Pestilence: Rise Of The Pure Undead

Chapter 466 Pound Of Flesh

"It did not go well" stating the obvious, Alisart Cleavster noticed the empty spaces were knights of valour and brave soldiers were supposed to be standing, it was to be expected that their first attempts at this sort of warfare would not go well, but even with explicit orders to retreat with haste, many had fallen prey to death's cold grasp.

A few of the groups had been hit especially hard, but overall, none of them had achieved stellar results, it was honestly flabbergasting to the southern king, to one such as himself used to leading the strongest and most well-organised army around, to encounter not just a force that could rival his own, but overwhelm and defeat it on the regular.

'But it's fine... That was what I expected after all' he held no joy in it, but the plan he had concocted had begun as envisioned, the first few efforts in initiating a guerilla warfare had been a spectacular failure, some groups had accomplished nothing but waste arrows whilst others had suffered great casualties.

Dismissing everyone, the knight king now truly knew what made him so viscerally despise the honourless tactics of this calibre, they treated the lives of one's subject as resources to be used, their death as mere facts and not glorious acts of sacrifice done in the midst of a great battle, there truly was nothing of value to be taken from such strategies, but indeed, the life or death of soldiers and warriors was of little thoughts to the undead, so they weaved in all sorts of underhanded manipulations to bring down their enemies.

Cleavster had realised that this was one of the main reasons he could not play in the same field as Ourlst, unable to bring himself to move his troops like pawns fully, but he had done it today, he had knowingly sacrificed loyal men and women all to perhaps land a sneaky blow against an enemy that could probably shrug off more losses to their ranks than there were living creatures on the whole continent.

But keeling over and giving up without a fight was the cardinal sin within the south, there may be disglory in utilising underhanded strategies, but there was deep shame and cowardice in not striking at an enemy, on the battlefield, mercy was nothing but a vile toxin.

Nowhere was not a battlefield nowadays, walking up to his cabin, stepping inside and up to something covered by a blanket of some sort, pulling it off without wait, revealing a mangled creature similar to the one standing in the central pond, only a bit smaller, and with an actual neck distinguishing head from torso, if it even mattered for a being that had been reforged for its arm to grow atrophied until they completely disappeared, and for its leg to turn into a solid pole allowing for it to carried around and planted wherever one wanted.

Cleavster had filled barrels upon barrels of the thing, silently looking over them all, his face covered with scars of long past battles, stern with stiff apprehension as Aramap entered the cabin, the blond man slightly bowing, the quiver upon his back filled to the limit with his signature javelins.

"When are we to enact this plan, My Lord?" he asked.

"Not tomorrow, we need to let them believe we were sent reeling from today's failure and require some time to reorganise... The day after tomorrow... That's when we shall strike them, and we will have to strike them hard, we have to force them to move with carefulness, to truly consider us as threats, Ourlst will want to cut his losses and bring his forces together instead of scattering them all around... Then, we shall get our citizens to safety alongside us and build again underground, until we are capable of booting the undeads out..."

"...Yes, that would be the ideal scenario, but let us prepare for the worst, in case our next counterattack fails utterly..."

The southern king and his first knight went back and forth, concerning the proper course of action to follow in such a case.

And one thing quickly became clear.

That their counterattack needed to succeed.