On the outskirts of the necromancer’s camp, a pair of men hid in the ruins of a building that had stood the day before.  They (unlike a good many men) were alive.  Further setting them apart from Irvine and Kiel’s forces was their being French and English.  These two men were Allied scouts, expert marksmen, and not long for this world.  A momentary break in the wind allowed these men to glimpse what the undead were toiling to achieve.  They beheld it for only an instant, for the wind was back not a moment later, but it was enough to fulfill their task.  They began to retreat… and found their path barred by something metallic, large, and possessing several arms.  Had they had time to scream, the words would have been lost upon the Russian winds… had they had time to scream…

***

Twice the distance between the allied scouts and the German camp, there was a city block with only one building still standing.  The structure was monolithic, visible even through the angry wind, and had already frightened a few soldiers who’d seen it only at a glance.  Behind this building, a small army massed amongst the rubble left by its former comrades.  Atop the structure stood the Man With No Face.
Truth be told, this title was a generalization that Captain George Montcliff had bestowed upon this strange character.  Surely he had a face… he just constantly hid it beneath the ebony mask enwrapped around his cranium.  It was an odd thing, with wide glass eyes and a silver respiration vent, but the Captain never heard any sound emerge from those small holes.  No wheezing, no grunting, not even any frozen breath.  When coupled with his habit of wearing enough layers to hide every bit of his exposed body and his constant silence, the Captain would wonder if the Man With No Face was even a man.
“You’ve been standing here for the past hour and a half,” said the Captain finally, “Care to tell me what you’re waiting for?  The scouting party?”
The Faceless Man shook his head and drew a finger across his throat.  The Captain eyes widened in shock.  “They’re dead?” he whispered.
The Faceless Man nodded without looking at him.  The Captain had never been a sentimental man, and now was no different.
“Pity,” grunted the Captain, “I suppose we’re still floundering in the dark, then.”
“Information wise?” came a new voice, “Hardly.”
The Captain turned to find they had company.  Gavino De Luca was a despicable man in conversation; in person, he was downright vile.  He was a sarcastic and bloodthirsty creature, in the most literal sense: Gavino De Luca was a vampire.  As an official in the Sanguisare, he was one of the parasites designated to human interaction.  It was unfortunate for The Captain and his men that De Luca was terrible at his job.  The Captain and the Faceless Man had already averted three attempted feedings, with all three culprits receiving a stake to the heart.  Naturally, tensions were running high.
“We already know what Forsythe is looking for, Captain,” De Luca continued, “We’re only waiting for the go-ahead.”
“Oh yes,” drawled the Captain, “Because blundering into enemy territory lacking any and all pre-emptive knowledge is such cunning strategy.”
“There’s no need for sarcasm, George.  Forsythe won’t see us coming.”
Though neither of them noticed it, the Faceless Man shook his head in disagreement.
“Even if he doesn’t,” the Captain hissed, “He’s got his clockwork monsters to help him out.”
“Those rackety thralls?  Please.  My brood and I will tear through them as easily as we would… well… you.”
“And if I catch another one of your ‘brood’ feeding’, the next stake is going in your heart.”  De Luca’s eyes narrowed.  “Besides, I was talking about the bigger ones; the ones bristling with blades and guns.  You think you can tear through them?”
“Easily.”
“And if they can’t?”
“Then I’m sure that any of one of our cousins will be more than enough to deal with those junkyard recyclables.  We have on our side enough werewolves, alps, magi, fay, or any other bleeding extranatural you can think of, Captain, to tear down the Great Wall of China from tip to tip.  You and your ilk, in contrast are here as cannon fodder, so don’t talk to me about who’ll have trouble on the battlefield!”
And De Luca stormed off haughtily.  The Captain gave a grunt and looked to the Faceless Man.  “Glad to see the back of him,” he said, “Aren’t you?”
The Faceless Man was silent, gone back to staring off towards Irvine’s camp.  After a minute of silence, the Captain sighed and started to walk away.
“Good talk,” he said, waving a hand halfheartedly.
The Faceless Man remained silent, but after De Luca and the Captain had vanished from sight, he slowly shook his head again.  I didn’t matter how many tactical advantages they could come up with; they would not be prepared against Irvine…

***

Kiel had recently taken up the habit of thinking up various ways to escape association with Irvine, his most recent prospect being defection to the allied forces.  He had originally been perturbed by the possibility of being shot on sight, but after considering the alternative, Kiel was beginning to suspect it to be the lesser of two evils, and was thinking out what he’d say to the Russians, when there came a horrendous, grinding wail from the largest mass of thralls.  Alarmed, Kiel turned and ran the whole way up to Irvine’s workshop.  He was even more surprised when Irvine met him halfway down the hill, apparently having dropped everything to investigate.
“What the hell are they screaming about?” hissed the Colonel to the Necromancer, “Damned things nearly gave me a heart attack.”
“It would appear,” he replied without breaking stride, “That we have found what we came here for.”
“Alert the press and praise God.  I was starting to contemplate murdering you in your sleep just to get out of here.”
“You wouldn’t be the first.”
“I don’t doubt it.  Now are you going to tell me what ‘it’ is?”
Irvine said nothing, maintaining his brisk pace as they began to ascend the peat mounds.
“Of course not,” drawled Kiel as they reached the top and beheld the undead’s handiwork.
Two months ago their camp had been a large square, lined with luxury shops and centered with a beautiful decorative fountain.  Now it was little more than a ragged tear in the earth, lined with veritable walls of loose earth.  The crater was peppered with Kiel and Irvine’s soldiers, the living standing tiredly where they were (or moving the dead to a disturbingly large pile of bodies) and the undead tearing at the earth with their metal limbs.  At the bottom of the pit, a crowd had gathered around a monolithic object, howling to the sky above.  Their cries died off when they saw Kiel and Irvine, descending the incline, and parted their ranks to allow their leaders passage.
At the top of the pit, a shadow detached itself from the loose earth and flitted off into the wind...