Book of The Dead

With his captors distracted, Tyron knew it was time to make a move. If they decided to remove a potential complication, namely him, before dealing with the new threat, then it likely wouldn't go well for him. That meant he needed to deal with the rope. He had a method in mind, though it wasn't his favourite.

Magick Bolt was a simple and versatile spell. A ball of arcane energy, shaped and directed to fly and discharge its force into whatever it hit. It was common for a Mage to point or face their hand palm-out in the direction they wanted to fire it, but that wasn't necessary. The point of origin could be anywhere around the person casting it, within a few centimetres of the body.

Despite the growing din around him, he closed his eyes and concentrated, forming the spell directly above the rope that bound his wrists together. Not being able to see the target added another layer of difficulty, and it required all his focus to ensure the magick took the shape he desired. Once it was ready, he let it fly.

Immediately he felt a sting along his wrists as the bolt blasted downward, ripping through the fibres of the rope and taking several layers of skin along with it before it hit the ground behind him. Before the rope could fall, he snatched it in his fingers, trying not to let the pain show on his face.

"What was that?" Davon spun around.

Tyron didn't look up, his head hung low as he allowed his arms to bear his weight. He wanted to look defeated, and apparently, he pulled it off.

"Markus, watch this idiot for me, I'm going to see what the fuss is," Davon spat before he turned and jogged toward the building the call came from.

"Aw but…" Markus spluttered as his two companions left him before he kicked the dirt in frustration.

Then he had a better idea and kicked Tyron in the gut.

The divines bless high constitution.

"You all tied up. Why'n I gotta watch this shit," he whined, clearly wanting to sate his curiosity and find out what the disturbance was.

That's ten bony boys marching up the road to split your head in, moron.

Without long to consider, Tyron tried to decide what to do. He could cast fear, but his good friend Markus might just scream and wail, attracting attention, which was the opposite of what he wanted to achieve. He could use Suppress Mind, but he no longer had a weapon. If he crushed the other's will and reduced him to a slack jawed, drooling simpleton… or more of one, then how was he supposed to kill him?

The other choice would be to pummel him with bolts.…

He flexed his fingers as he considered what to do and felt the remains of the rope, still held in his grip. That was also an option… he grimaced.

"Holy Mother," Tyron gasped, "do you see that?"

He stared over the other man's shoulder with eyes wide, and, by some miracle, Markus turned around.

"What?" the man muttered.

Scarcely believing his luck, the Necromancer quickly intoned the words of power, his hands rising from behind his back to flick out a few quick sigils. Before his captor could sound a warning, the spell was ready. Markus' eyes went wide as he saw his prisoner was no longer bound, but then something slammed into his mind and he knew no more.

He couldn't afford to be kind, or gentle, not with people such as these, so Tyron brought the full weight of his mind to bear. Despite being low level, he had more than enough mental might to crush the will of a simple farmhand turned bandit. In moments, Markus was reduced to a sightless lump, his eyes glazed and expression slack as Tyron held his mind in an iron grip.

He moved to capitalise on his advantage. He’d learned to move while maintaining the spell, but not quickly, sudden movements would break his concentration. He had to be careful. He shifted the rope in his hands until he found a section long enough to use, then looped it over the man's head and around his neck before he pulled, dragging the limp form of his victim to the ground before he shuffled backwards and out of sight.

It was a difficult thing, holding a mind at bay as he strangled the body. Rather than thrash and fight physically, Markus fought back with his will, forcing Tyron to clamp down ever harder as his grip held firm on the rope. He tried not to watch as the face in front of him turned blue, but concentrated inwardly, dominating the mind as it shrieked and flailed, before it grew weak, the resistance fading until the consciousness winked out like a snuffed candle.

The rope slipped out of his shaking hands, the fingers curling inwards to fists as the young Necromancer mastered himself. He couldn't afford to be distracted, he was vulnerable until he could reunite with his minions. They were close now, he could feel it, and getting closer by the second.

I'm exposed, need to lay low for a bit.

The others hadn't come to investigate this side of the courtyard, they'd gone to blockade the opening between buildings on the path Tyron had come in, or headed up to the buildings on that side of the compound. Even so, he didn't want to take any chances, if someone glanced back and saw him huddling here he'd have an arrow in his face. He slipped around the fence and found a shuttered window that hadn't been barred. He pulled it open quickly and jumped inside, scanning the darkness within.

Nobody inside, that was good. With a moment to himself, he crouched and cast another spell. Minion Sight. Following the link he had with all of his undead, he allowed himself to see what they saw, though only one at a time. He picked the closest and his view was overtaken by the hazy, purple-hued view of the skeleton. They were approaching the farmhouses now, perhaps only a hundred metres away. The skeletons in the lead had their shields up, defending against arrows being shot from the roof and upper floor. The undead did not know fear and continued to advance in the face of the archers, but the humans were not so resilient. Even through the blurred eyes of the dead, he could see the wavering spirits of the bandits.

There was fear. He could use that.

He was on the opposite side of the courtyard from where his minions were approaching. If he wanted to help them, he'd need to get closer. Tyron quickly stood and began to make his way through the dark and seemingly abandoned house, wishing he had a weapon. He'd rather not use magick unless he had to, and if he could avoid strangulation… he'd prefer it.

The noise continued to increase as the men called back and forth amongst each other, bellows of anger, cries of fear. The skeletons would arrive soon and Tyron knew from experience that staring into the black sockets of the dead was an unnerving experience, one that might break more than one defender.

When he approached the end of the building, Tyron unbarred the door and swung it inwards, only to find a bandit standing in the gap between buildings.

The two started in surprise, the muddy bandit recovering first and swiping wildly with his rusted blade. Tyron staggered back as pain flared in his left hand, cursing under his breath. A moment later, a magick bolt fizzed forward and slammed into the chest of his attacker, a wet crunch noting the impact. Filled with desperate energy, Tyron rushed forward and slammed his forearm into the throat of the attacker. Unable to call for help, the bandit could do little but wheeze as the Necromancer grabbed him by the hair and pulled him back through the door.

A minute later, Tyron emerged, a hastily cut bandage tied around his palm and his face creased with frustration.

The skeletons had arrived and were engaged in a brawl with the bandits. The defenders had hastily blocked off the entrance between the two buildings on the north side where the undead had attacked. Tyron could have all or some of them move to circle around, there were four entrances to the courtyard after all, but he'd rather leave them in place to take the focus while he snuck around.

If only that idiot hadn't been watching on this side.

The hand shouldn't be a problem, if he was careful. The cut wasn't too deep, he'd be able to form sigils with it well enough. He snuck inside the courtyard and found another window he could slip through, climbing in gracelessly with his wounded hand. Once inside, he rushed to find the stairs. He needed to reach the second floor as fast as he could. The longer the fight went on, the more damage his skeletons would take from the archers above.

There was so much shouting, cursing and clashing of steel that it wouldn't matter how much noise he made as he stomped up the old wooden staircase. He burst up the final stretch to find a corridor in front of him that ended in a window, a shivering bandit leaning out to fire directly down on the minions below. Without thinking for long, he brought up his hands and formed a magick bolt. The spell whizzed almost invisibly through the air before it cracked into the unguarded back of his target, the force sending the archer tumbling through the gap shrieking into the melee below.

Tyron didn't hesitate, he ran toward the window, his hands already moving as the words of power rolled from his lips.

Before anyone could interrupt his cast, he progressed rapidly through the spellwork, forming sigils and constructing the magick with reckless speed. His hand flared with pain and almost threw him off, but he grit his teeth and forced the digits to align as they should before things could go awry. Even so, cold sweat broke out on his forehead as he finished the spell.

Death Blades.

Arcane energy that reeked of death began to coat the weapons of the skeletons, billowing around the blades like a cloud of black smoke. Panicked cries began to ring out amongst the bandits at this new development, but Tyron wasn't done.

Can't have you running away.

He stepped back from the window and checked his surroundings. In the chaos, it was impossible to tell exactly what was going on, but he didn't think there were any other bandits on this floor. It was likely they'd gone to the roof once they realised they couldn't shoot at the skeletons from the outward facing windows any more. Since that was the case, he decided to gamble that he had enough time to cast one more spell.

Wary of his near disastrous slip last time, he took a little more time with his next spell. When the last sigil slipped into place and he completed it, a sigh of relief almost slipped from his lips. He stepped to the window so he could see his target and released the spell with a grim satisfaction.

Shivering Curse.

He targeted the men fending off his skeletons on the ground and saw the spell take effect before he leaned back from the opening lest he be seen.

On the ground, the bandits felt as if the air itself had dramatically cooled around them before it drove into their limbs, hardening the blood in their veins. Their movements were stiff, joints became locked and their breath froze in their lungs. Faced with the silent, implacable advance of the dead in front of them, it was the last straw for more than one.

With a despairing wail, first one, then another at the rear of the fighting turned and began to run. The men left in the thick of it cried out in rage and fear, but it was too late for them. Some of them wanted to flee as well, but were too slow, cut down by the merciless bone warriors before them. In a matter of moments, the skeletons had gained access to the courtyard, slicing down the last remaining defenders.

All that remained were the bandits on the roof, and by the sounds of things, they were in the process of running for their lives, one even throwing himself from the building.

Tyron did as all proud Necromancers should: he found an empty room and hid in a corner as he mentally directed the skeletons through the remaining buildings and onto the roofs. Only when he was totally satisfied that no bandits remained did he emerge and inspect the damage.

He'd lost two minions in the fight, their skulls cracked open and the light in their eyes extinguished. It was a loss, but not one he couldn't absorb. In return, he had six fresh bandits to work with, the rest having fled. There was a distinct possibility that they would regroup and return, it sounded like some of them had already left, along with the leader, Monty. With any luck, they wouldn't return today, and by tomorrow he could have more than made up for his losses.

Still, the entire thing left a sour taste in the young man's mouth.

In future, he may well forgo any attempt at concealing his nature and just advance on them with his minions in tow. It wasn't worth the risk and things were getting more lawless, not less, as time passed in the plains.

"Blood and bone," he cursed.

With no obvious foes left nearby, he sent four skeletons to fetch the cart and brought the remaining four with him to tour the buildings. Several doors were locked, especially upstairs, and it took him a while to locate any keys. Davon had them, as it turned out; the first person he'd met here was now lying dead in the dirt, an ugly wound in his back and clean out his chest where he'd been run through. Tyron bent down and retrieved the sword with a certain grim satisfaction.

When he got the doors open and saw what was inside, Tyron no longer felt guilty. He found the women and children.

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