Book of The Dead

The heavy mace knocked Tyron aside as his arm bent into his body and absorbed the force of the blow. Once he had his balance back, he tried to execute a counter-slash as he commanded his minions to support him.

The armoured slayer had the time to look offended by Tyron’s sloppy technique before he batted the sword aside with his shield and bulled forward, shoulder lowered. He crashed into the Necromancer's chest as two bone arrows shattered against the protective magick that covered him and Tyron fell down the slope, the air rushing out of his lungs.

Fuck, that hurt!

Luckily, his bone-armour protected him from the worst of the fall, but the impact still jolted him. A spike of pain from his chest caused him to wince and Tyron wondered if he’d broken a rib. No time to worry about it, he levered himself back to his feet and adjusted his grip on the sword. Thankfully, his minions had managed to cover him, preventing the slayer from taking advantage while he was on the ground. His archers continued to pelt him with arrows, but the combination of full-body leather armour and the force magick covering him meant the projectiles were barely noticeable.

Thankfully, the spears and swords of his skeletons were more threatening, but not so much that they could hurt him seriously.

“You’ve got to find the mage and kill the fucker!” Dove shouted from his belt. “He’s maintaining that force-armour from somewhere nearby. Get him!”

Like it’s that easy.

Of course, the mage would be easier to kill than this slayer, but Tyron had to defend himself against this human wrecking ball while searching. With a flick of his Will, he sent his ghosts drifting through the trees, looking for the target as he focused his attention on the armoured slayer. With his sword gripped in his right hand, Tyron pulled a magick bolt together in his left. With a blunt, cracking sound, a skull exploded as the mace connected, barely slowing down as it passed through the bone.

Tyron blasted the bolt forward with his left as he circled around the fight. His opponent saw the spell coming and caught it on his shield, but it was enough of a distraction that several blows fell on him from the surrounding skeletons. He could’ve pushed forward, trying to take advantage of the moment, but he was wary. There were archers out there, and Rufus. If he showed his back, he was likely to start sprouting arrows, or get run through. Instead, he took a few precious seconds to glance around the trees and rocks that surrounded him on the slope. That prick of a mage had to be somewhere around here….

To his surprise, one of the ghosts reported that it’d seen something. Although it was a risk, Tyron snapped his vision to that of the spectre for just a second, and despaired at what he saw.

He’d found the force mage, it was Brun. The dishevelled, unkempt slayer stood beside a curled tree trunk, hands aglow with power, a sly grin on his face.

This prick…. He must be double dipping. If this kid kills me, then he splits the bounty, if he fails, he can have another shot after I’m worn out.

That ruled out being able to kill him. At the very least, Brun was a bronze slayer, the same rank as Tyron himself. Force Mage may not even be his main class, but a supplementary one he picked to support from the backline. It was too much of a risk to rush over and engage him in combat; for now, he had to deal with the weaker targets.

Not that the armoured-slayer appeared that much weaker. He’d smashed another skeleton apart as Tyron had manoeuvred and used Minion Sight, his mace proving to be extremely effective against the undead fighters. With the force magick protecting him, he could leave himself open to strikes without worry, lashing out with ferocious force.

Whatever his Class was, it clearly focused on strength.

With a flex of his Will, Tyron deliberately opened a gap between himself and the slayer, which his opponent took at the first opportunity, rushing forward with preternatural speed, shield forward and mace raised to strike.

Working his magick as fast as he ever had, Tyron formed a magick bolt in his left hand, and loosened his grip slightly around the hilt of his blade to form another in his right palm. As the slayer charged, he blasted him with the spell from his left. Reacting immediately, the slayer shifted his shield and blocked with ease, which was the cue for Tyron to drop his sword and thrust his other hand forward.

Taken by surprise, his foe reacted well, but at such short range, he had almost no time, his weapon was already raised to strike. The bolt collected him right in the centre of his chest, halting his momentum and driving his armour back into his flesh.

How do you like it, bastard?

Before he could recover, Tyron snapped his hands and brought two more bolts into existence, thrusting his hands forward and releasing them at once. Despite being stunned, the slayer still managed to take one on his shield, but the other slammed into his shoulder, causing the force magick to flare as he spun and rolled down the hill.

At the same moment, exquisite pain flared in Tyron’s leg and he collapsed into the slope, grasping at his left calf. His questing fingers found themselves curled around the shaft of an arrow buried an inch into the meat of the muscle.

“Argh, fuck!” he cursed, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain.

“Come on Tyron, you have to get up.”

“I know that.”

The words were forced between clenched teeth, but in truth, he felt like sobbing. He was in more agony now than he’d ever endured in his life, and the fight was far from done.

He had to commit, there wasn’t time to hold back. As he rolled in the dirt, fumbling for his sword, he sent all of his revenants down the slope to deal with the armoured-slayer. He couldn’t fight him, and avoid the archers at the same time, the man had to die.

The three skeletons, magick blazing in the circle of their rib-cages, rushed down the mountain and pounced on the recovering slayer, hammering him with their weapons. Tyron’s hand closed around the hilt of his blade and hauled it over before he seized the shaft of the arrow with his free hand.

With one sharp, chopping motion, he severed the wooden shaft, sending a fresh wave of pain racing up his leg. He stifled a groan, hoping his shield skeletons were covering him well enough to prevent another arrow.

He reached out a hand to take hold of an undead and used it to pull himself to his feet, leaning on his own minion to keep his balance. Down the slope, he could see Rufus and Laurel beginning to make their way forward, but he ignored them for the moment, focusing his attention on the armoured slayer.

His archers continued to fire upon the man, the impacts causing the magick to flare and spark around him, dimmer and dimmer each time. If he could keep up the assault for a little longer…. He looked inward at his magick reserves and blanched. He was running so low.

Instead of unleashing Death’s Grasp, as he’d intended, he prepared another two magick bolts, letting his skeletons prop him up to free his hands.

He waited for a moment to strike as his three revenants continued to harry the slayer, lashing out, faster and stronger than his normal skeletons. They were also more expensive to maintain, those quick movements coming at the cost of greater magick demand. It wouldn’t be long until he ran out completely.

There!

An opportunity came. The slayer, tired of being beaten on, rushed to his right, knocking away the strike of a revenant with his shield and allowing his force magick to take the strikes of the others. With a wild bellow, he lashed out with his mace, crushing the revenant’s skull with one mighty blow.

At the same moment, the glow of magick around him flickered out, and Tyron thrust both his hands forward. Nearby, Brun cursed as a sensation of unfathomable cold attacked him from the inside, shocking him out of maintaining his spell. He could feel a malicious will coiling inside him as it sought to ravage his flesh, and he recognised it for what it was. He rolled to his right and leapt, putting some distance between himself and the spirit before he turned and blasted it with a spell. The ghost shrieked in pain before it slid into the tree, where he couldn’t harm it.

Two magick bolts slammed into the armoured slayer's chest, sending him reeling backwards. Tyron’s best revenant, the former swordsman, was too quick to miss an opportunity like that. The skeleton lunged forward, blade whispering through the air like the promise of death before it slid between ribs and cored the slayer's heart like an apple.

Another arrow snapped towards Tyron from the shadows and was caught on a shield, his minion shifting to block it at the last moment. That opened a path for the second, which flashed through the air and buried itself in his shoulder.

Tyron’s vision went black for a moment as the excruciating pain overwhelmed his consciousness for a brief moment. He forced himself to focus, driving the darkness away with his will.

He would not fall here.

“Fucking shit, kid. Stop getting shot!”

“I know.”

The bolts he’d hit the slayer with had helped heal him, but it was only a fraction of what he needed. Now he had a fresh injury on top of that, and he was struggling even to breathe.

Pull it out.

His silent command to a skeleton caused it to reach out and wrench the arrow from his shoulder. Tyron bit back a scream of pain as the arrowhead pulled free, tearing muscle as it went. This area was too open, and his skeletons were getting picked off. If he wasn’t careful, he wouldn’t have enough to cover him from archer fire at all, at which point, they could pick him off at their leisure. He needed to get higher up the mountain, the larger rock formations closer to the rift would cover him.

At least there weren’t many opponents left. There shouldn’t be. As far as he knew, there were only four. Laurel, the other archer, Rufus and Brun.

It was getting difficult to think through the agony and fatigue, but Tyron managed to regather his undead and begin to climb, or hop, up the mountain once more. His archer skeletons fired down on Laurel and Rufus whenever they could see them, trying to hamper their progress. The two approached cautiously, conscious that Tyron was injured, and worn out.

In truth, they were confused he hadn’t fallen over already. After the prolonged fighting, he should have lost all his magick long ago, and after being injured as much as he had, he should have collapsed, or died. Tyron’s unnaturally strong constitution was allowing him to endure far more punishment than a person should be able to, and he leaned on that to push himself forward.

In the distance, he could see the boundary of the broken lands approaching as the temperature continued to drop. The rift was close now, and the likelihood of him running into kin was getting higher. He had to be careful, but he was so damn tired. Every step he took was agony, and focusing through the pain sapped his willpower.

Part of him wanted to quit, to just fall over and let it all go, but the greater part refused to let that prick Rufus win. Even if Tyron died on this mountain, he was determined to take Rufus down with him.

The slayers were cautious, and kept their distance as Tyron continued his slow climb. At any moment, they expected him to fall, but to their shock, the huddled skeletons and the hunched figure in their midst continued to ascend, one step at a time.

“What do you think we do?” Rufus asked Laurel in a hushed tone. “Should we rush him? He’s getting close to that rift.”

Laurel bit her lip as she considered, her dark eyes watching Tyron with unblinking focus.

“He can’t have much left in him,” she said. “I say we wait until he gets up there and then we hit him from the flank. The only way things go wrong is if we get caught out by the rift-kin.”

“That’s probably his plan, the slippery prick,” Rufus eye’s glinted in anger, and Laurel resisted the urge to roll hers.

No matter what Tyron did, Rufus would accuse him of acting poorly, or unsportsmanlike, as if that mattered in a fight to the death. His anger at Tyron was so ingrained and warped, he was incapable of thinking straight where his old rival came into the picture.

“Focus,” she warned him. “He’s fighting for his life, so he’s capable of anything. If we’re cautious, we get the bounty without much risk. If we stuff around, he’ll kill us just like he did the others.”

Rufus glared at her for a moment before he nodded and Laurel let out a slow breath. She’d be damned if she was going to get caught like the others.

Further up the mountain, Tyron felt his leg give out and he slumped to the ground, panting.

“Whoa, what the fuck? What happened?”

“I can’t… can’t walk,” Tyron gasped.

The young mage’s breath rasped in his throat as he sucked in the air, trying to get some energy into his body. Desperate, he glanced around and saw a rocky outcrop to his left, slightly up the slope. With a groan, he ordered his skeletons to pick him up, gasping as they drained his magick precipitously low in the process, and they carried him the final ten metres. He had his minions place him down behind cover and he lay there, still gasping for breath.

Between the blood loss and the icy wind, he could barely feel his fingers anymore and he rubbed them together to try and get the sensation back. Without his hands, he was as good as dead. What use was a mage if they couldn’t cast magick?

“Kid…” Dove said.

With trembling hands, Tyron released the buckles that secured his pack and almost sagged with relief as he felt the weight go. He should have done that ages ago.

“Kid…” Dove repeated.

Tyron closed his eyes and nodded slowly.

“I know,” he said, as he fumbled behind him.

His shoulder ached something fierce as he took hold of the pack and pulled, dragging it around until he could reach in. He grabbed hold of his waterskin and took a long drink, the water shockingly refreshing as it soothed his raw throat.

“We had a hell of a run,” he chuckled as he wiped the water from his chin. He reached out and poured a trickle over the skull, letting it run down and drip over Dove’s features. “Sorry it’s not alcoholic.”

“You should be, teatotalling prick. I would have appreciated a final drink.”

Tyron leaned his head back on the rock. He didn’t have long. The moment he’d fallen, he knew they’d see that as a sign to attack. They’d only been waiting for him to falter.

“Thanks for everything, Dove,” he whispered. “You’ve been a true friend to me, even when I didn’t deserve it.”

He reached out and grasped the top of the skull with one hand, lifting him up to look Tyron eye to eye.

“Don’t get sappy on me, kid. You fucked me over with the resurrection thing, but I’ve had a front row seat to watch the greatest young magick wielder ply his trade. If I’d had your talent….”

Tyron forced a laugh.

“I know.”

He could hear them coming. Still cautious, their feet scraped against the icy stone as they approached. Couldn’t be more than twenty metres away now.

“Something I never said to you,” Tyron spoke softly, “you’ve got big balls, Dove. Biggest fucking balls I’ve ever seen.”

“Aww, Tyron. You’re going to make me blush.”

For a silent moment, Tyron stared into the glowing eyes of the Skull. It was time.

“See you on the other side,” Dove said.

Tyron nodded, pulled back his arm, and smashed the skull against the stone beside him. A sharp cracking noise rang out. He drew his arm back and smashed it again, and again, until the skull smashed to pieces and the magick within it faded to nothing.

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