Book of The Dead

Tyron gave himself no time to mourn. He grunted as he forced himself back up, clawing at the rock to pull himself upward. His injured leg still couldn’t take his weight, and he was forced to lean on a skeleton again in order to move.

The last of the slayers was coming to pay a visit, it’d be rude to greet them sitting down.

With a thought, he gathered his skeletons and ghosts, placing them in a defensive formation that he hoped would protect him from being stuck with more arrows. He’d had enough of that for one day. The rift was close now, close enough that he could probably make it through in just a few minutes, even as injured as he was.

Would he survive for long on the other side, though? Not likely.

“It’s not looking good,” he muttered.

He paused a moment later when he realised he was only talking to himself.

He felt a pang in his chest, an entirely different sort of pain, but he couldn’t afford to focus on that now. He could mourn for Dove after he survived, or when he was dead.

With his remaining revenants, skeletons and ghosts, Tyron prepared to face his final opponents. If Brun was prepared to honour his word, then that meant he had Rufus, Laurel and the archer to deal with first. He almost looked forward to it.

They were creeping closer now, he could hear them. They had to have heard him moving around, but probably didn’t expect him to be in any condition to fight back. That would be his opportunity.

Tyron stirred the dregs of his magick and formed two bolts in his palms. If he could land two clean shots, the healing he’d receive might be just enough to stop the bleeding, which he desperately needed.

He crouched, listening intently as the seconds ticked by. As drained of resources as he was, even trying to utilise his ghost sight would have stretched him too thin. He had to rely on his own senses.

The rock he crouched behind was almost two metres tall, enough to cover him easily, but not wide enough to conceal all his skeletons. They knew exactly where he was, but from which angle would they come?

The steps drew closer and he readied himself, spells maintained in either hand. His eyes flicked from side to side. Would they come around the left, or the right?

A trickle of dust ran down the face of the stone in front of him. Tyron noticed it, then threw himself backwards with a pained shout. An arrow slammed into the ground between his feet as skeletons rushed forward to cover him. With a curse, he looked up and fired both bolts at the archer who’d escaped him before. She’d climbed up the rock as Laurel and Rufus had approached, masking any sound to take him by surprise.

As off balance as he was, one of his bolts went wide, but another connected on her right hip, spinning her around with a shout. She dropped out of sight as he felt a pathetic trickle of healing creep into him. The connection hadn’t been clean, he mustn’t have done much damage.

To his right, Rufus charged forward, attacking his skeletons with wide swings of his blade. He was in amongst them so quickly that two had fallen before Tyron could react. Chest burning, his remaining revenants rushed at him, but Rufus was wary of them, trying to keep the weaker minions between himself and the more powerful undead. Arrows flew from the side, trying to pick off more skeletons as the swordsman kept them occupied.

Tyron raised his hands and prepared to cast the Shivering Curse, then hesitated. With a sour grimace, he abandoned that plan and staggered forward instead, summoning another pair of magick bolts in his hands.

He couldn’t afford to stand still for that long, not with the escapee only metres away. If she climbed up the rock again… he’d be dead on the spot. If only he’d injured her enough he could be confident her mobility was gone.

Rufus moved with the smooth grace of a martial class, his balance and speed all greater than the human norm. He must’ve reached level ten at least, perhaps taken a feat to enhance his body control, judging by the way he could move with impossible precision.

Magnin hadn’t taken that feat. He hadn’t needed it.

Tyron swept three of his spirits after Rufus and poked his head around the corner of the stone, trying to get a look at Laurel. The moment he saw her, he jerked his head back just in time to avoid an arrow in the face. She’d been waiting for him.

Off balance, Tyron fell to the ground with a pained cry. The injury to his leg was making it difficult to stay on his feet and he had to pull himself up again, sweat breaking out on his brow.

Rufus laughed.

“You may as well give up,” he gloated as he parried a skeleton's attack and returned a savage cut, slicing the arm off at the shoulder joint. “You were never good enough to beat me.”

As injured as he was, Tyron couldn’t help but laugh.

“Fight me by yourself then,” he rasped incredulously. The young mage shook his head. “You might have got some levels, but nothing to improve Intelligence, I see.”

Rufus flushed hotly and opened his mouth but Laurel cut him off.

“Don’t,” she warned him, and the swordsman’s mouth snapped shut.

Tyron leaned against the rock, trying to keep an eye behind him for the other archer.

“Well, that’s not surprising. We always knew who wore the pants in your relationship, Rufus.”

He heard Laurel ‘tsk’ as Rufus roared and charged forward. Tyron rekindled the bolts in his hands and prepared himself. The second archer appeared behind him, arrow ready to loose, but he’d predicted that, his back was already covered by three skeletons with shields.

Rufus battered several skeletons aside, but ran headfirst into his two revenants, who weren’t so easily ignored. A savage cut from the undead swordsman nearly sliced his throat before Rufus pulled back at the last second. Tyron stepped out from behind cover again, spotted Laurel coming forward to shield Rufus, and unleashed his spells.

Her eyes widened when she saw him and her hands flickered as she drew and loosed an arrow with breathtaking speed, but it wasn’t fast enough. The projectile flicked off the bone armour covering Tyron’s ribs, but she was hit with one bolt on her shin as she jumped to the side. He heard a satisfying crack as Laurel spun in the air, crying out with the pain.

“Fair's fair,” Tyron said as he retreated behind cover again.

“You bastard,” Rufus grit his teeth as he warded off the three revenants, sword flashing in the light.

“Not my fault you’re stupid, Rufus.”

Tyron turned to face the other archer. Her angle blocked by the skeletons, she’d tried to come further around the rock to get a shot on him, but hadn’t managed it. As he faced her, she blanched at the look on his face, but exhaled a slow breath and released her shot.

One of his shield-skeletons went down with an arrow straight through the skull before she ran up the slope. They were whittling down his forces, he couldn’t afford to lose too many more.

Rufus had fallen back to defend Laurel, so Tyron took the chance to pursue the other archer. She’d run closer to the rift so she could shoot downhill at him, a smart decision, since it gave him less places to hide. His own archers fired at her, trying to pin the ranger down, but they were running low on ammunition.

Sure would be handy to have had an archer revenant through this fight, he scolded himself.

With a sour feeling in his gut, he realised he wasn’t in a position to chase her. With his injuries, he’d be too slow moving uphill, and leaving the cover of the rocks would open him up to Laurel. His options were running thin, and that Force Mage, Brun, was still out there somewhere.

As much as he hated to admit it, the real threat was Rufus. Even together, the two rangers wouldn’t be able to fight through his minions to get to him. If he removed Rufus from the picture, then he could possibly sit back and recover a little. With enough magick and some time to clean and bandage his wounds, his position would be vastly improved.

As long as Brun kept his word and didn’t attack while Laurel and her partner lived, he’d be safe. It was a risk to believe the slayer would do as he’d said, the man had already bent his rules once, but what choice did Tyron have? He was down to desperate gambles at this point.

He slumped against the rock and drew in several deep breaths, making sure he was covered from the archer above him. At his direction, several of his spirits drifted into position. He’d only get one shot at this.

As exhausted as he was, Tyron didn’t trust himself to win a mind war, not even against Rufus. That left him one option.

The Necromancer closed his eyes, raised his hands, and began to incant his spell. Fingers flickered from one arcane sigil to the next, and in less than ten seconds, he was prepared. Tyron pushed himself around the corner, saw Rufus and Laurel together, and extended his hand.

Death’s Grasp.

The black magick raced through the air, twisting and coiling around itself as it flew in a dark wave. If he’d been by himself, Rufus would likely have been able to avoid it, but in a last second miscalculation, he thought the spell was targeting Laurel.

He pushed her aside with a shout and became entangled by the magick a moment later. Crushed in its grip, he could barely move at all and Tyron ordered his ghosts forward, a crooked smile on his face. The spectres closed in on the bound swordsman, wearing their own expressions of malicious glee. They stretched out their arms, ready to plunge them into his flesh and suffocate him with their ethereal cold.

But they didn’t.

“Wha-?” Tyron muttered, as he staggered and fell to one side.

The ghosts hissed malevolently, inches away from Rufus, but they still didn’t move forward. They couldn’t.

He was out of magick.

Nearby, all of his skeletons became still, frozen in place as the arcane energy they depended on to move ran dry. Tyron himself felt hollowed out, as if the force animating his body was gone. He was a mage completely drained of magick. There was no longer anything he could do.

Despair welled inside him as he looked up at the clouds roiling above. He’d been so close. A few seconds longer and that prick would have been dead and he could take some time to recover his energy.

A few seconds later, the Death’s Grasp dissipated, releasing a shaken Rufus who quickly separated from the biting cold he felt surrounding him. After a few long seconds where he brandished his sword uphill at the unmoving skeletons, he realised what had happened.

His uproarious laughter pierced Tyron right in the heart.

Damn it. I didn’t come this far, I didn’t sacrifice so much, only to fail here!

Desperately, he reached deep inside himself, searching for any wisp of power, any hint of arcane energy. Something… anything, he could use to fight back. When he didn’t find anything, he rolled his head and stared at his pack.

There might be another piece of Mage Candy in there, one that he’d missed before. Not even a whole piece would be needed, a shard, a sliver, dust, it would be better than what he had now.

Barely able to move, Tyron began to drag himself across the stony ground, ignoring the flaring pain of his wounds. He could vaguely hear the others moving around, but he ignored them, focused totally on his goal. If he could only reach his pack, he could turn this around. He… just… had… to reach!

“You may as well stop there, Tyron,” Laurel said.

The Necromancer paused, hand outstretched to his pack, and rolled over to look up. The ranger sat above him, rubbing at her wounded leg, a frown on her tanned face.

He turned to look behind him and saw Rufus grinning widely, sword swinging back and forth as he rolled his wrist, not three metres away.

“Shit,” he groaned.

“Yes, yes you are,” Rufus’ grin broadened as stepped a little closer. There was an ugly light in his eyes as he approached, almost feverish in its intensity.

“Just do it cleanly,” Laurel said to him, her eyes hard. “Don’t fuck around.”

Rufus’ smile slipped a little as he glared up at Laurel.

“Why do you always take his side?” he growled, pointing at Tyron with his sword. “After what he said about my mother, I’m going to carve him like a roast. If you don’t want to watch, you can turn the fuck around.”

Laurel rolled her eyes and glanced down at Tyron.

“See you, Ty,” she said. “Shame about how this worked out for you.”

“Yeah,” he rasped, “real shame.”

She turned and slid down the rock, landing heavily on the other side. Tyron looked up at Rufus, who glared at him.

“You never deserved a single thing you got,” the swordsman growled at him. “I hated that about you.”

“You never stop whining. I hated that about you.”

Tyron forced a grin up at the swordsman and Rufus spat at him.

“I’ve been looking forward to this,” he said.

Tyron curled his fingers beneath them, cupping the magick bolt he’d scraped together a second before.

“Me too.”

Bright light flashed, blinding Tyron for a moment. Something hot sprayed on his face and he spat reflexively.

Blood?

His eyes shot open and he looked at himself. No, he was fine….

He looked up at Rufus.

The swordsman had a strange look on his face, his eyes seemed to be looking in different directions. Then a line of blood appeared, running straight down the middle of his forehead. It trickled down to his nose, fell onto his chin, then dropped, splashing against the rocky ground.

Then Rufus fell into two pieces, his left half falling backward, the right slumping forward. Tyron didn’t look. He was staring at the figure who’d been standing behind him.

“He always was a shitty kid,” Magnin observed, looking down on Tyron with a broad grin. He winked. “Great to see you, son.”

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