A/N: Music is Legions of Doom by Audiomachine. Play it!

******

Diomedes isn't attacking from the outside; he's attacking from the inside.

Beside me, Captain Eldric releases a snarl of frustration. "Legions! Arrowhead formation into the castle!" he bellows to the troops down below. Then he turns to his second-in-command; the other man's face is squeezed with panic. "Cathom, get me a messenger. Tell him to report to the King's Army." The Guard just stares dumbly at his superior, eyes boggled. "Now!"

The scream snaps Sir Cathom out of his stupor. He takes off in a shot, yelling for a messenger boy to report to him. The captain finally turns his attention upon Gilbert and me.

"Captain, we'll head in first. Make sure we reach the king as soon as possible," I say. Though it may already be too late.

"No." He doesn't elaborate any further on the matter, leading us down from the fortress instead. It's only when our feet find good, solid ground that he continues: "We charge in together. We'll keep the wraiths distracted; you two go find King Terrell. Sir Kendrick and his generals should receive the messages soon, and will come to aid us. When the King's Army arrives, my Guard will follow the trail that you've made."

"Understood, sir." Without another word, I take my place in the formation, towards the back. Gilbert joins in beside me.

"What trail?" he whispers, struggling to disguise his disorientation and fear.

"I don't know," I admit softly, "but I'll think of something."

Sir Payton is leading the charge in front. The death row. However, from what I've heard, the reason he is regarded highly by the military is because he has survived numerous death charges. Hopefully, he'll survive this one too.

Pst. Manofrey, protect us all. A sickening apprehension suddenly washes over me as I realise that this could be the last time I'm seeing the men gathered by my sides.

Focus. After taking in a few deep breaths, I enter the Champion's State.

I won't lose control now, I tell myself. I can't.

"Ensturma!" Captain Eldric cries the Ancient Cambirian word for 'charge' from somewhere in the middle, where he would be protected on all flanks.

Chaos ensues.

All around me, deep war cries reverberate, rattling my bones through my armour. I automatically heed the command, keeping my strides focused and precise so that I won't barrel into the men in front of me. Gilbert hasn't entered his State yet. Good. He'll need to save that strength for later.

No more than fifteen and a half seconds when we enter the first bailey, ghosts start pouring in from three sides: the front, the left, and the right. In my right hand, I wield my longsword; in my left, Miraterciel. Thank goodness I'm at the back; no one will pay any heed to me when I cut down the enemy lines with the athame.

No one hesitates as we stomp forward, the light armour we wear allowing for freer, more agile movements. The ghosts close in on us too. With my enhanced senses, I note that the spirits Diomedes summoned this time are of a different variety compared to the one during the first assessment. They don't seem as intelligent, as dangerous, if the way they move—clumsy, lumbering—is any indicator. Still, best to not let my guard down.

Closer, closer...A memory of my first joust flashes in my mind. The impact I'd felt then when Gilbert's lance speared me would be nothing compared to now.

The men release one last defiant shriek before the two forces clash.

"Wervas, fortimus!" a familiar voice cries above all. Move on, be strong. Captain Eldric's words to his two Champions.

I nod to Gilbert. No need for us to speak to convey the message: Let's go.

Like an eel weaving through searching fingers in murky depths, we duck in and out of the battle lines, pointedly ignoring the men's screams of death and cries for mercy. No doubt that some will prevail, but no doubt that some will fall too. My will resolves into steel. I won't let the deaths of these men be for nothing; I will protect the king and defeat Diomedes. I must find a way.

We run into quite a few ghosts in a wide, grand-looking hallway which leads to the Pietists' Tower, where King Terrell would be. I signal for Gilbert to hold back, to conserve his strength. He trusts me, guarding my rear in case of any ambushes.

Mind clear, sharpened by thoughts of cold, clear vengeance, I boldly dash towards a whole legion of ghosts. Thirty ghosts. No match for the wrath of Miraterciel. In one swift movement, I sheath my longsword and transfer the athame into my right hand, blade poised to strike.

The fight's over before it really begins.

I duck into a roll as three wraiths attack me at the same time. One misty shortsword swings over where my head had been; another aims for a stab to my neck; the third intended a thrust to the gut. I slash their legs with Miraterciel; they burst into the dust that they once were.

The other ghosts hesitate a bit, registering how I dispatched their companions so efficiently. In fact—strangely enough—I almost sense their dissatisfaction at being used against their wills, their reluctance to fight for the necromancer who had summoned them.

Then, I sense said necromancer tugging on them, forcing them to attack.

I dodge an incoming blow to the face, whirling around to slash two other ghosts. By instinct, I shadowstep to the back of the troops, taking the ghosts by surprise. I take advantage of their confusion, slicing one on the neck before burying my blade into the stomach of another. Shadowstepping once more to the centre of the troops, I spin around in a circle of Death itself. The dead fall where Miraterciel meets ghostly flesh.

I continue in this dangerous dance: shadowstepping just out of harm's way, slashing rapidly with Miraterciel, then shadowstepping to another place. After thirty seconds, all the ghosts are down. One second for each ghost then.

Next time, I'll do better.

"What was that?" asks Gilbert, voice full of awe. Then something clicks in his expression. "That day in the Galennus Workhouse...That was why you stopped suddenly, wasn't it? How did you master it so quickly?"

"I didn't," I reply drily. "It was by instinct. No time for tarrying now; let's make haste. There'll be plenty more ghosts along the way, don't you worry."

We both take off at the same time. I've decided that the trail I'm supposed to leave for the Guard will be punches in the brick walls within fifty paces. Gilbert gladly obliges to do the dirty work, letting off steam while I fight the ghosts.

Something's wrong, a little voice in my head tells me when I've stabbed my hundred and fortieth soldier.

I pause for a while, feeling the solid crunch of Gilbert's fist connecting with wall. Odd, I don't feel Diomedes' presence leading towards the Pietists' Tower. Surely he would have headed there for King Terrell. In fact, I don't feel Diomedes's presence at all, only something similar—cold, deadly, metallic.

Tugging backwards.

Fool! I scream at myself. My necromancy isn't very strong in broad daylight, but it'll have to do. I close my eyes, tugging on the shadows, extending my senses beyond the walls of the castle. Chaos—chaos everywhere. In the courtyards, where the men are still fighting; the inner ring gates, where Sir Kendrick's troops are pushing against the ghosts who've managed to get through the captain's forces; the outer ring gates, where the Scion and another officer's troops are struggling to get past ghost legions to aid the falling soldiers within. Everywhere, there is bloodshed, there is death.

There is fuel for Diomedes.

Focus, I remind myself. Seek the man you want—King Terrell.

I search in the weakened shadows, fighting to keep a hold on them as sunlight hisses and burns. My head begins to pound; I grit my teeth and continue to search.

There. I hone my senses on the cathedral in the outer ring, probing the interior. Sure enough, I feel King Terrell. Along with an unrecognisable presence.

I release my hold. I sink onto my knees, exhausted. Who knew trying to tug on shadows under the sun would be so tiring? At least the Champion's State doesn't desert me; I'll need its extra strength to keep going.

"Constantine? What is it?" Gilbert's face swims before my eyes, an expression of worry marring its usual joviality.

"The cathedral..." I climb onto my feet with Gilbert's help. To my right, down a hallway, lays shattered ice. Gilbert must have defended me from quite a few ghosts, judging from the size of the frosty chunks. "King Terrell is there."

"How can that be? He couldn't have gone past the army without being noticed!"

I shake my head weakly. "We have to go. Please, trust me."

"All right. I'll have to carry you though. You can barely stand, let alone sprint," he decides. Without waiting for my approval, he squats down, back facing me. I climb onto it; we can't waste any more time arguing.

He takes off like a raging bull. He's not in the berserk state though—he just so happens to be faster and stronger than me. Whenever ghosts head our way, I force myself to gather shadows and fling it at them, saving Gilbert's strength.

We just emerge into the main courtyard when we encounter Captain Eldric and his dwindling men. "Squires?" He looks at us in disbelief. "What happened?"

"He's in the cathedral!" I shout as Gilbert continues towards that direction.

I look over my shoulder. Captain Eldric is stunned for a moment, unable to comprehend how King Terrell had managed to get past without him or his men noticing. Finally, he starts, yelling for his men to head towards the cathedral, forming a far smaller arrowhead formation than before. They start to sprint, yet they're already becoming mere specks in the distance.

"You'll have to tell me exactly where he is in the cathedral," Gilbert's voice pierces the air, cool and careless as though he were out for a pleasant jog. "It's too big!"

I close my eyes to search, fighting the wave of nausea surging in me. "In the clusters," I finally say.

Gilbert acknowledges the information by going faster. Faster and faster, like he is the wind itself, barely giving the ghosts a chance to react as he smashes through them. We encounter Sir Kendrick and the other two leaders along the way, pressing on with their respective troops. I scream the same words I did to the captain, hoping that it will not end up as incomprehensible raging.

"Let me down," I tell Gilbert as we enter the cathedral grounds. He does so, albeit reluctantly. Even then, he looks at me as if he doesn't trust me to be capable of walking around without any assistance. "I'm fine." To illustrate my point, I run towards the clusters.

Gilbert's instantly follows after me; strings of dark curses pour out of his mouth. I ignore them, keeping my eyes trained on the archway that leads into the holy place for offerings to the Pietists.

Holy place...Seven Hells. I bite back curses of my own as the implication of the location chosen by Diomedes to hold the king captive dawns upon me.

The soldiers won't set foot inside here—it's strictly prohibited for mortals to fight in places of worship.

However, they didn't say anything about Champions.

I clench my jaw, running straight into the necromancer's trap. Enter first, analyse the situation, formulate a plan.

In what seems like eternity, we finally enter the clusters.

To the sight of at least a hundred ghosts packing the area.

At first, it seems impossible that so many beings can be stuffed into one room, even with the massive space of aforementioned room. But then, clinging onto the clarity of my Champion's State, I notice that the ghosts are actually becoming partially immaterial to avoid crashing into one another. Thus, multiple ghosts can share a single space.

In the midst of it all, King Terrell and what remains of his honour guard kneel on the ground in a single line. A ghost towers over them all, standing in the centre, where the king is kneeling. The crown that marks King Terrell's authority is gone; his head droops in defeat.

No Diomedes. Strange. I tug on the shadows to confirm what I know. No sign of Diomedes at all.

Just us two Champions, King Terrell and his guard, and ghosts. Plenty of ghosts.

Pst. Zorah preserve us.

"Ah, you've finally arrived. I was beginning to think that you two have taken a detour, and I would have come all the way here for nothing." Immediately as soon as the ghost leader speaks, I know that he is different. He's more sentient, powerful—aware. I can taste it in the air: his authority.

Diomedes can summon dead necromancers, I remember.

So this one has been tasked with leading his troops to attack Cordair.

Distant footsteps—the King's Army. Damn propriety. I wonder if they would have the audacity to battle in the clusters.

"Release the king," barks Gilbert. No compulsion. Perhaps he's saving it for later.

"Fool boy. Did Diomedes overestimate you? Did Diomedes overestimate all of you? Who knew that Cordair, one of the finest cities in the world, would fall so soon! Just the first day of siege, and your defences are already crumbling. Even Berlian lasted longer than this wretched excuse of a capital!"

Berlian. The capital city of Xingko. The place where it all started. "You were the necromancer who controlled Diomedes' armies in the north," I say dumbly.

"If you wish to put it that way." He flashes us a malicious grin. "General Hayrin, at your service."

The name turns up blank. The dead necromancer heaves a sigh of frustration, seemingly disappointed that his introduction doesn't draw any reactions. "Honestly, what are they educating Perinians these days? At least the Ancient Cambirians had the decency to fear my name!"

I blink at the ghost's outburst. I don't think I've ever seen one throw a tantrum because of his wounded pride.

"Bah. Never mind. Diomedes really did overestimate all of you. But you're in luck today." Another grin spreads across his face. "I received specific orders to not kill the two of you."

I hold my breath. Surely there's more?

"Unfortunately, Diomedes didn't say what I should do with the rest." He flexes a gauntleted hand. "And I have the perfect thing in store for them."

Quick as a flash, he appears behind the guard to his far left, and flicks the man on the nape of his neck.

The guard's eyes widen before blanking out, deprived of life. His upper body slumps forward, plopping onto the floor with a sickening crack. His wrists are bound together by gold-coloured rope.

Unfortunately, that's not the end of it. Something crawls out of the dead man's body—it has a translucent form, looking suspiciously similar to the deceased's. It stands up sluggishly, as though it's not quite used to its limbs. It then scans the area, snapping into place as one of the ghost soldiers.

Its features are an exact copy of the fallen guard's.

"One man down," Hayrin remarks lightly while moving on to the guard beside the fallen man. He performs the flick once more. The second guard dies in the same way as the first; the memory of those pleading eyes would haunt me to the end of my days. Like the man before him, the soul of the guard detaches itself from its vessel, taking its place with the ghost army instead.

Pietists preserve us. So the reports from Xingko were true: the dead will rise to fight for the other side.

And Hayrin is going to make sure everyone within the castle grounds will do so.

******

A/N: Diomedes: 2; Constantine: 0. Although to be fair, Connie did manage to glean the Big D's trick. And so, the battle for Cordair begins! Please remember to vote, comment, share and recommend!

Dedicated to samiramh! Thank you for being such an awesome Champion :)