Adarin looked around at the remaining officers.

  “There will not be sixty-four corpses, because we will win before then.”

  Doubt flickered across their faces. The commodore’s expression was grim. The duchess was carefully trying to keep a smile on her face, but the angles of her mouth kept twitching. Devin and Gavin were absent, busy with the smithing project he had commissioned. The hammering could be heard from the field forges set up on one side of the plaza.

  They stood in front of the temple entrance, discussing, and Adarin reached out to Mage Captain Krislov again. At the same time he focused on the visual inputs of the spider he had sent to accompany his senior druid and studied the root-born model of the underground that the locust had built for them.

  As he focused on the arboreal cathedral, he saw the ritual in full swing. The druids were sitting in a circle, swaying, humming, and singing. Several of them lay unconscious at the side, having collapsed. Hundreds of woodland creatures formed at least three outer circles. He hadn't thought this was possible. Only because the entire forest had begun regenerating after his locust had been struck, he had even considered the possibility. It had taken some convincing, but now the vampires stood no chance.

  The spriggan stood with Krislov—thoughts humming towards him, filling Adarin’s head as if she stood right next to him. ‘Yes.’ She pointed towards a cluster of wood on the altar. ‘This is the largest chamber. There is corrupted life there.’

  For a final time, Adarin compared the odd model mock-up of the tunnel system to the model he had built in his mind, filled with estimates. It will work.

  At the same time, the transformation was proceeding well. He could sense it in the energy of the woods, even as the spriggan’s displeasure hummed through the link. With a frown, he noticed the pained expression on Krislov’s face.

  Are they becoming more loyal to the forest than to me? That would be bad, but it's something to be taken care of later.

  The spriggan spoke up again, impatience singing strongly in her tone. ‘You ask for a major sacrifice from this forest.’

  Adarin tapped one of the trees that was recovering, fragile green leaves glowing rich with druidic alteration magic. Magic had sprouted on all the trees in the old town, and green veins had formed, pumping sap and fluid down to the roots. He cut open one of the veins.

  Spectroscopic Analysis:

  ? Ethanol (C?H?O): A volatile alcohol; clear, flammable liquid, plausibly produced through magically accelerated fermentation of sugars in the beech.

  ? Seed Oil (C??H??O?, as triglycerides): A viscous, slow-drying oil; flammable and capable of feeding flame when spread thin.

  ? Napalm-like Resin (C??H??, terpene base): Sticky, oily hydrocarbon resin; clings to surfaces, burns hot and long.

  Adarin read over the summary, focused on his alteration core, and felt into the tree—felt how all the energy of life was being distilled, how the pockets of fluids accumulated over the hollows of the labyrinth’s rooms and corridors.

  He opened his eyes again and reached out to the spriggan, letting the mage captain relay his words.

  ‘I appreciate your sacrifice. Yet you said it yourself: the vampires are a scourge upon these lands, and for the circle, for the locus to flourish, they must be gone. And this is the only way I can do it—without leaving to bring back massive reinforcements.’

  The sadness as the spriggan inclined her head was clear. ‘You speak truth,’ she hissed softly. ‘And we see it. That is why HE shall come to your aid.’

  Adarin was about to ask who was coming, when he heard cries erupting from the direction of the locus.

  A figure—no, a creature twice the height of a man, gaunt and gnarled like living wood, his beard of moss and his eyes vibrant with mischief and life—strode in long strides across the plaza towards Adarin. The ent bowed to him.

  “Archdruid,” it said, its voice a thousand whispers in the wind. “I have left my slumber to come upon your request. Be sure to make it fun.”

  The beard split into a smile fit to devour children. Adarin cursed inwardly as his soldiers and mages took several steps back and gulped audibly.

  Adarin inclined his head. “Honored Elder Ent of the Beeches. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, and a great honor that you have agreed to assist in our plan.”

  The giant gestured with his arm—somehow slow, yet carrying all the meaning of an executioner’s axe. “No more need for tiresome words.” He gestured across into one of the lesser plazas of the town. “Found your position. That is the tree you need my assistance with, is it not?”

  Adarin nodded and noticed that the smithy had finished. Two dozen soldiers dragged forward a massive iron grid—two by two meters, runically reinforced and inscribed with steel sigils. It was long-handled at its sides—for now the ten meters long extensions were used to carry the contraption, later they would hold it down and ensure death.

  He reached out to his remaining officers as the duchess and commodore walked by his side. Druids transmitted final instructions to the small units of mages that had prepared rituals to funnel and move air. The remaining soldiers followed at a respectful distance, avoiding the long swinging arms of the ent.

  Then they reached the minor plaza, and Adarin studied the pile of gunpowder, the barrels of oil and tar, and the sacks of alchemical components and quicklime that had been piled up seemingly in a random place in front of a large beech tree. The last of our supplies.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  One ritual circle, surrounded by a dozen navy mages, lay to the side. Next to it was a smaller one, whose mages were hectically going through the final steps of preparation.

  At the same time, under the instructions of the gremlins, musketeers were heaving the metal grid onto the pile of explosives and incendiaries. Adarin walked over and nodded to Ashfield’s mage adjutant.

  The ent walked up and leaned into the beech tree, its face merging into the trunk, its limbs and body disappearing. The beech groaned like an old man and its twigs shuddered.

  The ent’s voice rang out: “Yes. I can feel them celebrating. But he is not present. A shame. We shall merely slaughter all his children.”

  Adarin nodded, growing giddy with anticipation, then looked over to the secondary runic circle. A drilling ritual. He nodded to the mages. “Begin.”

  A geyser of sand and soil erupted at the same time as a compact scrying sensor was formed over the other ritual circle. Adarin contemplated what they were about to do. If this really works… All this terror and this is how it's going to end? Well, I’ve seen enough rebellions end in antimatter fire to know showdowns between hero and villain only belong in children’s tales.

  For ten endless seconds, dirt rained down. No one dared curse. The tension was a blade at every throat.

  Then the scrying sensor descended into the hole and Adarin stepped up to the ritual circle. And there it was.

  He noticed the throne, a ten-meter-high contraption of bone and moist flayed skin. It was empty. The hall was nearly three hundred meters long, one hundred meters wide, and the gentle arches and ribs of stone supporting the roof reached twenty meters at their highest.

  He noticed the nude, emaciated humans chained to the tables—hundreds, maybe a thousand. Over a thousand thralls wandered the hall, nearly two hundred lesser vampires, and perhaps ten higher ones—at least, those he could gauge at a glance.

  Adarin shuddered at the thought of facing that many monsters in anything but the perfect defensive position they had fought in the day before.

  He motioned the adjutant to move the scrying sensor. Tunnel by tunnel flew by, caverns filled with cages full of feedstock, more vampires and thralls sleeping on plain stone. Bit by bit he confirmed the map he had built in his mind, confirmed with the spriggan and Krislov that the packages were all in position, gave a few commands to the units with the wind spells, based on his precise knowledge of where the tunnels would go close to the surface. So the entire time we were sitting on nearly five thousand monsters. A terrible suspicion bloomed in his mind. Rüdiger…

  Then Adarin focused and turned his body to look at the ent. He gestured to the pile of explosives, the payload that was being pressed down by the metal grid.

  Before he gave the command, he reached out to the spriggan. ‘Let it rain,’ he whispered, his avatar’s skin shivering with pleasure and anticipation. Then to the ent: “If you wouldn’t mind, let’s make a hole. Please.”

  The tree chuckled, and roots began churning the earth underneath the payload. The scrying sensor had returned to the main chamber, and as roots tore out flagstones of one of the stone support arches, screams of surprise and wonder erupted. The vampires were gawking, though a few thralls were running out of the way, leaving the feedstock on the table. He saw at least one man being crushed by a boulder the size of his torso.

  Adarin shrugged. Well, no one down there is going to live to tell the tale anyways.

  The ent grumbled. “Tunnel complete. Collapsing surface.”

  The soil of the old plaza broke, and the nearly five tons of explosives and incendiaries plummeted down. Several magi had their hands cupped around ignition stones. At the very same moment, roots infiltrated around displaced ceiling stones and unleashed the substances the trees had distilled for nearly half a day into the cavern.

  A strange fog filled up the cavern. Vampires and thralls alike began coughing and choking in the mixture of alcohol and oil. Then the bomb fell through the ceiling and the next second it crashed into the ground. Everyone in the underground hall froze. Some of the higher vampires began screaming and running, but Adarin smugly noted the futility of those actions.

  The metal grid was in place. Securing the top of the chimney by the weight of nearly ten tons of cargo deployed onto the edges via support beams and pulleys. Soldiers stood ready to reinforce, to hold down the proverbial gate.

  “Fire,” Adarin ordered, and the five magi closed their hands around the ignition stones.

  The ground shook. The scrying sensor died in the detonation. A pillar of fire erupted, piercing nearly fifty meters into the sky, the soldiers and stones barely sufficient to keep the blocking grid in place.

  The drilling spells of the air magic units finished, and Adarin heard the howling of wind picking up all around the ruins of the town. Conjuration and evocation mages forced oxygen into the fuel-enriched caverns below.

  “Send another sensor now,” Adarin gestured to the scryers.

  They repeated the ritual.

  And Adarin turned and watched the hole in the earth, watched the orange glow and heard the screams of terror and pain amidst the roaring of flames. The inferno was rapidly consuming all oxygen in the underground. The flapping of wings could be heard a second before something slammed into the metal bars from below.

  A human-sized, hideously mutated bat screeched and clawed at the magically reinforced steel. It took on a demonic aspect as it was backlit by the orange flames. Skeletal pikes went up into the choking smoke and started jabbing at the creature. It fell. Then another, then three, then four of the creatures scrambled up the shaft, some trying to dig into the sides of the earth, trying to escape the inferno below. They were met with cold, calculating steel.

  Then the wind the air mages were channeling reached the main chamber, and what had been a chimney glowing at the bottom turned into a ten-meter-high pillar of fire.

  Mages and soldiers took several steps back, the overwhelming heat hitting with the might of a collapsing mountain.

  Adarin met the eyes of one of the higher vampires clawing at the bars. A woman. She was screaming—or maybe she wasn’t. The roaring of the flames drowned it all out.

  The once-beautiful monster clung to the bars as her flesh sloughed away. She opened her mouth and vomited boiling blood. Then her body fell, leaving only her forearms hugging the metal bars. But even they were incinerated within seconds.

  The howling and thunder of flames, the sucking whining of wind rushing into the depths, it all continued for five more minutes.

  Slowly the pillar of flames died down, reducing its height, reducing its heat, and Adarin was the first to approach the grid, unbidden.

  The scrying mages dropped another sensor. It fell down the shaft, its walls oddly uneven glass. The ancient draconic halls were unrecognizable. Everything except stone and metal was gone.

  An even covering of ash stirred at intervals into a storm. Whirlwinds of ash danced on the floor with each fresh pulse of air the wind mages supplied. Where there had been tables, vampires, and thralls, there was simply nothing left. The monstrous thrones of bone and skin were piles of ash.

  Next the sensor advanced to the caverns, showing empty cages, empty manacles on stone tables and benches. Only the dull glimmer of metallic objects remained in the grey.

  A heavy silence settled over the town.

  Then Commodore Ashfield began laughing out loud. “That’s it! The bastards are dead!”

  Cheers erupted around the square and could soon be heard from the ships at the temple as well.