The guild force appeared on the southern ridge at midday, exactly as Dirk had predicted. Sixty-two fighters in organized formation, supply wagons rolling behind them, siege equipment gleaming in the winter sun.
Through Dirk's eyes—the scout was positioned on a distant hill, observing—Grix watched them approach. Their commander was a tall woman in silver armor, carrying a sword that radiated holy energy even from a distance. A paladin, probably. The worst possible enemy for a necromancer.
"They're confident," Mordren observed through the phylactery. "See how they march openly, making no attempt at stealth? They expect minimal resistance."
"Good. Let them stay confident until it's too late to retreat."
The guild force stopped about three hundred yards from the fortress and began establishing a forward camp. Tents rose, supply wagons were positioned, and the siege equipment was assembled with professional efficiency.
Grix counted the mages carefully. Eight total, as Dirk had reported. Three wore elaborate robes with complex runic patterns—those would be the high-circle casters. The other five seemed younger, less decorated, probably support mages.
The clerics were easier to identify—six figures in pristine white robes, each carrying holy symbols that gleamed with divine energy. They moved among the troops, casting blessing spells, preparing for the assault.
"The paladin commander is organizing them into three assault groups," Aldric reported from his position coordinating the eternal guards. "One to assault the main gate, one to assault the eastern wall where it's most damaged, and one held in reserve."
"Standard tactics. Overwhelm two points simultaneously, force us to split our defenders." Grix smiled grimly. "They don't realize we have enough forces to defend every approach and still have reserves."
The guild forces worked through the afternoon, preparing their siege. The catapults were positioned, loaded with stones. The battering ram was assembled and reinforced with metal plating. And the mysterious covered object was revealed—a massive ballistae mounted on a rotating platform, designed to shoot javelin-sized bolts through walls.
"They brought serious equipment," Zara noted. "They're preparing to breach the walls regardless of resistance."
"Let them. Walls can be repaired. I want them committed, invested in the siege. The deeper they commit, the harder it will be to retreat when things go wrong."
As the sun began setting, the paladin commander walked forward alone, stopping about fifty yards from the gate. She removed her helmet, revealing a scarred face with determined eyes.
"Necromancer of Ashenfell!" she called out. "I am Commander Elara Brightblade of the Adventurer's Guild, authorized by the Kingdom of Grandiel to cleanse this cursed place. You have one opportunity to surrender peacefully. Come out, submit to judgment, and your death will be quick and painless. Refuse, and we will tear this fortress stone from stone and burn whatever we find inside."
Grix stepped onto the wall where she could see him—a small goblin figure, barely four feet tall, holding a staff nearly as long as he was.
The sight of him caused visible confusion in the guild ranks. Whispers spread. A goblin? A child? This was what they'd brought sixty-two fighters to destroy?
"I am Grix, Master of Ashenfell," he called back, his voice amplified by death magic to carry across the distance. "This fortress is mine by right of claim. You are trespassing on my territory. Leave now, and I'll let you go unharmed. Stay, and you'll join the eternal guards in the catacombs below."
Elara's expression hardened. "A goblin necromancer. An abomination even among your kind. You've murdered innocents, raised the dead, and claimed a fortress built on holy ground. Your existence is an affront to the natural order. Surrender is your only option."
"I've killed only those who attacked me first," Grix countered. "Your guild members came to my fortress uninvited, tried to loot it, and paid the price. The same price you'll pay if you proceed."
"Last chance, monster. Surrender or be destroyed."
"Then come destroy me. If you can."
Grix turned and walked away from the wall, leaving Elara staring after him with barely controlled fury.
"You've made it personal now," Mordren said approvingly. "She'll commit everything to killing you. Pride and anger will override tactical caution."
"That's the idea."
The guild forces attacked at dawn.
The catapults launched first, hurling stones at the walls with devastating accuracy. The ancient masonry cracked and crumbled under the impacts. One section of the eastern wall partially collapsed, exactly as the guild had intended.
"Maintain positions," Grix commanded through his network of undead commanders. "Let them think they're succeeding."
The battering ram advanced on the main gate, protected by a shield formation of heavy infantry. The ram's head was enchanted, glowing with destructive magic. Each impact against the gate sent shudders through the fortress.
The ballistae fired, massive bolts punching through weakened sections of wall and embedding deep into the courtyard beyond.
From an outside perspective, the siege was succeeding brilliantly. The walls were crumbling. The gate was failing. The fortress appeared defenseless.
Elara led the main assault personally, sword blazing with holy fire. "First wave, advance! Breach the walls! Clerics, prepare sanctification spells! Mages, suppressive fire on any defenders!"
Sixty fighters surged forward in coordinated groups. The eastern wall assault team climbed through the breach their catapults had created. The gate assault team prepared to rush through once the ram finished its work. The reserve team advanced to exploit whichever breach proved most successful.
They were committed now. Fully invested in the assault. No retreat, no hesitation.
Perfect.
"Now," Grix commanded.
The eternal guards erupted from concealment.
Two hundred undead warriors poured from hidden positions throughout the fortress—from beneath rubble piles, from intact buildings, from prepared tunnels. They moved in perfect formation, shields locked, spears leveled.
The eastern wall assault team found themselves suddenly surrounded by undead. The gate team, expecting to breach an empty courtyard, instead faced a wall of skeletal soldiers appearing from nowhere.
"Ambush!" someone screamed. "There's hundreds of them!"
Elara's tactical composure cracked for just a moment as she processed what she was seeing. Hundreds of undead. Professional undead, moving in formation, equipped with real weapons and armor.
This wasn't a minor necromancer with a handful of zombies. This was an army.
"Clerics! Sanctification now! Mages, area fire! All units, defensive formation!"
The clerics began chanting, holy symbols glowing. Waves of divine energy pulsed outward, washing over the nearest eternal guards. The undead soldiers stumbled, their bones smoking, dark energy dissipating under the holy assault.
Dozens fell, exorcized completely, their binding magic destroyed.
But for every one that fell, five more stepped forward to take its place.
The mages unleashed their spells. Fireballs exploded among the undead ranks. Lightning arcs jumped between skeletal warriors. Ice spears impaled zombies and pinned them to walls.
It was devastating magic, the kind that would destroy normal undead by the dozens.
But these weren't normal undead. The eternal guards had been built to fight mages. Their enchanted armor absorbed magical damage. Their bones were warded against fire and ice. And the ones Grix had personally warded were even more resistant.
The guild forces were discovering that their usual tactics weren't working.
"Kent, execute," Grix commanded.
From the walls, fifty undead archers opened fire. Not at the heavily armored warriors, but at the clerics and mages. Arrows fell like deadly rain.
One cleric went down with three arrows through his chest. A mage's protective shield shattered under sustained fire, and she collapsed with an arrow in her throat.
"Counter-archery!" Elara commanded. Her archers returned fire, but undead didn't flinch from arrows. Kent and his unit simply kept shooting, trading fire with enemies who bled while they didn't.
The battle descended into brutal chaos. Guild forces fought desperately against waves of undead. The eternal guards pressed forward relentlessly, immune to pain, fear, or exhaustion. Every fallen guild member was immediately swarmed, their weapons taken, their bodies trampled.
And Grix watched it all from his position in the keep, waiting for the perfect moment.
"They're breaking," Aldric reported. "The eastern wall team is surrounded and being decimated. The gate team is retreating. The reserve is trying to extract casualties."
"How many enemy casualties?"
"Twelve confirmed dead. Twice that many wounded."
"Bring me the dead ones."
Death knights dragged the corpses back through the fighting, carrying them toward the keep where Grix waited. Fresh bodies. Recent deaths. Perfect for Soul Harvest.
Grix descended to the courtyard where the bodies had been laid out. Twelve guild fighters—a mix of warriors, archers, and one unfortunate mage who'd been caught by archer fire.
He raised his staff and focused on the technique Mordren had taught him. The death energy flowed, but this time he wasn't just animating corpses. He was harvesting their souls at the moment of binding, draining the residual life force and using it to strengthen the raising.
The twelve corpses convulsed and stood, but they were different from his other undead. Their eyes glowed brighter. Their movements were more fluid. And through his mental connection, Grix could feel intelligence—fragments of memory, retained skills, obedience enforced by the soul harvest binding.
"Return to battle," he commanded. "Fight your former comrades."
The twelve newly raised undead picked up weapons and rushed back toward the fighting. Grix followed, staff in hand, ready for the next phase.
When Elara saw her dead soldiers rising and returning to attack their own forces, something broke in her tactical calm.
"No. No! This is... this is forbidden magic! Soul binding is prohibited by the Covenant of—"
"I don't follow your covenants," Grix called out, his voice carrying across the battlefield. "Every one of you that falls joins my army. Can you say the same? How long can you fight when your own dead turn against you?"
It was psychological warfare as much as magical. The guild fighters began to panic, watching their fallen comrades attack them with weapons they'd trained alongside them with.
A warrior hesitated before striking at his former shield-brother, now an undead puppet. That hesitation cost him his life—an eternal guard's spear took him through the gap in his armor.
"Clerics, emergency exorcism on the fresh undead!" Elara commanded, trying to regain control. "Focus on breaking his control over our people!"
Two clerics concentrated their holy magic on Grix's freshly raised undead. The divine energy burned through his binding magic, shattering the connections. The twelve bodies collapsed, truly dead now, souls released.
But the psychological damage was done. The guild forces knew what awaited them—death, then enslavement, then forced servitude against their own allies.
"Retreat!" Elara finally called out, tactical reality overwhelming pride. "Organized retreat to the camp! All units fall back!"
The guild forces began withdrawing, maintaining defensive formations as they backed away from the fortress. The eternal guards pressed the pursuit, but Grix called them back.
"Let them go. Let them retreat. Let them sit in their camp and count their casualties and wonder what to do next."
As the guild forces pulled back to their forward camp, dragging their wounded, Grix took stock.
His casualties: Seventy-four eternal guards destroyed by holy magic and fire, three of his zombie wolves, and various lesser undead. Replaceable, except for the wolves.
Enemy casualties: Eighteen confirmed dead, thirty-plus wounded, their siege equipment abandoned near the walls, morale shattered.
More importantly, three of the dead were mages. Grix had their bodies dragged to the catacombs immediately.
"Three down," he told Mordren through the phylactery. "Four more to break your seals."
"Excellent. The battle goes well. But don't become overconfident—they still outnumber your intelligent forces significantly. And that paladin commander is formidable. She nearly broke your eastern flank before you forced the retreat."
"I know. This was just the opening engagement. They'll adapt their tactics now. Come back with different strategies."
"Will you be ready?"
Grix looked at his undead army, standing ready in the courtyard. At the fortress walls, damaged but holding. At the Void Gate's energy, pulsing through the fortress, strengthening everything.
"I'll be ready. One way or another, this ends with me still standing."
"Good. Because if you fall, I remain trapped. And I've been patient for two centuries. I'd rather not wait another two."
As darkness fell over Ashenfell, Grix watched the guild camp where fires burned and voices argued. They were debating. Planning. Trying to figure out how to defeat an enemy that grew stronger with every casualty inflicted.
Let them plan. Let them scheme.
He had three mages' bodies in the catacombs and needed only four more.
And tomorrow, he'd take them.