Chapter 12: The Cairn's Secrets and the Wings of Impatience
The spectral First Men warriors howled on the wind, their forms flickering like ghostly flames as they charged. Ainz, unflinching, met their ethereal onslaught with the cold, calculating pragmatism of an Overlord. He unleashed his [Turn Undead] ability, a wave of divine (or, in his case, anti-divine) power washing over the spectral ranks.
The effect was immediate and potent. The lesser spirits, those with weaker animus or less defined forms, shrieked – a sound like shattering ice – and dissolved into wisps of frigid mist, their faint soul-energy flowing into Ainz like a cool draft, subtly invigorating his reserves. However, the larger, more imposing figures – ancient chieftains and hero-spirits, their spectral armor and weapons more defined, their eyes burning with a fiercer, more resolute rage – merely staggered, their forms flickering violently but holding. They were clearly of a higher tier than simple YGGDRASIL fodder.
"Resistant," Ainz noted, his Elian Hollow voice devoid of inflection. "Sebas, their attacks drain vitality directly and bypass physical defenses. Maintain a defensive posture. Disrupt their cohesion if possible."
"As you command, my Lord!" Sebas, finding his physical strikes passing through the spirits with minimal effect beyond a slight dispersal of their ethereal forms, shifted his tactics. He focused his potent ki, not into direct attacks, but into shimmering defensive barriers that pulsed with inner energy, intercepting the chilling touch of the spectral weapons before they could reach Ainz. Occasionally, he would unleash a focused blast of ki, not aimed to destroy, but to scatter a forming group of spirits, creating momentary chaos in their ranks.
Ainz, meanwhile, adapted his own assault. If [Turn Undead] was only partially effective, he would employ methods more suited to entities of potent spiritual energy. He recalled various YGGDRASIL spells designed for incorporeal or spiritually-aspected foes.
"[Negative Lance]!" he incanted. A spear of pure, solidified negative energy, crackling with dark power, materialized in his hand and shot forward, impaling one of the spectral chieftains. The spirit roared, a sound like grinding stones, as the negative energy corroded its ethereal form, causing it to flicker and dim like a dying ember before finally dissipating. Another soul, stronger this time, more substantial, flowed into Ainz.
The battle raged atop the wind-swept hill, a chaotic dance of dark magic and focused ki against ancient, spectral fury. The "screaming winds," which Ainz now suspected were the collective psychic lament and rage of these bound spirits, buffeted them constantly, trying to break their concentration, to fill their minds with despair and icy dread. But Ainz's Overlord mind was an impregnable fortress, and Sebas's loyalty an unbreakable shield.
Ainz continued his assault, calling upon spells that targeted spiritual essence directly. [Spiritual Javelin], [Soul Rend] (a weaker, single-target version of a much higher-tier spell), and blasts of raw negative energy, all carefully chosen from the lower tiers of his YGGDRASIL repertoire that his current mana levels could sustain. Each successful strike caused a spirit to dissolve, its ancient anger silenced, its soul absorbed. The influx of power was palpable, his mana reserves not just refilling but visibly expanding with each vanquished foe. This place was a veritable feast for his growth.
Finally, only one spirit remained – a towering figure, larger and more ornate than the others, its spectral eyes burning with the light of a dying star. It raised a ghostly great-axe and charged with a final, defiant howl that was swallowed by the wind.
Ainz met its charge calmly. "[Greater Negative Burst]!" He poured a significant portion of his now formidable mana into this spell. A shockwave of absolute darkness erupted from him, washing over the spirit. The spectral chieftain froze mid-stride, its form convulsing violently as the potent negative energy tore at its very essence. With a final, despairing cry that echoed the mournful wind, it exploded into a shower of fading motes, its powerful soul – the strongest yet from this encounter – surging into Ainz like a tidal wave.
Silence descended upon the Hill of Screaming Winds, the only sound now the natural howl of the wind, no longer carrying the psychic weight of angry spirits. Ainz stood amidst the fallen stones, breathing steadily, his youthful body thrumming with newly acquired power. His mana capacity had taken another significant leap.
Sebas approached, his posture respectful, though his eyes held a gleam of admiration. "The guardians are pacified, my Lord. Your command of such diverse energies is, as always, peerless."
"These spirits were… informative," Ainz said, more to himself than to Sebas. He walked towards the central, crumbling stone cairn. "Their souls were potent. This place… it is indeed a nexus of power."
With the spectral guardians gone, they could investigate the burial mound without fear of interruption. It was clearly ancient, constructed of massive, unmortared stones, half-buried by time and the elements. Working together, they managed to dislodge a large capstone, revealing a dark, narrow passage leading down into the earth.
Ainz created a globe of [Light], and they descended. The air within was cold, stale, and heavy with the scent of dust and ages past. The passage opened into a surprisingly intact burial chamber. Skeletal remains, adorned with tarnished bronze torcs, armbands, and brooches, lay upon stone biers. Primitive bronze weapons – axes, spears, and leaf-shaped swords – were propped beside them or clutched in bony fingers.
At the very heart of the cairn, upon a slightly raised stone plinth, lay the remains of what must have been the chief or shaman of this tribe. And clutched in its skeletal hand was a small, intricately carved stone totem, no larger than Ainz's palm. It depicted a snarling wolf, its form stylized yet radiating a palpable sense of primal energy.
As Ainz reached out and carefully took the totem, the obsidian amulet around his neck flared with a warm, sympathetic light. He felt a new surge of understanding, another vision overlaying his senses: a First Man shaman, his face painted with ocher and ash, holding this very totem aloft atop the Hill of Screaming Winds. The shaman was chanting, his voice blending with the howl of the wind, and as he did, ethereal wolf spirits manifested around him, their forms merging with the living warriors of his tribe, imbuing them with supernatural ferocity and speed. The vision then shifted, showing the familiar network of ley lines, and the faint path leading north-east from this hill pulsed with a clearer light, extending further towards a truly formidable, snow-capped mountain peak that dominated the distant horizon.
The vision faded. Ainz looked at the wolf totem in his hand. It now emanated a faint magical aura, its power awakened, or perhaps attuned to him through the amulet. "This totem…" he murmured to Sebas. "It was used to commune with, or perhaps control, nature spirits – wolf spirits, specifically. It might grant some minor abilities in that vein." He tucked it carefully into his belt. Another artifact, another piece of this world's ancient magic.
"The ley line continues, my Lord," Sebas observed, noting the direction of Ainz's gaze. "Towards an even more formidable peak."
"Indeed," Ainz agreed. "But that is a journey for another day. We have gained much here. It is time to return to Greywater Keep, to consolidate, and to consider our next move." He also needed to assess if his Nazarick Beacon had elicited any response.
Meanwhile, in the fertile plains of the Riverlands, several days' march from the coast…
Albedo's undead retinue moved with terrifying, unnatural speed and silence, primarily under the cover of darkness. Her skeletal mages, their forms cloaked in heavy, concealing robes and illusions that made them appear as silent, stern-faced warrior-monks, continued their "inquiries" at isolated farmsteads and crossroads inns. The name 'Greywater Keep' was now a consistent refrain, often accompanied by fearful whispers of its young, sorcerous lord and his monster-slaying exploits. The tales were becoming more specific, the location narrowing.
Albedo's impatience, however, was a burning fire. She craved reunion with her beloved Ainz-sama with every fiber of her being. The slow pace of information gathering through terrified peasants was beginning to grate.
"Too slow!" she hissed one evening, as they made camp in a ruined septry, its former inhabitants long since fled or slain. Her death knights stood like gargoyles around the perimeter, their balefire eyes piercing the gloom. "My Lord Ainz is near, I can feel it! His beacon, though faded, still sings in my soul!"
She paced the desecrated altar, her dark wings twitching beneath her cloak. "I require precision. I require speed." Her gaze fell upon one of her magically summoned Fell-wings – a demonic, bat-winged creature of considerable size and preternatural senses, currently perched on the crumbling bell tower. "You!" she commanded. "Take to the sky. Fly towards the area known as the Blackmorass. Locate a holdfast named Greywater Keep. You will remain at extreme altitude, unseen, unheard. Observe, confirm its location, and return to me with an exact heading. Go! And do not fail me!"
The Fell-wing shrieked, a sound that echoed the cries of the damned, and launched itself into the night sky, disappearing into the darkness with incredible speed. Albedo watched it go, a predatory smile on her lips. Soon. Very soon.
At Greywater Keep…
Nyx, Demiurge's hidden agent, continued her subtle observation of Ser Desmond Grell. She had successfully "encountered" him twice more, cultivating the persona of 'Lyra,' the displaced minstrel. Ser Desmond, earnest and somewhat lonely in his official but isolated posting, had proven susceptible to her carefully crafted tales of woe and her gentle, probing questions. He spoke freely of his admiration for Master Tian's wisdom and his awe (and slight fear) of Lord Elian's powers. He also revealed that Lord Elian and Master Tian were currently away on a "survey of House Hollow's northern territories," a dangerous and remote region.
This information was relayed to Demiurge. He considered it. Lord Ainz and Sebas were absent from Greywater. The keep, while its remaining defenders were surprisingly competent for their numbers, was now significantly less protected from a truly high-level threat. And Ser Desmond was a Tully knight, a direct link to the Lord Paramount.
Demiurge formulated a new directive for Nyx. "The young knight is proving useful," he transmitted. "It is time to test his reaction to a more significant, external threat. A powerful, unidentified sorceress, leading a retinue of monstrous warriors, has reportedly made landfall on the eastern coast and is moving inland. Her intentions are unknown but presumed hostile, potentially targeting the heartlands of the Riverlands. Ensure this information reaches Ser Desmond Grell. Frame it as a dire rumor, something that a lord with Lord Elian Hollow's unique capabilities might be uniquely suited to investigate or counter, should Lord Tully deem it so. Observe his actions. This may provide an opportunity to assess Greywater's response protocols, and perhaps even to influence Lord Ainz's movements upon his return."
Nyx received the order with a thrill of anticipation. This was a more active role, a chance to truly manipulate events. She began to plan her next encounter with Ser Desmond, ready to spin a tale of terrifying invaders and sow the seeds of panic and urgency.
The return journey from the Hill of Screaming Winds was swift and uneventful. Ainz and Sebas, their horses laden with the few artifacts they had recovered and their minds filled with new knowledge and plans, made good time. Ainz felt stronger, more attuned to the subtle magical currents of this world, the obsidian amulet and the wolf totem radiating a faint, constant power against his skin.
As they neared the familiar, crumbling walls of Greywater Keep, Ainz extended his senses, a habit now. He felt the usual meager life forces within, the slightly stronger signature of Ser Desmond, but then… something else. A flicker. A faint, almost imperceptible echo, like a distant whisper answering his own. It was weak, distorted, and tinged with an undeniable aura of… distress.
He reined in his horse sharply, his head snapping up. Sebas was instantly alert. "My Lord? What is it?"
Ainz clutched his chest, where the amulet lay. The sensation was clearer now, a desperate, fading pulse that resonated with his own Nazarick energy signature. It wasn't the overwhelming joy he'd felt from Albedo's distant approach (a presence he had not yet consciously identified, attributing the general sense of another powerful being approaching to the after-effects of his beacon), but something far more fragile and urgent.
"Sebas!" he exclaimed, his voice tight with a sudden, fierce urgency. "Another! I feel another of our own! And they are… they are in grave danger! It's… it's close! Not far from here!" His mind raced. Who could it be? Someone weak? Someone injured? Someone who had blundered into terrible trouble?
Just as this new, alarming realization struck him, a dark shape, moving at incredible speed, detached itself from the high clouds above Greywater Keep. It circled once, an almost invisible speck against the vastness of the sky, then plummeted downwards, not towards the keep itself, but towards a point several leagues to the south-east – the direction Albedo's main force was currently approaching.
It was the Fell-wing, returning from its reconnaissance.
Albedo, camped with her undead vanguard in a hidden dell, received its telepathic report: Greywater Keep located, coordinates confirmed. A predatory smile stretched her lips. "Excellent," she purred, her golden eyes blazing with triumphant light. "We arrive within two days. My beloved Ainz-sama… prepare for our glorious reunion!"
Two of Nazarick's most powerful denizens were now converging on Greywater Keep, one driven by ecstatic devotion, the other by a desperate, fading cry for help. And Ainz Ooal Gown, the Sorcerer King in the guise of a boy lord, was caught in the middle, his plans for a careful, methodical consolidation of power about to be thrown into glorious, terrifying chaos.