Headed by a Snake

Barza Keith, the Lone Shadowdark stepped away from a suspicious-looking mound of earth. A moment later, it burst open and began to wheeze bursts of noxious green smoke.

Zombie-Dimitri slammed the end of his halberd into the ground. The night lamps illuminating the streets dimmed... and several more holes opened in the ground surrounding the Rogue-Ranger team.

"Hey, Edge," Lone frowned.

"Yah?"

"In the Holy Country... can uh... making holes in the roads get you executed?"

Edge grimaced as he surveyed the area, "M...aybe. But I think the uh... Necromancy's a more executable offense."

"Oh. Right," Lone nodded, "Necromancy's illegal here..."

"[You...]" Dimitri growled, deep and echoey... "[Once My Order Claims the Essence of an Archbishop, Master Dunzis Will Cleanse This Realm of Your Holy Country... Nay... of ALL THE LIVING!!!!]"

"Makes sense," Edge scratched his head... "if a little... confusing. Doesn't... blood make more sense as a magical reagent?"

"He's got the spirit, though..." Lone tilted his head up, grimacing, "I'm just glad we got an answer to why exactly that guy needed panties."

"High-Low?" Edge whispered.

"I'll take the high..." Lone nodded.

"[SUBMIT!!!!]" Dimitri roared, "[OR!!! DIIIIIE!!!!]"

The open earth began to geyser concentrated streams of green flame, crackling and roaring like vomiting bears. Spectral humanoid shapes began to crawl out of them, adding pained wails and shrieking. The cries of the dead were loud, annoying, and made it hard to think.

Fear tugged at Lone's heart-- but that wasn't anything new. He rated it a... three out of ten, where he'd shite himself at about seven or eight.

Chuckling to himself, he stepped forward, twirling his wolf-hammer by the handle, "Excuse me, Necromancer-guy! I'll take the THIRD option!!!"

"By the Flame," Edge raised an eyebrow. "Really, Lone?"

"Come on, Edge. We always do this," Lone insisted.

"Yeah, I know-- but considering the circumstances..." The Rogue shook his head, "No. You're right. Go ahead."

"Thank you," Lone groaned.

Dimitri pointed his halberd forward, standing tall and domineering, "[And. What... Option. Is. That??]"

Lone showed the Necromancer an offensive gesture, grinning like a maniac, "YOURRRRRR MOMMMMMM!!"

The armored zombie froze still... stunned... angry... INTIMIDATED by Lone's arrogance!

"[MY! MOTHERRRR!!]" Dimitri sprinted forward, heedless of defense, "[IS A NIIIIICE LADYYYY!!!!]"

"Yeahhh," Lone muttered... "Got him."

"Not so fast, heretic!" Edge dropped his body, swinging the Shatterspike low.

"[USELESS!!!]" Dimitri slammed the haft of his magical halberd down, blocking the strike.

"And take this!!" Lone raised his wolf-hammer overhead, ready to smash it down.

"[I Will Not Allow It!! ]" Dimitri quickly swiped his halberd horizontally.

The blade smashed into Lone's side, cutting into his gambeson... but thankfully not sinking in too deeply. It hurt like hells and the magic burned cold against his skin... but he ignored the pain and hooked the halberd haft with his right arm.

He was definitely going to need a healing potion... and hopefully, he'd be able to do so before his adrenaline wore off-- or before he died, anyroad.

Zombie-Dimitri tilted his head, "[Your... Weapon?]"

"Oh?" Lone grinned. Still holding the Necromancer's halberd tight, he showed off his empty palms, "So you've figured out my genius plan?"

The growls of a Dark Iron wolf made Dimitri turn his head, but it was too late to react. Tres Leches bit into the back of the zombie's right heel.

"[Aa-aarrgh!!]"

That was Lone's chance. He leapt up with both feet, planting a double-drop kick into Dimitri's armored chest. The zombie lost grip of his halberd, flying onto his back with a noisy crash of metal plates.

Edge immediately fell upon him, drawing his dagger and lifting up Dimitri's visor. He placed two quick stabs in both eyes, then twice in the throat.

"Quick!" He shouted, "The Necromancer is controlling this thing from a distance! We have to destroy the body before he recovers!"

"Right! Get the balls, Tres Leches!" Lone commanded.

"GrrrRAWRR," The loyal wolf savaged the zombie's crotch.

Lone stood back up, willfully ignoring the burning pain in his arm, his leg, and the right side... and started hacking the halberd into Dimitri's right elbow.

"[WHYYYYYYYYYY THE BALLLLLSSS?!?!?]" Dimitri wailed.

"He can feel pain!" Edge shouted, "Don't stop!!!"

...

⟬ The Basilica, following morning. ⟭

Tycondrius found the High Oracle's ritual hall to be... unorthodox. It turned out to be the large, high-ceiling room he had found the previous sun.

It was well lit by way of the tall, stained-glass windows and the colonnades seemed to be enchanted with a touch of radiant magic. The statues were moved, relocated to its edges, and most interestingly, a large wooden stage had been erected at the far end.

"I... don't really understand," Tycon admitted.

"The High Oracle works in mysterious ways," Archbishop Crucis rolled her eyes.

That... that meant absolutely nothing.

When Tycon previously worked with large-scale rituals, he was used to expensive candles mixed with mana dust. The hall had none.

He was also used to elaborate drawn formations... and smaller redundancies of those formations-- those were not present or... were hidden.

Most of all, ritual rooms were typically quiet spaces, far isolated from passersby.

Despite that, hundreds, if not thousands of chairs and benches had been moved into the hall. The once empty area was full of Champions, Acolytes, Priests, and the like-- all devout members of the Church of the Eternal Flame.

As the number of open seats dwindled, more visitors elected to stand... and soon, the place was packed tighter than cargo in a ship hold.

So... many... people were impossible to keep even remotely quiet. A hero summoning was a supremely powerful ritual... If any of the assisting casters suffered a lapse in concentration, they risked a catastrophic spell failure that could easily wipe out 90% of the room, living and not.

Tycon was absolutely baffled that the lead caster, the High Oracle herself, could undertake such great risk.

"What kind of... ritual is this?" He asked Natalya, his voice incredulous, "What are its components? Synchronized chanting? ...Life essence?"

Natalya groaned, "Tyrion rituals are several cuts above the backwater spells of your nonbelievers in the Beast Kingdoms."

Tycon rolled his eyes. The Free Nation was sometimes derogatorily called the Beast Kingdoms. It was a gross exaggeration, as humans still claimed the highest population.

"You can't tell me that these thousands of people are necessary for it?"