Chapter 59

Two weeks later.

As Atlas observed the scene unfolding before him, a mixture of relief and concern washed over him like a tide of conflicting emotions. The fort, once a stronghold of the dreaded Chaos Dwarves, now stood under the command of the undead, a testament to their newfound strength and resilience. Yet, the sight of the Greenskin slaves still in chains served as a stark reminder of the horrors endured under the rule of their former masters.

Strickler's arrival with the rescued humans brought a glimmer of hope amidst the sombre atmosphere. The humans, though weary and worn from their ordeals, looked to Strickler with gratitude and awe, their faces illuminated by the faintest flicker of hope for a better future. Yet, the presence of the still-bound Greenskin slaves being herded into the slave quarters – Atlas had plans for them.

Approaching Strickler, Atlas greeted him with a nod of acknowledgement, his expression a mixture of weariness and determination. "Welcome back, Strickler," he said, his voice tinged with a sense of urgency. "It seems we have much work to do."

Strickler returned the greeting with a solemn nod, his gaze sweeping over the fort and its newfound occupants. "Indeed, my lord," he replied, his voice heavy with the weight of their shared burden. "I have emptied the surrounding settlements of humans, slaves and loot."

Atlas nodded in appreciation. Though victory had been won on the battlefield, the true battle for their burgeoning kingdom had only just begun.

"My lord…" Strickler started speaking hesitantly. "Our raiding of the Chaos Dwarfs is not going unanswered."

"Oh," Atlas muttered, his voice level and unimpressed. "What have you to report?"

"Scouts. Units of dwarfs, slaves, monsters and machinery pour from their holds. A great army is forming in the north."

Atlas looked out to the horizon as if he could see past the great billows of ash to the gathering host. His only reply was a single word.

"Good."

Strickler's eyes went wide, it was not like Atlas to ignore a threat, one that had the strength to crush his forces, even in the best of situations unless… The thought hung in the air, a silent promise of a plan and confidence that seemed to radiate from his lord. No longer concerned, he stood straighter and waited for his next command.

Atlas handed Strickler a scroll, the leather was tough and from some beast in the wastes, however scribed in dark letters was something far more important. As an experienced mage before his transition, he instantly recognised its purpose.

"A Sacrificial ritual?" Atlas didn't deny it and gave him the instructions to prepare for the ceremony.

Leaving Strickler, Atlas walked through the streets to where several undead Dwarfs and Orcs worked not with blades and axes, but hammers and chisels. Konak, the undead Dwarf he had raised as his first higher undead, had been summoned to the Black Fortress and escorted the human convoy. Konak had been able to imbue some of his innate knowledge and skill at crafting to his raised dead making them excellent workers to repair the fortress.

Beside Konak stood the newest edition to Atlas's clan of undead – Drazhoath the Ashen. The fierce sorcerer was not only powerful, but also possessed many secrets about the Chaos Dwarf's – Runes, Machines, Forging, Battle Tactics, and Cultivation manuals. Everything useful was extracted. It was fortunate that the Drazhoath, or rather Draz as Atlas refers to him, already possessed magic and therefore the process of raising him as a higher undead was relatively simple using the sarcophagus transformative magic.

As Atlas strode through the bustling streets of the fortress, his gaze swept over the scene before him. Undead Dwarfs and Orcs worked diligently, their movements precise and methodical as they wielded hammers and chisels to repair the damage wrought by battle. Among them stood Konak, the undead Dwarf who had proven invaluable in imparting his knowledge of craftsmanship to his raised brethren.

Approaching Konak, Atlas inquired about the progress of the repairs to the fortress. Konak, his skeletal form adorned with the tools of his trade, turned to face his master, his hollow eyes betraying a sense of determination. "The repairs proceed, my lord," he rasped, his voice carrying the weight of countless centuries. "But progress is slow. Riots in the slave pens have caused delays, and our resources are stretched thin."

Atlas nodded in understanding, his brow furrowed with concern. The overcrowded conditions in the slave pens had long been a source of unrest, and he knew that addressing the issue would be paramount to maintaining order within the fortress. "See to it that the situation is dealt with swiftly," he commanded, his tone firm. "We cannot afford further delays."

Turning his attention to Drazhoath, Atlas queried the sorcerer about the state of the fortress's defences. Draz, his crimson eyes gleaming with arcane knowledge, stepped forward to address his master. "The defences are being bolstered, my lord," he replied, his voice tinged with an air of confidence. "I have raised many of the most skilled warriors and artificers as Greater undead to man the artillery and fortifications."

Satisfied with the response, Atlas nodded approvingly. "Good," he said, his voice resonating with authority. "Prepare yourself, Draz. War is on the horizon, and we must be ready to meet it head-on. Every defence must be fortified, every weapon sharpened. Our enemies will not rest until they have reclaimed what they believe is theirs. We must show them that this fortress belongs to the undead now, and we will defend it to our last breath."

With a determined nod, Drazhoath bowed his head in acknowledgement. "As you command, my lord," he replied, his voice brimming with resolve. "We will not falter in the face of adversity. We are the undead, and our strength knows no bounds."

With that, Atlas turned and strode away, his mind already turning to the battles that lay ahead. The fortress may have been damaged, but with the combined efforts of his undead minions, it would soon stand as a bastion of strength and defiance against any who dared challenge their rule.

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Standing on the platform built into the heart of the churning volcano, Atlas surveyed the scene before him with a steely gaze. The air was thick with the acrid scent of sulfur, and the ground beneath his feet trembled with the fiery fury of the molten rock below. Around him, the jagged walls of the volcano rose high into the sky, casting eerie shadows across the landscape.

Before Atlas laid the runic structure of the sacrificial spell he intended to enact. Intricate symbols, etched into the ancient stone, pulsed with dark energy as if alive with their own sinister purpose. He studied the runes intently, tracing their lines with a practised eye, ensuring that every detail was in place for the ritual to commence.

Turning his attention to the horde of Greenskin slaves gathered below, Atlas felt a surge of anticipation coursing through his veins. Lines and lines of wretched creatures stood shackled and bound, their eyes wide with fear as they awaited their grim fate. They knew all too well the terror that awaited them at the hands of their undead executioners.

With a nod to his waiting minions, Atlas signalled for the ritual to begin. The undead moved with purpose, their movements synchronized as they advanced upon the hapless slaves. The air echoed with the screams of the doomed, mingling with the roar of the volcano as it unleashed its fury upon the land.

As the first blood was spilt and the sacrificial spell was set into motion, Atlas watched with a sense of grim satisfaction. Each life offered up to the dark forces fuelled his own power, strengthening his connection to the dark magics that coursed through the land.

With each passing moment, the runes glowed with even greater intensity, their power growing with each soul claimed in the name of the undead lord.

As Atlas reached into the pouch at his waist, the weight of the artefact nestled within it seemed to pulse with a life of its own. Carefully withdrawing it from its confines, he held it aloft, allowing its radiant energy to bathe him in its ethereal glow.

The artefact was a thing of wonder, ancient beyond reckoning and crafted with a skill that spoke of elven craftsmanship. Woven together from living vines that intertwined in endless patterns, it seemed to pulse with a vitality that belied its age. Each delicate tendril seemed to dance with a life of its own, weaving and twisting in intricate designs that captivated the eye.

But it was not just its physical beauty that drew Atlas to the artefact. As he held it in his hand, he could feel the subtle hum of its power, a faint echo of the raw energy that coursed through it. This was Ghyran, the Lore of Life, and its presence was unmistakable.

When the Winds of Magic blew strongest, Ghyran flowed across the land like a great tide, suffusing the earth with its life-giving essence. It was drawn to water, sinking into the soil and nourishing all living things with its boundless energy. And now, held within Atlas's grasp, its power was his to command.

With this artefact at his side, he could wield the very essence of life itself, bending it to his will and shaping the world to his desires.

It was just what he needed.