As the setting sun carried away the last of its light, the humans and gnolls once again returned empty-handed from the long slope of death before Zul'Aman. Pale moonlight filtered through a few wispy clouds and fell upon the sleeping earth, draping the shadowy forest in a hazy veil of alternating light and dark.
The large-scale assaults of recent days had drained the warriors of all their strength. The human soldiers tasked with clearing the battlefield had become careless, haphazardly piling up the nonhuman corpses and setting them alight. As for everything else, the exhausted soldiers no longer had the strength to attend to it.
And so, on this laxly guarded night, Kalekin, the Troll warlord who had been roaming the forest, crossed the blockade before Zul'Aman with a few trusted followers and returned to his clan. Failure and pain tormented him every waking moment. He would rally his warriors again. He would have his revenge on the humans!
The returning leader breathed new courage into the dispirited Troll warriors, but what he brought his people was not the victory and hope they had imagined. It was news of defeat and despair that plunged them into the abyss.
"Kalekin, you madman!"
The High Priest's staff struck the wooden floor with a heavy thud. Every finger of the Troll Priest's left hand clamped tightly around the wooden staff, the deep green skin seeming to pale slightly from the strain.
Zulsh looked up at the Troll warlord before him, whose face had been burned to charcoal across more than half of it, leaving only one eye. The Troll warrior had suffered a crushing defeat at human hands, and his former reason had long since deserted him. Anger and hatred had consumed his every thought.
"The warriors of Zul'Aman will not send a single soldier. I won't let you lead all our people into the abyss of death!"
The aged Troll Priest summoned all his strength to let out an enraged roar. He raised his withered right hand and pointed at the defeated warrior with his ferocious face, his voice full of helplessness and despair. "We have very few soldiers left who can still fight. Even holding the line is straining our forces. A counterattack is nothing but a pipe dream!"
"You think I'm asking for your permission, old man?"
The green skin on the warlord's intact face twisted unnaturally. Perhaps he was trying to sneer, but the almost-dead left side of his face made the effort futile. Framed by the dim candlelight and deep shadows, the powerful Troll warrior looked like a demon crawling up from the abyss.
"No. I'm telling you what's going to happen! In three hours, I'll lead every warrior still able to wield a weapon in one last surprise attack against those humans who think victory is already theirs. The Wild Spirit will protect us!"
As he spoke, the burly Troll warlord swung his great axe, the heavy weapon leaving a blur in the dim light. With a sharp crack, its keen edge sank deep into the floorboards less than half a foot in front of the High Priest. The forceful impact made the whole wooden hut shudder and creak as if it were about to fall apart.
The gust of air from the swing made the aged High Priest instinctively narrow his eyes. He studied the Troll warlord, more arrogant and crazed than ever, and a glint flashed in his eyes. As if he had made up his mind, Zulsh watched his opponent in silence while his right hand, hidden in the sleeve of his hide robe, began making strange gestures.
Over the years, he had never truly clashed with Kalekin, the warlord. And as he grew ever older and frailer, he had never had the chance to truly act. But he was still a powerful spellcaster. He would not let the deranged Troll warlord destroy Zul'Aman and the entire clan.
But the nearly crazed warlord clearly failed to notice his opponent's subtle movements. Instead, he waved his arms wildly and continued to boast. "Our brave warriors will reclaim their honor with their own hands. I'll lead them to avenge the heroes who fell in this war!"
Then he stopped moving and walked step by step toward the Troll Priest. He bent over and reached for the axe embedded in the floorboards. "As for you, my High Priest, you coward who's lost every last bit of courage—even that fool Hamia, who was taken prisoner, is better than you!"
When the Troll warlord exposed the back of his head to the High Priest, Zulsh, who had been holding back until then, finally completed his gestures. He reached out with his right hand, shrouded in a mass of grayish black, and pressed it against the back of his opponent's head. At the same time, he bellowed, "I won't let anyone destroy the Mossflayer Clan at my hands—not the humans, and not you!"
Wither Hand! With this seventh-circle divine spell, the High Priest—who had always treated others kindly and avoided conflict within the Mossflayer Clan—showed the mad Troll warlord what had kept him firmly in his position all this time: the fearsome power of a high-level Priest who had reached level fourteen and could wield seventh-circle divine spells.
The powerful energy of death invaded the unprepared Troll warrior's body in an instant, then erupted violently. In just half a second, black light symbolizing death and negativity enveloped the warlord, draining all strength from his body as the muscles in his limbs withered before their eyes.
The Troll warlord could clearly feel his strength and life draining away. It wasn't that his senses were especially keen; the effect was simply too obvious. He didn't even have time to straighten up before he fell to the floor. Though he struggled desperately, he had already grown too weak to stand.
But this was only the beginning. Though this seventh-circle spell could wither an ordinary soldier to death, it still wasn't enough to inflict fatal harm on the warlord, whose body was powerful and whose constitution was close to legendary.
"You... dare... betray... me..."
Zulsh watched without expression as the once-mighty warrior, through a moment's carelessness, became helpless prey on a butcher's block. He shook his head slightly and said, "You're the one who betrayed us. I won't let you destroy our clan."
Without hesitation, the Troll Priest raised the staff in his left hand and sent a small black cloud toward the warrior lying on the floor. Shadow Word: Pain, a third-circle divine spell, quietly enveloped Kalekin's body. He writhed continuously from the pain and corrosion, but no strength remained in him to make a sound.
With no time to spare for the Troll warlord's twitching corpse, the aged Priest leaned on his staff and headed outside. He still had something important to do—
Kalekin had held the position of warlord of the Mossflayer Clan for many years and commanded a force utterly loyal to him. Now, he would have to personally send these warriors—who might rebel over Kalekin's death—into the embrace of the earth.