Book of The Dead

“Shame you can’t raise it as a minion.”

“For whatever reason, the Unseen doesn’t want me to raise anything other than humans. I’m not sure why.”

“Seems like a bit of a waste.”

“Well, I can do horses as well.”

“Horses?”

“Yes. Horses.”

“Why horses? There aren’t that many of them around.”

“Not on this side of the rift, at least.”

“True.”

In the distance, the giant kin put down another leg, and the ground rumbled with the force of the impact. It was almost unbelievable to think something so large, something so dense, could even move under its own power.

Staring at the beast, Tyron could feel the immense amount of magick radiating off of it, enough to disturb the tempestuous winds of power that ran across the entire realm.

“Remember, I get the core,” Tyron said.

Banner, the scout of the slayer team Burning Blade, rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, you get the core. I don’t care about what happens after we kill it, so long as it’s dead. What are you even going to do with the thing? Sell it?”

“I thought you didn’t care.”

“Call me curious.”

“I’m a trained Arcanist. I’m going to use it to make something.”

“I thought you were a Necromancer.”

“Enchanter sub-class.”

“Right.”

Curiosity sated, Banner turned his attention back to the enormous kin. It wasn’t moving quickly; perhaps something that large couldn’t. Every now and again, it would pause, as if resting, or listening. It was eerie to see the thing, standing totally still while smaller kin ran past, sometimes directly under it, heading toward the rift.

A number of these beasts had already punched through during the break, but if they started coming through outside of such dire events? Woodsedge would need many more, higher level slayers to fight them off. All the while, each and every one of these creatures that made it through would tear the rift that little bit wider.

Which meant teams like Burning Blade had to come through and intercept them, every time.

“Are you sure about their weakness?” Tyron asked.

“That’s the intelligence we have. If it's wrong, then we won't live long enough to complain to anyone back at the keep. You know what we call these things?”

“Ten-legged man eaters?”

“We might be slayers but we’re a little more creative than that.”

“Slayer squashers.”

“Your naming sense is worse than mine. We call them rift smashers.”

“I think my names were better.”

“Not remotely. All right, I’ll leave you here. Good luck managing the troops, try not to get yourself killed.”

Tyron shot him a cold look.

“I’m at far less risk than you and your team. Worry about yourself.”

“It’s a deal.”

So saying, Banner was gone, vanished like smoke as he crept his way back to the rest of his team, scattered around the intercept spot. Once he was alone, Tyron drew in a deep breath. He wasn’t nervous for himself; he would be protected and able to fight from a distance. His concern was for the slayers, and for his precious undead.

The kin was huge. With a single sweep of a leg, it could crush dozens of skeletons. If things went poorly, he could lose a hundred minions in a matter of moments. Such a loss would set him back weeks—time he couldn’t afford to lose.

Yet, he also didn’t want to see Woodsedge lose one of their most promising teams at this early stage.

Keen to avoid being detected, he hunched down lower into the vegetation, over twenty skeletons flattened into the ground alongside him. This close to the rift, there were many spires and a steady stream of kin moving toward the way between realms, so it was inevitable that some would be drawn into their battle against the giant monster, but getting sniffed out before they engaged the beast would be worse by far.

Again, the massive kin began to walk forward, each ponderous step sending tremors deep into the ground. Looking at it move, he once again doubted that his skeletons, or a team of slayers, could do anything to harm it.

Something like this was for gold ranks and higher. For Magnin and Beory, but here he was, hoping to kill one.

Well, hoping to help kill one. He wasn’t going to be the star of this show.

BOOM.

Another shuddering step, and a soft whistle carried over the air.

The signal.

Tyron hastily crawled forward, lifting himself out of the vegetation to get a better view as he ordered his packs of skeletons to act. Archers rose from hiding positions along the right flank of the beast, as did his skeletal mages. The undead silently took aim and fired, unleashing their barrage against the monster.

Arrows forged of bone, death bolts, even the occasional death’s hand, flew towards the monster, only for the majority of them to clatter harmlessly off the creature’s shell. A small number actually found their mark. Tyron wished he could improve his minions’ aim, but at least some of them managed to find the gaps in the kin’s armour and sink into the soft flesh beneath.

Not that they would be enough to do serious damage. It would only be enough to—

BOOM!

—make it angry.

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The beast turned towards his undead horde, and towards him. For the first time, Tyron was given an unobstructed view of its face. It was dreadful. Huge, wide jaws that detached from its face lay under its beady eyes, so many he couldn’t count them in the moment. Two smaller limbs protruded either side of its low hanging head, each longer than he was tall, tipped with sharp barbs which could likely skewer him to the ground with a single stab.

To think his own parents, even his uncle, would regularly fight barn-sized monstrosities like this. It was absurd. Would any number of skeletons even make a difference against something like this?

There are already plans in place for stronger undead. Focus!

Tyron threw his distracting thoughts to the side and concentrated on the scene in front of him. As soon as the kin began to approach, he raised his body from the ground and began to cast. With his hands, words and sheer force of will, he began to bend reality, adding his own spells to those of his minions.

The Shivering Curse sprang into existence, a wide zone between his own position and the kin. The creatures of Nagrythyn seemed poorly adapted to the cold, and even a kin this size may be slowed down by it.

As soon as he finished one cast, he flowed smoothly into the next. Soon, the black aura of death magick began to glow around the weapons of his minions, and Tyron directed them forward to attack.

Not many, though. He wasn’t supposed to do most of the work, only to distract, which suited him just fine. Limiting the number of minions at risk was exactly what he wanted.

Enraged by the needling attacks, the massive kin advanced steadily, moving faster than it had before. Much faster. He’d been told it was more nimble than it appeared, but seeing it was another thing entirely. Obviously, if it was always as slow as before, it would hardly be a threat, but seeing it gather momentum as it charged toward him caused his heart to seize briefly in his chest.

He expelled a breath and calmed himself, raising both hands once more to cast. This time, his two hands moved independently, each flicking from one sigil to the next in a flurry almost too fast for the human eye as he spoke the words of power with incredible speed.

Double casting, slipping the words of one incantation into the gaps in another while forming two sets of sigils, one with each hand.

The signature technique of his mother, a Battle Mage so accomplished at flinging out deadly elemental magick so quickly in the midst of battle that she became renowned for it across the province. Each hand performed half a sigil at a time, and normally those halfs would combine to form a whole, but not when double casting. Each hand needed to complete the sigil it had half-constructed, which meant he needed both hands to leap to the next form before the magick lost its shape. It wasn’t twice as much work as normal casting, but four times.

When it was done, he thrust his hands forward, unleashing both spells at the same time.

Double Death’s Fist.

Dual clouds of formless, black magick streamed forward, twisting through the air toward the oncoming beast until they clashed against its left foreleg.

Tyron clenched both his hands as the spells took form, clutching around a single joint, the crushing pressure trying to pull in different directions.

Against the mighty creature’s immense strength, Tyron felt as though even his strongest spells were like spitting into the wind, yet he was surprised to see the kin stumble, even if only slightly. Seemingly uncertain as to what had caused the problem, the monster turned its head slightly, which was when the slayers ran forward to strike.

Powerful offensive magick burst from the cover they’d been hidden in before they emerged. Banner was there, moving like the wind with a bared blade before he leapt and hackdown, aiming for the same joint Tyron had targeted.

Rell was there also, bow at the ready, loosing arrows with a slow, deliberate pace, taking careful aim for each shot.

The kin screeched in rage and continued to turn to deal with this new threat. Its legs stabbed down into the ground sharply, trying to flatten any slayer who drew too close. Everyone was careful not to move near the monster’s face lest they fall victim to the deadly, sharp-tipped limbs flanking its head.

Tyron lowered his hands and turned his mind back to his troops. His mages and archers continued to fire at the kin, hoping to land hits on its more vulnerable areas, but he pulled back his other minions in preparation for the next obstacle.

They were already emerging, poking their heads out of the spires around the battlefield, clacking and scratching as they sought the source of the disturbance. With the massive kin slamming into the ground and screeching, every monster within a kilometre was certain to hear the battle taking place, and they would definitely come to investigate.

The moment they laid eyes on the conflict, the kin became enraged, pulling themselves through the holes in the spires before skittering toward the fight.

With a mental command, Tyron directed his minions to circle the field as best they could. He couldn’t completely envelop it without spreading his undead too thin, but he could manage a little over half.

The first of the reinforcing kin slammed into his lines and Tyron flinched as some of his skeletons were cut down before they could get into position. Every loss ate at him, but if things worked out well, it would be worth the price.

With rapidly spoken words, he shaped his power and flung out Greater Death Bolts one at a time, knocking down some of the kin and giving his undead the time they needed. Soon, the ranks were properly formed, with shield-bearing skeletons in front and protecting the flanks of each group.

Of course, Tyron ensured he had defenders, but he was still more exposed than he would have liked. The moment a kin came within range, he cast Blood Shield in order to gain another layer of protection.

He’d suggested using his domination abilities against the larger kin to the members of Burning Blade, but they had seemed convinced it would be resistant to any attempt at manipulation. Instead, they wanted to rely on the tried and true method used by the slayers at Woodsedge for many, many years.

It was now Tyron’s job to keep the surrounding kin off them so they could pull it off.

In only a few minutes, the battlefield had become a scene of chaos. Everywhere Tyron looked, something was happening. His skeletons were engaged on multiple fronts, battling in squads with their backs to the enormous monster, who Tyron barely had time to think about.

He still had mages and archers firing at it, but more and more, he was forced to pull those undead away to help relieve his melee skeletons as they became more pressed. He felt as though his brain were physically heating up as he flicked from one conflict to the next, issuing commands so quickly he didn’t have time to consider or reflect on any of them.

Trying to manage so many fights at the same time left him barely any time to cast magick, though he still slipped in the occasional spell.

That skeleton needs to lower its shield! Those ones need to change their position to receive that charge! Those kin could be flanked by his sword wielders over there! Do it!

Fuck! More kin have run into that fight! Ghosts can move over to help, archers can fire to support in the meantime. The ranks didn’t reform fast enough to react to that charge and a kin got through! It’s going to turn and cut down the shield skeletons from behind!

Revenants, clean up the mess!

“Dammit.”

With another command, he ordered his reserve skeletons to move forward, lower their cauldrons, and activate them.

He hadn’t wanted it to come to this. They were an immensely useful tool for empowering his undead, but they would effectively surround the main battle with impenetrable smoke. If any kin broke through his lines to attack the slayers, they would have no way of seeing it coming.

It was necessary. If he hadn’t done so, they would have broken through anyway, which was the one thing the slayers had feared most. Fighting the enormous kin was incredibly dangerous. Fighting while holding off hordes of swarming monsters trying to stab you in the back? Impossible.

As the many fronts his skeletons were engaged in stabilised under the effect of the death magick–rich smoke, Tyron spared a glance for the massive kin.

It was struggling, bleeding from many cuts and wounds that team Burning Blade had inflicted. As stated, they’d aimed for the joints in its legs, hindering its mobility. With its incredible size and weight, the kin was starting to be unable to support itself on such injured limbs. It hissed and screamed with rage, but the slayers moved desperately to avoid giving it a chance to strike back as they continued to apply pressure.

It wouldn’t be long until they brought it down; all Tyron had to do was focus on his role.

Convinced the slayers had the beast in hand, he pulled the remaining archers and mages away and had them support his desperately battling skeletons. Fallen kin were everywhere, but so were damaged or destroyed skeletons.

Once more, he raised his hands to lend his magick to their aid. Though he wasn’t too familiar with it yet, he cast Blessing of Bone upon his undead. A complicated spell that drew a great deal of his energy, but as the magick flowed out of him and into his undead, he could see just how effective it was.

Empowered by the additional magick, his undead moved faster, reacted quicker, as if everything had slowed down around them. Tyron checked on his reserves, and discovered that he was doing surprisingly well. With the cauldrons in play, his skeletons were being empowered by the death magick they absorbed through the conduits he had built into all of them.

A smile came unbidden to his face. It was working. His minions were so much more efficient, despite all of them fighting, drawing deeply on the magick they needed to function.

It was working.

He brought up his hands and once more began to mould a pair of Death’s Fists.

They were going to win.

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