Book of The Dead

He’d miscalculated, he realised almost immediately. He shouldn’t have looked down on the Mage so much. He should have feared the swordswoman, his natural enemy, so much more.

As the defender breathed his last, the mage, shaken and white-faced, unleashed a blast of magick, not to save himself from the surrounding skeletons, but at those attacking his ally. A raw magick spell, unrefined and inefficient, it didn’t damage the undead who had cornered the swordswoman, but it did knock them back.

By the time he saw what had happened, the slayer was already moving. Forcing the muscles in her legs to move, she threw herself up the slope in a mad scramble, catching herself on her free hand every time she stumbled. Even hampered as she was, her ascent was rapid.

Not this again… Tyron thought, the memory of pain flaring in his side.

Precious few skeletons remained by his side at this moment, and he desperately summoned his best revenant back to defend him. The undead flashed up the mountain, its bony legs unburdened by great weight, guided by the Skills of the slayer it had been in life.

Not fast enough.

Tyron was dimly aware of the mage succumbing to the skeletons that surrounded him, stabbed a dozen times over, but all his focus was on the sword in the hand of the slayer rushing toward him.

Should he draw his own weapon? In the current conditions, crossing blades with an actual Awakened weapon handler seemed foolish at best, so he thrust the idea away and tried to conjure two magick bolts. The Shivering Curse bought him just enough time to complete the cast, but at that moment, the swordswoman slashed out, forcing his hands up.

Before he could mentally adjust and release the spells, the sword snapped back before it snaked toward his heart.

In a split second that froze him with terror, Tyron believed he was dead, before he jerked roughly to the side. Even that wouldn’t have been enough if not for the bone armour that covered his chest. Flattened out, the gaps between the ribs had been narrowed, and by some miracle, the sword failed to find the narrow opening. Instead, the ice cold steel deflected before it crunched through the bone and into his flesh.

Searing pain flashed through Tyron and he hissed through clenched teeth. His left arm hung loose but his right responded and he brought it around to unleash a blast of magick directly in the slayer’s face.

Three things happened at once. The bolt took the slayer in the side of the head as she pulled away, twisting the sword in his shoulder as she did so. As the weapon pulled free, Tyron felt a maddening itch around the wound as something infused the area.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t enough to prevent him roaring in pain as he fell to his knees, good arm clutching at the bleeding hole in him.

“Ahhhh, fuck,” he panted.

Drain Life had healed him, he realised. Not much, but a little of the damage he’d caused had come back to him as healing.

“You alright, kid? I can’t see from down here.”

“Not really, I got stabbed.”

“Again? You’re starting to make a habit of it. If you begin feeling like you enjoy it, then you have a problem. Don’t let this awaken something in you.”

“Shut up, Dove,” Tyron ground out. “I’m in serious pain here.”

“Some people love that shit, that’s all I’m saying.”

The slayer still lay where she had fallen, with half a dozen sword tips pressed against her. The bolt to the head had stunned her, and she groaned woozily as Tyron forced himself to his feet, hand pressed into his wound to slow the bleeding.

Don’t think about it. Just do it and move on. Don’t you dare think, not for a second. I’m not going to die here.

With a grimace, he pulled his hand away and began to form a new bolt. Despite his fingers being dyed red with his own blood, he performed the motions flawlessly, firing the bolt into the listless slayer on the ground. The magick impacted with a solid crack, loud enough to make him wince, and another trickle of healing seeped into his injury.

Another bolt, another small burst of healing. The fourth yielded him nothing. She was dead.

Don’t think about it.

He repeated the words like a mantra in his head as he turned and began to walk up the slope once more. If he could find some rift kin, it may be actually worth fighting them to help close his wound.

Hand shaking, he raised it to the puncture and checked. Blood still flowed from it, but not nearly as aggressively. He could take his pack off and pull out a cloth to bind it, but once he’d taken it off, would he be able to get it back on again? He compromised by clumsily slicing a corner off his cloak and jamming it through the gaps in his bone armour to help stem the flow.

Once again, he was forced to rely on his unnatural toughness to survive. Wounds that would have crippled an unawakened could be shrugged off, but that didn’t mean it was pleasant. Was it possible for him to shrug off a gaping hole in his shoulder? Unlikely. He’d need more healing if he could get it.

Almost longingly, he glanced up the mountain to see if any rift-kin were stumbling downhill in his direction, but there were none. If he could blast a few with spells, he felt sure they’d provide that little jolt of energy he needed. Although, that called another thing into question. How much magick did he have left?

“Damnit,” he groaned involuntarily.

“What now?”

“Running low on magick. Moving my minions around this much is sapping me constantly.”

“You could stand your ground and fight. How many more are there?”

“At least five.”

“Well… shit.”

“Right.”

“Don’t let them take me, kid.”

“I won’t.”

If they continued to come for him in small groups, he could pick them off, but if he stayed put, there was a chance they’d surround him and fight together.

In one scenario, he was disadvantaged, in the other, he was certainly dead. He continued to climb.

After another hundred metres of arduous steps, each sending pain shooting through his torso, he did run into a small pack of kin. For once, he was glad to see the tough little boar monsters and flung a few bolts at them, feeling that slight trickle of healing each time. Of course, the beasts rushed at his skeletons the moment he hit the first one, so there weren’t many opportunities to land clean spells. Three was all he could manage before the undead finished them off. When he pulled the cloth from behind his bone plating, it was soaked in red and dripping, but it did feel as though the bleeding may have stopped.

He let the cloth fall to the frost covered ground and tried to flex his left hand. Thankfully, some feeling was returning and his fingers responded, curling into a fist, though he was careful not to force too hard.

It’s fine, he told himself, you’re fine. Keep going.

In reality, his legs felt as heavy as lead, and the warm blood that had leaked from his wound and soaked into his shirt was rapidly freezing, chilling him to the bone. He pushed it from his mind. He would endure worse before the day was done.

One leg in front of the other, he pushed himself forward, surrounded by the remaining undead he commanded. Silent and uncomplaining, they responded to his will and remained in lockstep by his side. Despite their mindless obedience, he found their presence a comfort. A thought crossed his mind and he gave a pained chuckle.

“Something funny? I could use a laugh,” Dove said.

“Just thought of what I was told when I Awakened.”

“Oh?”

“The voice said I had a desire to control everyone around me. I was just thinking how nice it is to have these undead with me, and it reminded me of that moment. I didn’t think it really applied to me at the time, but perhaps I was wrong.”

Dove contemplated his words before replying.

“Kid, the voice is full of shit. Don’t pay any attention to it.”

“You know who it is?” Tyron panted as he pushed hard to step up a large stone.

“No, of course not, but I know it’s full of bollocks. Slayers love to talk about what they heard in the Awakening, and most of it is just bullshit. I’ve heard all sorts of rubbish about virtuous sons and daughters, or wise sages or gallant bulwarks, and all of them were thugs, morons and cowards. The voice is just spitting nonsense. I don’t think it knows anything about us.”

“What did it say to you?”

Tyron winced as he continued to climb in silence, waiting for his friend to reply.

“It told me I was a good teacher.”

“Well… I can -”

“Shut up.”

“Fair enough.”

This ascent was so much worse than the last, but at least he hadn’t had to deal with as many kin on the way up. Leading the last surge into Rufus and Laurel had bought him a huge amount of time, and he used it to get as close to the rift as he could.

Of course, moving at the slow pace he was, it was inevitable that someone would catch up.

“This is the prick? Thought he’d be bigger….”

The voice was older, rough, and the moment he heard it, Tyron feared a real slayer had come for him. He turned slowly to see a short, squat man with a stained cloak looking up at him.

“Two hundred sovereigns for your head, Tyron Steelarm. Good price for a mewling twat fresh off the apron strings, wouldn’t you say?”

Tyron raised his right hand, ready to cast, but to his surprise, the man took a step back and raised his own palms out.

“Whoa there. I’m just the nanny, here to supervise. The academies want the students to put you down before mommy and daddy find you, since you went and killed one of their own. You’ve no need to fear old Brun.”

The Necromancer relaxed a touch before Dove spoke up.

“Don’t fall for this rubbish, kid. He’ll take his shot after all the students are dead. Right? You walking talking pile of pig shit?”

“That skull talks too much. In any case, I’ve got a few students to point in your direction. Don’t mind me.”

The man chuckled before he slid behind a tree and vanished from Tyron’s sight. Some Skill or ability, not one that he recognised.

“Well that’s perfect,” he groaned.

“Forget that fat fuck. Keep moving, the others will be on us soon.”

Much too soon, as it turned out. An arrow streaked through the air, almost soundless, passed not two feet in front of Tyron's face before it slammed into a tree trunk. Buried two inches deep, the arrow vibrated with a deep hum that ached the mages teeth.

“Shit!”

He dove to the ground and his skeletons stepped up, shields at the ready a moment before another two projectiles streaked through the air where he’d been standing. Shoulder throbbing, Tyron forced himself up off the ground. If he didn’t break their line of sight, his undead would be shot to bits until they ran out of arrows or he ran out of minions.

Though he tried to spy the archers through the trees, he saw nothing. An ambush, then.

Though, if he had to guess, this was likely Laurel and the other archer at work, the one he’d captured in the past. Which meant Rufus would be with them. If he knew that idiot at all, he’d show himself before long. That would be the moment to strike.

“Come on,” Tyron urged himself. “Just a little further. Then we can finish it.”

At least his ghosts weren’t lagging behind, a minor benefit to his slow pace. With a thought, he spread them throughout the trees, hunting for the archers who continued to let fly with their bows, trying to snipe him or pick off his minions.

Soon, they’d have to confront him. He was getting too close to the rift. If he slipped through, there was no way a group of trainees would follow. He’d force them out into the open, then he would kill them.

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