Book of The Dead

When night fell that evening, Tyron found himself in increasingly familiar surroundings.

“Is it really inevitable that Necromancers end up in graveyards all the time?” he sighed.

Dove was not impressed with his melancholy.

“Are you damaged in the head? You fucking moron. Of course a Necromancer is going to be frequenting graveyards. That’s where all the bones and dead bodies are!”

“I get that! It’s just… a little bleak.” He gestured to the cemetery, a worn and secluded area fenced off with a low stone wall. The gravestones were well made, created by experienced stone workers in the village, but the frequent rain and damp conditions eroded everything in time.

The people of Cragwhistle had put generations to rest here, making the cemetery significantly larger than he’d expected. It’s possible the village had been larger in the past, to need so many graves, but Ortan, who had accompanied him, wasn’t too keen to engage in conversation.

After marking the graves Tyron had been given permission to disturb, the villager had walked a hundred metres away, folded his arms and watched with a scarcely concealed look of disgust on his face. Which seemed a little harsh, there wasn’t even any butchery going on!

Tyron had his skeletons bring the cart around and then set his minions to work. With his reserve of trusty shovels, the skeletons were diligent workers, shovelling away without complaint. It was a finicky task to direct them when it came to laying out the remains, but Tyron had been getting used to it and the task progressed at a good pace.

You really can get used to anything, he mused, even directing undead to dig up graves. Not exactly the glamorous life of Magick that I’d envisioned.

In truth, he’d mainly seen himself locked in a tower studying books, occasionally emerging to hurl massive fireballs at things. He’d have access to powerful spells, his Slayer licence and resources to further his craft, which qualified as a glamorous life in his book.

Instead, he flipped through the pages of his notes between taking stock of his inventory. He’d improved rapidly in his control and understanding of the Necromancer’s art since his Awakening, but there were many holes in his grasp of the theory. There just hadn’t been enough time for him to test everything that needed to be tested. As a result, there were some things he grasped far better than others, which made his knowledge a bit lopsided.

Another frustrating realisation, was that he had begun to run out of low hanging fruit. Quick and easy ways to better his minions, improve the Raise Dead ritual, or gain quick levels had basically run dry.

If not for his breakthrough learning to create revenants, he would be in a far worse position.

Still, it wasn’t all doom and gloom. He ran through his notes once again, tallying the items he most needed to focus on.

First, there was the matter of Death Magick and the saturation process. The Necromancer knew this was important, but couldn’t quite figure out how. Further investigation was required.

Second was optimising the balance of his undead. How many ghosts did he need? How many revenants? How many archers? Equipping the skeletons had also begun to be an issue. He’d stolen weapons whenever and wherever he could, but with almost fifty skeletons, he needed a small fortune's worth of arms. His weakest and most damaged skeletons were swinging farming hoes at this point.

Third, he needed to spend time bettering his understanding of ghosts. They were his second form of undead, after skeletons, and he knew basically nothing about them. There were a few lines of inquiry he’d thought of, but as yet hadn’t had an opportunity to investigate.

Fourth… fifth… sixth… the list went on and on, but at least he had something he could focus on.

There was another task, one he’d desperately been avoiding. An inventory of the cart was desperately needed at this point. His supply of hessian bags that he’d secured from the ladies at the farm he’d saved was running thin and bones were starting to pile up all over the place.

With a sigh, he pushed himself to his feet, carefully stepping through the mess until he reached the first bag.

“What are you so miserable about now?” Dove demanded, exasperated.

“Going to clean the cart and take an inventory. I honestly don’t remember what we even have in here.”

“Oh shit. Fuck that, I’m out.”

The light glowing within the hollow eyes of the skull immediately faded as Dove retreated into ‘sleep’.

“Prick,” Tyron cursed, though there wasn’t much energy behind it. He’d avoid the job himself if he could.

His experience as the bookkeeper at his uncle’s tavern hadn’t quite prepared him for the mind numbing process of counting bones. Did he have to know exactly how many finger bones he had? No. Would he count them anyway? Yes. Once he started, his brain wouldn’t let him stop until he had a precise count.

Hours of fun for the entire family.

Against his will, thoughts of Magnin and Beory bubbled up in his mind and he pushed them away before they could sting him. His parents would be fine, they always were. Better to worry about himself.

Loosening the knot on the bag, he reached inside, bending down to grab the contents at the bottom.

THUNK!

Before the sound properly registered, Tyron was already moving, throwing himself forward and burrowing into the bags. It wasn’t lost on him that his first instinct was to seek the protection of human remains.

As he rolled, he saw the arrow lodged deep into the wood of the cart bed. If he hadn’t shifted his position, that might have been the end of him….

Slayers.

Only someone with Archery skills and feats could be that accurate from long range. His ghosts hadn’t seen anything within a hundred metres of his current position. From that distance, in the dark?

Please let there be only one, he prayed, though to whom he wasn’t sure.

THUNK! THUNK! THUNK!

Three more arrows slammed into the cart, narrowly missing as Tyron scrambled to organise his forces.

Should have been wearing bone armour, you idiot, he cursed himself.

No time for regret. Huddled amongst the bones, he directed his minions to secure the perimeter and they acted swiftly to enact his will. Shovels were thrown down and the collection process abandoned as his skeletal warriors seized their weapons and began to hunt for his attackers. Undead carrying shields gathered around the cart, creating a wall that Tyron threw himself behind the moment it was complete.

His archers let fly into the darkness. Bone arrows whistled through the cool night air and shattered against stone outcroppings. He didn’t expect them to hit, but hopefully, they would provide a distraction.

Surrounded by his minions in a proper defensive formation, he began to feel a little more confident. His magick hadn’t fully recharged yet, but he had enough in reserve to put up a fight, at least.

His position secure, the skeletons began to fan out, three revenants in the lead. Ghosts drifted through the darkness, billowing cold and filled with hatred of the living, they hunted for any target through which they could vent their wrath.

Tyron waited, unease warring with confidence as his undead continued to hunt for the attackers, but finding nothing.

They can’t have just vanished. Either they can hide too well for my minions to find them, or they retreated when their sneak attack failed.

A very different threat than the Swordsman he’d faced before, a Ranger was deadly in an entirely different way. Hidden in the shadows, with the ability to strike from range, a Ranger was, somewhat ironically, a much better matchup for him.

Now that he knew they were out there, the element of surprise would be so much harder to grasp. Skeletons and ghosts may not have the best eyesight, but having to sneak past dozens of them would test anyone. As long as he kept his minions spread out around himself, he would be that much harder to approach.

And since a Ranger was much weaker in direct hand to hand combat, his skeletons would be a threat if they managed to gang up on the opponent. So long as this Slayer wasn’t significantly stronger than the last, he was confident he would win.

As long as they’re by themself. Otherwise, I may have a dozen Slayers after me very shortly.

In which case, he was already dead. A team of Slayers would rip through his minions and take his head in less than a minute.

Am I… actually fucked right now?

No, there had to be something he could do. He suppressed the despair that threatened to overwhelm him and forced himself to think. Protected by his minions, he was safe for the time being. He took a deep breath and calmed himself.

There should only be one attacker. If there were more archers, I’d have been buried in arrows before I could blink. If there were a full team here, they’d have shown themselves already.

That makes for two possibilities, a lone hunter who took a shot of opportunity and has retreated now that surprise has been lost, or a scout who took a chance to finish me off and is returning to bring the rest of the group.

If the first were true, then he would be fine if he proceeded carefully. If the second were true….

Overhead, the Barrier mountains loomed like an impenetrable wall. His only option to escape a group of Slayers would be to retreat to a place they wouldn’t want to go.

“You could try to rely on your allies a little more,” a voice spoke from behind him.

Tyron turned to see Yor looking unusually pleased with herself, leaning against a dusty gravestone. That was different, she normally avoided touching anything even remotely dirty.

“You seem happy,” Tyron said, trying to match her casual tone and watch for incoming arrows at the same time. “Something to celebrate?”

The Vampire smiled.

“I partook of a delicious meal.”

She sighed, her eyes slightly unfocused, as if she were drunk.

“You didn’t kill anyone did you?” Tyron spluttered.

He’d only just arrived at this village and saved them from attack. If a random, innocent person had died because he’d stuck around….

“I don’t have to kill,” Yor chided him, her eyes snapping back to their normal sharpness.

“That’s not an answer to the question, Yor.”

“No, I did not kill anyone,” she enunciated clearly. “Though… I could, if you asked me too. You seem to have a Slayer problem that needs to be solved.”

Always when I’m at my weakest.

“And I suppose there would be a price for such aid?”

Her eyes gleamed red.

“Of course. It would cost you very dearly.”

He didn’t even need to ask what it was.

“Then I must decline,” he said shortly, turning back to his minions.

“I can tell you a little something for free then,” she said, “though perhaps you could consider it a little favour. That archer is working alone. You don’t have to worry about more Slayers coming for you. At least not yet.”

“Not yet?” Tyron asked, confused.

Yor just smiled once more, a predatory cast to her features.

“I will say no more.”

Figures. She gave me valuable information anyway.

“I’ll repay this debt,” he said, forcing himself to speak evenly.

“Of course you will.”

I never had a choice. They’ll get the price out of me one way or another.

Thoughts of Vampires and their machinations could wait until later. Yor wouldn’t lie to him, which meant he had a small window of opportunity.

Beside him, his only slayer revenant burned with magickal fire.

“Looks like you’re about to make a friend.”

My archers needed a leader.

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