vanished as a scream cut through the chaos—one of the elven children had become separated from the group and now stood frozen in terror as a Death Guard knight advanced on her, sword raised.
Reid was too far away. He raised his rifle anyway, knowing the shot wouldn't stop the knight in time—
A silver blur intercepted the blow. Gareth, his armor dented and his face streaked with what might have been blood, stood over the child protectively. His sword had shattered against the Death Guard's blade, but he'd managed to deflect the killing stroke.
With his free hand, Gareth ripped a glowing rune directly from the knight's armor. The undead warrior collapsed instantly, its animating magic disrupted.
"Get to the base!" Gareth shouted, scooping up the child and sprinting toward the group.
They were close now—Avalon's makeshift walls visible through the trees. The sentries had spotted them, and reinforcements poured out to secure their approach. Machine gun fire raked the tree line, forcing even the undead to take cover.
As they crossed the final stretch to safety, Reid did a quick headcount. They'd lost three soldiers and two elven adults. Several more were wounded, including Jenkins, who was being carried on a makeshift stretcher, his skin ashen but the black veins receding thanks to Singh's intervention.
Once inside Avalon's walls, Reid allowed himself a moment to catch his breath. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving him shaky and hyperaware of how close they'd come to annihilation.
"Captain," Whitaker approached, her face grave despite their escape. "We need to talk."
She led him to a quiet corner where she'd been examining one of the fallen Death Guard's armor pieces—a shoulder plate with a partially intact rune.
"This magic," she said, pointing to the glowing symbol, "it's corrupted ley-line energy, as Gareth suggested. But there's something else." She traced the pattern with her finger, careful not to touch it directly. "I've been comparing it to the ley-line patterns here in Avalon. They're inversions of each other—like a photographic negative."
"What does that mean for us?" Reid asked, too exhausted for academic theorizing.
"It means," Whitaker said, her eyes bright with discovery, "that healthy ley-lines disrupt necromantic magic. The patterns cancel each other out. That's why Elariel's fire was so effective when combined with our bullets—the metal in our ammunition conducted the ley-line energy."
Reid straightened, suddenly alert. "Are you saying we've found a weakness?"
"Better than that," Whitaker replied. "I'm saying Avalon itself is our weapon. The ley-lines here are some of the strongest and purest I've encountered. If we can find a way to amplify them..."
"We could create a defense against Seraphine's undead army," Reid finished.
"Exactly."
Reid looked out over Avalon, seeing the glowing blue patterns etched into buildings and pathways with new appreciation. Then his gaze shifted to the wounded being treated in the makeshift infirmary, to Jenkins fighting for his life against necromantic poison, to the elven children huddled together, still trembling with fear.
"Find a way to weaponize it," he ordered Whitaker. "Whatever resources you need, they're yours."
As night fell over Avalon, Reid stood at the perimeter wall, watching the treeline for any sign of the Death Guard's return. Gareth joined him in silence, his armor removed to reveal numerous half-healed wounds across his torso.
"They'll be back," the knight said finally. "In greater numbers."
"I'm counting on it," Reid replied, his voice hard with resolve. "Seraphine wants to show us the power of death? Fine. We'll show her something stronger."
Gareth raised an eyebrow. "And what might that be, Captain?"
Reid turned to look at Avalon—at Singh tending the wounded with her unexpected healing abilities, at Whitaker and Elariel bent over ancient texts and ley-line diagrams, at Williams organizing defenses with elven archers, at soldiers and refugees working side by side to strengthen their sanctuary.
"Life," Reid answered simply. "Cooperation. The things tyrants like Seraphine can never understand."
In the distance, a shadowhound howled, its cry echoed by dozens more. The undead tide would return, but this time, Task Force Valkyrie would be ready.