Chapter 39

The journey eastward led Atlas and his followers into the wild and untamed lands beyond the reach of Altdorf's influence. As they traversed the rugged terrain, the landscape shifted gradually, evolving from the familiar sights of cultivated fields and bustling towns to the rugged beauty of untouched wilderness.

With each passing day, the imposing silhouette of the World Edge Mountains loomed ever larger on the horizon, casting their shadow over the land like ancient sentinels guarding the secrets of the East. The air grew thinner as they ascended through the foothills, the terrain becoming increasingly challenging to navigate.

Yet, despite the harshness of their surroundings, Atlas pressed onward, his determination unwavering as he forged a path into the heart of the untamed wilderness. With each step, he drew closer to the towering peaks that beckoned from the distance, their towering heights serving as a testament to the formidable challenges that lay ahead.

As the journey grew more arduous and the strain began to take its toll on the mortal horses, Atlas, drawing upon his mastery of necromancy, called forth the fallen steeds as undead to replace their weary counterparts.

With a flick of his wrist and a murmured incantation, the lifeless bodies of the fallen horses stirred once more, rising from the ground as obedient servants to their new master. No longer bound by the limitations of mortality, these undead creatures moved with an eerie grace, their empty eyes fixed upon their unholy task.

With their newfound steeds of death, the procession continued its journey through the unforgiving wilderness, the undead horses marching tirelessly ahead, their spectral forms a haunting reminder of Atlas's command over the forces of darkness to all who choose to follow him.

A part of him, perhaps the sliver of humanity that stubbornly remained, wanted to try and conceal his difference from the convoy. To hide his power and mastery over the dead. However, he was able to reason with himself, in the Dark Lands, he would be heavily relying on undead meaning that the herd that followed needed to acclimatise to the new reality.

With a wave of his hand, Atlas directed his undead retinue to come to a halt, their skeletal forms standing rigidly at attention as the order reverberated through their ranks. Despite their lifeless visages, there was a sense of obedience in their posture, a testament to the powerful magic that bound them to his will. "Make camp and rest. We continue at sunset," he commanded, his voice carrying the authority of true magical might.

As the first rays of sunlight kissed the horizon, Atlas felt the familiar discomfort that came with the dawn. The brightness of day threatened to sap his strength, reminding him of the fragility of his immortal form. It was a reminder of the delicate balance between his undead nature and the world of the living, a balance that required constant vigilance to maintain. Vampires were weaker during daylight however only fledglings like Strickler were in danger of being extinguished by the burning sun.

Glancing over the landscape, Atlas observed the weary figures of his mortal servants as they set about their tasks. Despite their exhaustion, they worked diligently to erect tents and kindle fires, their movements synchronized by years of experience on the road. The aroma of roasting meat filled the air, mingling with the earthy scent of the wilderness as the camp slowly came to life; a community being born.

Then they heard it.

A yell that seemed to cut through the joyous noise. Like a call to arms, others' voices lent theirs to the choir, echoing through the night like a primal symphony of chaos. As the sound drew nearer, it seemed to take on a predatory edge, sending shivers down the spines of those within the camp. Shadows danced across the landscape, elongating with each passing moment as the approaching figures cast their forms against the flickering firelight.

In the midst of the turmoil, the mercenaries sprang into action, their blades gleaming in the dim light as they formed a defensive perimeter around the camp. The undead, ever obedient to Atlas's command, stood at attention, their skeletal forms bristling with readiness as they prepared to repel any threat.

With his magical blade held aloft, Atlas stood at the forefront of his forces, his senses attuned to the currents of magic that swirled around him. As the approaching figures drew closer, he could feel the pulsating energy of their presence, a primal force of hunger and greed that threatened to consume all before it.

Amidst the chaos and uncertainty, Atlas remained steadfast, his gaze fixed upon the approaching horde as he waited to discern their intentions. In the stillness of the night, he could hear the faint whispers of magic, intertwining with the rhythmic cadence of the advancing heavy footsteps, heralding the imminent clash.

Ogres.

The mere mention of ogres brought a grim expression to Atlas's face. These large, brutish creatures were a force to be reckoned with, known for their ferocity in battle and insatiable hunger. Wandering tribes of ogres roamed the land, leaving destruction in their wake as they plundered and pillaged wherever they went.

With their towering stature and formidable strength, ogres were formidable opponents on the battlefield, often selling their services to the highest bidder as mercenaries. Their nomadic lifestyle and lack of allegiance made them unpredictable and dangerous foes, capable of wreaking havoc upon unsuspecting settlements and kingdoms.

As Atlas contemplated the threat posed by the approaching ogres, he couldn't help but feel a sense of frustration. Despite their crude and primitive nature, ogres were formidable fighters, and dealing with them would require careful strategy and cunning.

With their convoy laden with riches and treasures, they were a tempting target for the ogres, who were drawn to the promise of gold, plunder, and the tantalizing aroma of cooking meat. As the ogres closed in on their camp, Atlas knew that they would need to be prepared to defend themselves against this formidable adversary or risk losing everything they had worked so hard to acquire.

"Halt!" As Atlas's commanding voice echoed through the air, a patrol of a dozen ogres emerged from the darkness, their massive forms looming ominously in the flickering light of the campfire. Towering nearly ten feet tall, each ogre was a formidable sight to behold, their wide bellies and thick, muscular frames exuding an aura of brute strength.

Despite their bulky appearance, these creatures moved with surprising agility, their strides covering the ground with impressive speed. Bald as boulders, their heads were adorned with facial hair that hung in tangled braids, believed to capture any morsels of food that escaped their voracious mouths. Thick, leathery skin covered their bodies, providing protection akin to that of a leather breastplate, while their breath, heavy with the scent of meat, could startle even the most hardened dwarf into sobriety.

The ogres' most distinguishing feature, however, was their massive bellies, which held vital organs situated lower than those of humans and protected by thick, powerful muscles capable of grinding with tremendous force. Many of the ogres wore metal armour plates over their bellies, adorned with icons significant to their tribes, while others preferred warpaint and crude tattoos as their adornment.

Wielding a massive stump of a tree as a club, the leading ogre stepped forward, his hulking frame adorned with more gold than his peers, a clear sign of his status among the group. His wide belly protruded even further, indicating a level of gluttony that surpassed even that of his companions. As he opened his greasy mouth, the stench of rotted meat and ale wafted through the air, adding to the intimidating presence he exuded.