Kharisa Silverdawn stood outside of Eastcliff Garrison.
The undead were coming. The scouts had reported an army arrayed against them, and her mind briefly flashed back to the gates of Silvermoon.
She would not, could not fail again.
"Get everyone out," she'd ordered, and the soldiers had rushed to obey.
She would hold the line.
Arrayed behind her stood her army. Five fleshy ghouls knelt beside her, waiting and hungry. Ten skeletons stood behind her, each wearing heavy armor, and twenty skeletons readied themselves on the walls - these were archers. The skeletons were specially modified, their bones reinforced with metal. They weren't agile, precisely - no - but they were incredibly durable, and the archers carried magical quivers that drew directly from the armory.
It wouldn't have worked, if the elves and humans she'd chosen in life had not agreed, if she hadn't bound their souls already. No, these soldiers had died in the defense of their home, and had signed a contract before that - literally binding - to serve in death.
She wasn't a great necromancer, to raise so many at the spur of a moment's need - but it didn't take the gift of foresight to know this day would come. She'd set this up with Eridan over the last few months, in preparation.
Inside, the living scurried about. Mages set up portals, and people filed through in orderly fashion.
Above, the first gargoyle screamed, an arrow piercing its throat. It splattered on the ground next to her.
The siege was upon them ....