Book of The Dead

There was no need to fight fair, not against opponents like these. Tyron stepped through the darkness with care, directing his minions forward, surrounding the prey.

It was almost unfair. In his eyes the bandits were torches in the dark, he knew where each and every one of them was. This close, he could tell when they stretched or reached behind to scratch their backsides.

The first fell quietly and quickly. Weary and wanting to sleep, a figure stepped out behind a house to take a piss against a tree. Silent as death, three of the skeletons stalked him in the night, walking up behind and ramming their blades through his back.

He didn’t get a chance to scream.

One down.

How nice would it be if they all obliged him in this way, but there was no chance of that. Inside the buildings, they sat or lay, unsuspecting, and he would have to go in and get them.

The ghosts drifted through the village as Tyron gathered them to him, the air growing noticeably cooler as they approached. There was still some low hanging fruit he could pick before the villagers would be alerted to his presence. Best to make life as easy as possible.

Skeletons moved through the village in groups of five or six, their blades wreathed in Death magick. He had them surround several buildings, but he brought another group with him behind the village’s small tavern.

There was a small stable there, and in the stalls, another two bandits were curled on the hay. After a moment of hesitation, Tyron tilted his head to one side and sent his six ghosts forward.

As far as he knew, they were useless in battle, not really able to touch or grasp anything mundane, but a thought stuck in his head. Whenever he brushed against them, they elicited a painful cold.

What would happen if they were to move inside another person?

Eyes on the two stalls, he ordered his minions forward. The spirits drifted, malevolence rolling off them in waves as they approached the closed wooden gates and phased directly through. The figures stirred as they felt the unnatural chill, but he didn’t give them time to react, directing the spirits to move directly within the two men, three ghosts each.

The moment the bandits felt the ice freeze their blood, they sat up with startled exclamations that died in their throats. Like vultures, the undead descended on them, pressing themselves into bandit flesh and each other.

Tyron felt his magick reserves drop precipitously. Apparently, it was not as easy for the spirits to move inside a living creature as it was for them to pass through a wooden wall. The results were worth the expense, in the end.

A faint gurgling and scratching could be heard from where he stood as the two men thrashed and tried to cry out, but were unable to make a sound. The ghosts took cruel pleasure in bringing suffering to the living; he could feel it through the link, the satisfaction they felt in freezing those men to death.

It took them several minutes to finally pass away. He suspected, but couldn’t know for sure, that it could have been over quicker than that, but the spirits had taken it upon themselves to extend the suffering of their victims.

Sick bastards.

He wondered if all spirits would be this twisted, or if the bandits he had killed and “recruited” were particularly vengeful against their still living comrades.

Another two down.

It was good to know his new minions weren’t totally useless in a fight, even if the cost was far too high. Though he wouldn’t wish such a death on anyone, he’d prefer to put down as many targets in silence as he could, but it wouldn’t be economical. This would eventually boil down to a fight, and he would need magick to support his troops.

Still, he kept the spirits close, he could use them in a pinch.

Sensing no more easy prey, there was little for Tyron to do but approach one of the houses, and knock on the door.

“Who the fuck is that?” a voice called jovially from inside.

Probably thinks I’m a neighbour.

“Just calling in,” Tyron said.

The door was pulled open to reveal a bleary-eyed farmer staring out into the night. Dim light from the fire spilled through the entrance, but Tyron hardly needed it to find what he was after. There were three of them inside.

Before the villager could react, Tyron dove forward, shouldering the door open and pushing the man back. With a short mental command, the six skeletons rushed into the small house, eyes aglow.

The moment he saw the undead storming into the house, the farmer stumbled back until his shoulders hit the wall, his face pale with fear.

“I’m not here for you,” Tyron said to him, but he wasn’t sure he was heard.

The bandits had barely rolled out of their blankets before the skeletons were on them, stabbing viciously. The men cried out, one of them shouting “you!” when he saw Tyron in the room.

But there was no escape for them. Taken by surprise and unarmed, they went down quickly.

Once his targets were dead, he directed his minions to leave, holding the door open while they moved passed, holding the gaze of the terrified farmer as they did.

“I’m only here for them,” he said. “Don’t get in my way.”

With that, he shut the door and moved to the next building.

He got through two more houses before someone bothered to relay the alarm, another five bandits dead, then people began to pour from the houses. Half-dressed and clutching farming implements or crude weapons in their hands, the villagers stumbled out into the dark alongside the bandits. Calling and cursing, they tried to make sense of the situation, but it was the ‘guests’ amongst them who were first to realise what was happening.

“It’s him!”

“Kill that fucker!”

“Find the bastard!”

Chaos erupted between the houses as villagers screamed in terror at the sight of the walking dead amongst them while the bandits tried to group together to fight them. Amidst it all, Tyron hunted them, coordinating his minions to gang up on every target they could reach as they stepped outside.

Several figures broke and ran into the darkness, desperate to flee the danger. Tyron’s head swivelled rapidly as he tried to track the bandits in the dark, his hands raised ready to cast, bone armour wrapped around his forearms. Before the situation could devolve further, someone stepped up to take control before Tyron killed too many.

“Necromancer!” Monty bellowed. “Foul magick! He’ll kill all of ye if ye let him! To arms! To arms!”

Despite predicting this would happen, Tyron still found it difficult to comprehend the gall of the man. He wasn’t skilled enough with words to even attempt to talk the crowd down, which was why he’d never tried to make the attempt. All he needed to do was keep the villagers out of his way as long as he could.

Another bandit went down, several blades buried his back as people screamed in fear.

“Monty you piece of shit!” Tyron bellowed. “Did you really think you could hide where I wouldn’t find you? Your bones belong to me, yours and every idiot you dragged down with you!”

“To arms!” Monty bellowed. “Fight fer yer life!”

Small fights broke out as the bandits began to organise themselves, battling back against the undead. Some tried to find torches to light, but it took time, time in which the skeletons had a powerful advantage. The eyes of the dead didn’t care for light or dark, they saw as well in the night as they did in the day.

A chaotic situation, one that he had prepared for, but was overwhelming nevertheless. In his mind, he directed his minions as best as he could, grouping them against their foes so they always held the numbers advantage. Several villagers had responded to Monty’s call, rushing to fight against him with whatever they had to hand. It was recklessly brave and complicated the battle massively, as he had to take care not to hurt them.

“Come on, Monty!” Tyron called, mocking. “I can see you, hiding in the back. Why don’t you step forward for once? I’m sure your men are sick of dying for you by now!”

The chubby bandit leader continued to rush around on the backline, urging others to put themselves in harm's way rather than step forward himself. An expected show of cowardice, and a frustrating one. If he could silence that voice, this would be over so much faster.

As more torches began to be lit, Tyron made sure to slip into the shadows. The longer it took them to find him, the better off he would be. Directing the battle from the backlines was the correct move for a Necromancer, though he could appreciate the irony of baiting Monty for doing the same.

“Protect your children! Protect your wives!” Monty roared as he rallied more into the fight. “There’ll be none left alive if he wins!”

By now, any villagers who hadn’t run screaming into the night were scrambling to arm themselves, he needed to push hard. At his direction, the six ghosts drifted forward, homing in on six bandits engaged in a shoving match with his frontline of skeletons.

Despite his best efforts, the skeletons were not nearly as strong as he’d like, and even the farmers were able to match them in this respect. By locking up the undead’s blades with their own shovels, picks and implements, they could lean on them and allow their fellows to hack at the vulnerable bones.

Only by outnumbering the opponent could the skeletons protect themselves from this tactic, but with more villagers joining the fight, the numbers were turning against him.

Near-invisible and dripping with malice, the spirits drifted between the skeletons and plunged into their targets, causing the men to scream and gurgle as the cold penetrated their flesh and went straight into their bones. An opening that Tyron capitalised on immediately. Skulls grinning, the skeletons took their freed blades and rammed them straight through the chest of their opponents. Straight through the ghosts at the same time.

Another six down.

The skeletons pressed forward and Tyron felt the bandits and their allies start to waver. It was time to make his move. He ran his hands over the modified bone-armour that covered him, as if to reassure himself, before he strode forward, flanked by two skeletons he had held in reserve.

He spun magick almost absent-mindedly, creating a bolt that he held ready in his right hand, his eyes locked on one figure that blazed in his mind.

Not getting away this time, you fucker.

As he stepped into the light, he could see fear ignite in the villagers’ eyes. He could imagine how he looked, unkempt, covered in bones that bound themselves to his body like barbaric armour. The bandits weren’t much better. He had killed so many of them already and now here he was, ready to do it again.

“I’m here for the outsiders! Villagers can leave and be spared!” he yelled again, hoping some would listen and make a break for it.

In the thick of the fighting, it was unlikely any could hear him, but it was worth a shot. His face settled in grim lines as he once again ordered the spirits forward.

He’d wanted to preserve his magick, but he couldn’t allow this to go on.

The ghosts responded, dripping with malice as they wrought devastation on their former allies. Seeing an opening, Tyron launched the bolt from his open palm, catching a bandit in the thigh. The man collapsed, crying out in pain as he clutched at the wound. A skeleton put him out of his misery.

That figure blazing in his mind was hesitating now, he could see it, but he wouldn’t allow him to go. He ripped his sword free from its scabbard and charged, slashing at the bandits in his way.

“You monster!”

A village man, no older than twenty, rushed him from the side, a woodcutter axe raised high in both hands. With a swift command, a skeleton stepped in front of the man, taking his charge and knocking him back.

“Run,” Tyron barked at him.

Fear and rage twisted the face of the young man into something inhuman as he battled against two instincts. Fight or flee? The Necromancer took that choice away.

A skeletal foot planted itself on the villager’s chest, a blade was placed at his throat. It would tie up a minion, but he could afford to pay that price.

Monty had seen enough. As others still fought the clearly losing battle in the night, he turned and broke into a run.

Not likely.

Casting one handed, Tyron summoned a bolt to his left and dashed after him. Without the benefit of whatever the Abyss had done to him, the bandit leader would likely have succeeded in escaping. After taking ten steps from the nearest torch, the scenery vanished into darkness, but that wasn’t enough to hide from Tyron, not for someone marked for death.

He sprinted after him, his eyes locked on that form he could feel running ahead. A palm thrust forward, a pulse of magick shot out into the night.

“Fuck!” the bandit cried.

Then Tyron was on him, sword right into the cursing man’s back.

“Hey there, Monty,” he grinned. “Nice of you to stick around.”

“Yer fuckin’ crazy,” the man said, “yer a twisted bastard.”

“Bit rich coming from you, a murderous, raping piece of shit.”

He reached forward and grabbed a fistful of hair.

“Get up. You’ll be coming with me for a moment.”

“Kill me, ye gutless worm.”

“Oh no. Don’t you worry, someone else is going to decide your fate, not me.”

With his sword pressed into Monty’s back and maintaining his grip on the bandit’s hair, he marched the stumbling, cursing and threatening bandit back to the village.

The fighting was over. Several bandits and all of the villagers had fled, running out into the cold and dark. He hoped they would be alright out there. Likely they would stay away until morning before returning to see if he was gone, or try to make it to a neighbouring settlement. Either way, Tyron wanted to be gone before they returned.

Although there was still that one man, pressed to the ground by an undead foot. Tyron would have to deal with him later. He issued mental commands and saw his minions get to work, gathering bodies, laying them out, preparing the ground for the business to come. More than twenty corpses to be processed, far too many to let them go to waste.

“By the five. Yer a monster.”

Monty sounded terrified as he saw the undead moving in the flickering light. Tyron chuckled.

“Monty, you have no idea what a monster is. But you’re going to find out.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

“I was surprised to hear you call me,” Yor said, “things seemed to go well enough without my help.”

“They did. I wanted to give you a… gift, of sorts,” Tyron replied.

The vampire eyed the quivering bandit, her eyes flashing red as she looked him up and down.

“You wish to make an offering of this… creature?”

There was something formal about the way she said it that caused Tyron to hesitate, then choose his words carefully.

“I… felt that you had a particular dislike for… these men. In particular, for the one who led them. I thought you might like to…” he searched for the right word, “... determine his fate?”

“What the fuck?” Monty whispered as he stared ahead at the woman before him.

A smile flickered across Yor’s face, gone as quickly as it appeared.

“You know that this would have no bearing on any debt you owe the Court? This is a separate exchange between the two of us?”

Tyron nodded.

“Not even an exchange, a gift freely given.”

“Then release him, and step back.”

The Necromancer did as she asked, releasing Monty and taking several quick, long strides backward. The bandit stumbled forward, unbalanced by the sudden lack of pressure, but before he could take another step, Yor was there.

She flashed before him, arms snaking forward and snatching him up, twisting the bandit so she held him from behind, her chin resting against the pale flesh of his neck.

She smiled.

“There are two ways I can do this,” Yor breathed as she ran a tender hand down the side of her captive’s neck. “I can give you pleasure beyond your mortal imagination. An indescribable sensation running through every inch of your body.” She smiled and tightened her grip on the bandit leader. “One taste and you will be addicted. You’ll beg me to drain you each and every night, throwing yourself at my feet like a dog. Eventually, that is what you will become, an animal, crawling on all fours, desperate for any glance I would spare you.”

The vampire’s voice had lowered, becoming husky as her breath quickened. Her lips parted and she ran her tongue down the side of Monty’s neck, tracing the artery that pounded with his lifeblood.

“Or I can make it agony,” Yor whispered into his ear. “Pain like you cannot conceive, as I tear the soul from your body. I’ll drink every drop of blood you have in you, then drink your spirit. You’ll feel it, as you settle into my stomach and I consume everything that you are, have been and will be.”

She slid her grip on the bandit until she held him by the shoulder with her left hand and a fistful of hair in the right. Her hands tightened, nails digging into flesh, causing red blood to flow. Monty whimpered.

The eyes of the vampire blazed with beastly glee, her face twisted into a feral visage, all trace of humanity gone.

“Which fate do you desire?” she sighed. “Choose quickly, I have little patience left.”

If he took longer than a few seconds, Tyron suspected she would simply tear into him. The need for blood radiated from her in a scarlet aura he could see with his bare eyes.

“Tha first one,” Monty begged, “please. ‘Av mercy on me. Tha first one.”

Yor listened to his pleas with hooded eyes. She pulled him towards her.

“No,” she said.

Her mouth opened wide, giving Tyron a clear view of the four elongated fangs, before she bit down, sinking her teeth deep into the bandit.

Monty screamed. He wailed as if every part of his body were afire. It was terrible to hear, the despair and fear and agony so total as to be all-encompassing. Tyron wished he could close his ears, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t even look away.

Yor’s eyes locked on his and he watched them blaze with obscene elation as she fed.

It lasted far too long, the scream ongoing until the last moment. The corpse of Monty, the would-be bandit king, fell to the ground, drained of blood, and even more than that. His skin was already turning grey, as if all that had been vital within him was gone.

Yor stood over the body, breathing heavily, blood running down her chin, trickling off her fingertips. She brought a hand to her face and licked the blood from each digit, and sighed.

Then the monster was gone. She flicked her fingers and the blood flew from her body to spatter on the ground. Once more she stood tall, calm and flawless, a sly smile on her lips.

“Your gift is most welcome,” she said. “Now you must quickly prepare. We cannot linger long.”

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