Book of The Dead

Tyron couldn’t help a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

The soldier stepped carefully as he centred his blade once more.

“What are you smirking for, heretic? Clearly, my sword didn’t bite deep enough. I’ll correct that shortly.”

Tyron shrugged slightly, straightening himself and raising his hands. Behind him, his minions continued to break down the door covering the basement.

“It’s just something I’ve struggled with since becoming a Necromancer,” he said.

“The evil you commit against Divinity, I presume?”

“No…it’s a bad habit I’ve developed. No matter how much I try to tell myself off, it always seems to crop up.”

“Interesting. What’s this habit you speak of?”

“Talking to the minions.”

“I’m not the one who’s about to die.”

“I appreciate your confidence. It assures me of victory.”

Tyron’s hands flashed up and the soldier rushed forward. Despite his armour, the man moved inhumanly quick, his movements a blur as his blade slashed towards Tyron’s neck. Despite the speed in which he acted, the soldier still possessed keen awareness, so much that Tyron envied his incredible reactions.

When he had crossed half the distance, the soldier felt an impenetrable chill begin to invade his body. Instantly, he adjusted, kicking into the ground so hard the dirt sprayed high into the air, just in time to avoid the welcoming arms of the ghost. With a muttered curse, he spun and rotated, spinning like a dancer as he regained momentum and brought his blade to bear.

Too late.

Tyron spoke the final syllable and his mind slammed into the soldier’s like a sledgehammer. With all of his advantages, the Necromancer had expected to crack the clearly physically dominant warrior like a nut, but that wasn’t the case. To his shock, the mental blow hit home, freezing his target in place, but only for a moment. Something repelled his attack, bouncing it back and causing a fierce headache to bloom in his head.

The nameless soldier felt a surge of triumph as the mage stumbled. Feeling flooded back into his limbs and he began to move again, completing the arc of his swing.

The impact of the arrows and spells shattered his armour and ribs, punching into the soft flesh beneath. Dozens of bolts at once had overwhelmed even the enchantments woven into the metal. So strong was the force it knocked him off his axis, leaving him unable to complete the blow.

With a shake of his head, Tyron regained control of himself in time to see the soldier try to pick himself up from the ground. Try, and fail. That had been close. He’d intended to freeze the man in place for his archers and skeletal mages to finish him off, and fortunately the plan had still worked, but only barely. He’d underestimated just how much the noble houses would be willing to spend on their personal soldiers. Protection against mind magick? Perhaps it was something given to them as they went about this purge. A preventative, to stop them being corrupted by the ‘evil’ they hoped to expunge.

Behind him, his minions finally burst free. The door swung open, and the silent ranks of his undead began to file out, weapons already blazing with dark magick.

With a thought, he directed them into the fight, sending his revenants to help corner the remaining soldiers. No doubt there would be losses, but those were losses he was perfectly willing to absorb. After all, he’d already secured one exceptional specimen, and soon there would be so many more.

Unwilling to make the mistake of moving on his own again, he waited until a full guard had formed around him, a moving wall of bone shields and skeletal soldiers, before he advanced into the fight once again.

With his array of magicks, Tyron had no need to expose himself to danger on the front lines, not like he’d done in the past. Instead, he used his stockpile of bone spears, sending them streaking into any clear targets he could find, or casting Death’s Grasp to trouble the more difficult to pin down opponents.

The soldiers were whirlwinds of death. Fast, strong, well equipped and experienced in battle, they were able to fend off his revenants, dodge away from his ghosts, and even escape or block his magicks. However, with so much directed against them, arrows and spells from his minions included, it was difficult for them to mount an effective offence. Every time they rushed forward and cut down a skeleton, they exposed themselves to a barrage of projectiles that forced them into a hasty retreat.

Undoubtedly, they would have extraordinary reserves of stamina, but there would be a limit. The undead were untiring, the only thing preventing them from fighting eternally was the necessity for magick to power their movements. Despite fuelling so many undead, and casting so many spells, Tyron was pleased to note his reserves were far from depleted. With the individual magick gathered by each skeleton, and the reservoir of power contained within the cauldrons, he could maintain this level of activity for some time yet. They would not be able to outlast him.

“Damn you, vile unbeliever!” one of the priests roared, locking eyes with Tyron, who tilted his head, questioningly.

“I believe the five Divines exist,” he called back, “but I also believe they need to die.”

If it were possible, the man’s eyes bulged even further from his head. He raised his staff high, and it began to reverberate with the ambient magick, glowing bright and emitting a warm, golden light.

The Necromancer tensed and slipped within the closest cloud of darkness, cautious of what may happen next.

“I call on the Five to smite this heretic,” the priest declared, eyes dangerously wide. “Let my soul be the fuel for the pyre!”

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

“Fuck!” Tyron cursed.

Undead archers and mages turned their attention to this new threat as the air around the priest ignited. Power began to condense around him, the magick in the air gathering, adding itself to his spell, then rising high. Overhead, an ominous light began to form.

There was shouting amongst the priests, but Tyron had no time for it. Unwilling to let this magick complete, he flung bone spear after bone spear toward the roaring priest, but each shattered against a golden barrier that snapped into place around him at the last moment. With each collision, it flared brightly before dimming, only to surge back to life as the next blow fell.

The other priests were fuelling it, hoping to preserve the one fanatic until his spell was complete. That initial priest was looking the worse for wear. As time moved on, he poured more and more of his magick into the working, and something more. Whatever was happening to him wasn’t normal, this was far from a typical spell, or miracle. To the Necromancer’s eyes, the priest appeared as if he was pouring out his very lifeforce. He was shrivelling into a cadaver right in the midst of the battle, giving up his life to enact this one magick.

What madness is this?

Tyron fought against bewilderment as he watched the priest empty himself of everything he possessed, even his own soul, to fuel the now raging light overhead. No doubt it would descend and annihilate a large area, wiping out his undead and likely himself in the process. He couldn’t hide, nor could he deflect it, the priest had to die.

Tyron grit his teeth and ordered his undead to surge forward. He didn’t doubt the priest would allow the spell to detonate right atop himself and his own allies once it completed. Perhaps it would be harmless to them, but he doubted it. It was unlikely the soldiers and marshals even realised what was about to happen. They fought desperately to defend the man who was sacrificing his own life to ensure they too would die along with the threat before them.

Summoning the arcane power from within himself, Tyron began to weave two spells simultaneously, each hand flicking out sigils independently. Words of power rolled in a continuous flood from his tongue, each chant fit into the gaps of the other as both spells took shape.

He thrust both hands forward, unleashing two Death’s Grip spells at once. Duel waves of black magick, like ethereal smoke, rippled toward the priest at great speed, undulating through the air. When they reached him, Tyron clutched both his hands into fists and the magick coalesced around the dying man. Of course, the shield was there, but Tyron persisted. As the barrier flared to life, he squeezed, trying to crush it by force of will. Under his relentless assault, the light dimmed and ignited repeatedly as the other priests used their own reserves to fuel it.

Arrows and spells pounded into the shield, the entirety of Tyron’s force focused on it. He would have to make so many bone arrows if he survived this!

With his spells attempting to crush the barrier, it was never able to fade, forced to coalesce without pause. This proved decisive in the final moment.

As the priest, with precious little life left within him, raised his staff one more time, an arrow seared through the air, slammed into the weakened shield, and shattered it. The barrier snapped into place once again, but it was too late. The revenant, Laurel, had aimed true, her empowered arrow breaking through the defence and piercing the priest straight through his head. Before he could complete his sacrificial ritual, his staff fell from his hand, and the light overhead began to dissipate.

A wave of despair rose from the remaining defenders, and Tyron pressed his advantage. None could be allowed to escape.

Against hundreds of undead, it wasn’t possible for his opponents to hold. Not without literal divine intervention. No matter how the remaining priests called out, or what spells they used, Selene, Orthriss, Hamar or Lofis did not descend from the heavens to defend them.

Naturally, the dead god Tel’anan did not come either.

It was the first time Tyron had ever witnessed priests of the Divines in battle, and it was interesting, to say the least. He was familiar with the ladies in the temple of Selene using their divinely gifted abilities to perform minor miracles of healing. Such a thing was common enough, even in a place like Foxbridge. Here, they used their abilities to defend their allies, even strike out against their enemies with hammers of divine light, a blessing of Orthriss, no doubt.

What could high level priests accomplish, especially when paired with deadly fighters like the professional soldiers of the noble houses?

Mercifully, there simply weren’t enough of them to hold back the tide at the Ortan estate. Once he freed his trapped minions, the tide turned in his favour and never turned back.

Clouds of darkness rolled over the manor, undead swarming within, stabbing and striking without sound and without remorse. In ten minutes, it was done.

When silence fell, Tyron knew he didn’t have much time to waste. What had occurred here would spread, even if none were alive to speak of it. He could conceal his identity, he could prevent word of his Necromancy, but the loss of such a large force of marshalls, priests and soldiers was impossible to hide. Others would come, and soon.

With a thought, Tyron scattered the majority of his undead across the property. Groups of twenty, each led by a revenant, where possible, moved as quickly as their bony legs could carry them out into the fields and woods. If anyone escaped, they had to be hunted down, there could be no survivors.

Then, he turned his attention to the captives. Maids, groundskeepers, people he’d seen before and interacted with in a limited fashion, none would meet his eye, trembling as he drew close to them.

“No harm will come to you,” he reassured them in a flat tone of voice. “I will take you somewhere safe, but you must remain calm, you must not flee. Anyone who attempts to run will die, understand?”

Fresh sobs from some, hurried nods from others. It would have to do. He managed to catch the eye of one who appeared a little more steady than the others.

“Make sure nobody does anything stupid,” he told her. “You will be safe and free so long as everyone remains calm.”

With no more time for them, he left a detachment of undead to watch over them and entered the house.

Picking his way through the debris, it was clear the officers had been in the middle of ransacking the place when the fighting had arrived. Every drawer and cupboard had been flung open and rummaged through, seemingly without exception.

Clearly, they had been on the hunt for anything that might signify this manor as a refuge for heresy, which indeed it was.

In the dining room, he found Madam Ortan herself. Still breathing, gasping for breath through the gag that had been tied around her head. He stepped up to the table quietly, looking down on the unfortunate soul.

It didn’t look as though they had waited to find much before putting her to the question. She had been stripped and tied to the table, arms locked above her head. Blood dripped from the edge of the dark wood and onto the carpet where it continued to soak in.

Tears flowed freely as she continued to rasp in breath after breath. With a hint of professional detachment, he examined the way the knives had been applied. Whoever had done this had known what they were doing. This was a butcher’s technique, used to separate the skin from the meat beneath.

They hadn’t gotten far, but the Madam was in clear agony.

“Live, or die?” he asked her quietly.

She only glared up at him. With gentle hands, he reached out and cut the gag, withdrawing the rough cloth from her mouth.

“I’ll not die to the likes of these dogs,” she spat, throat still raw from screaming. “In the name of the true gods, I endure.”

All energy spent, the matron of the Ortan family fell limp, only her chest rising and falling with each breath. Tyron dipped his head to acknowledge her grit.

“I’ll send in your people to care for you,” he said, “but we aren’t staying still for long. I have a path, a dangerous path, that will take us from here to Cragwhistle. We need to be gone in a few hours.”

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