Book of The Dead

The kin was a small, chittering thing, the size of a dog much like the ones he’d grown up around on the farm. Except this was no dog. Its face was covered in little claws, at least eight of them, each designed to hook into flesh so the little horror could go to work with its razor-sharp fangs. With six insect-like legs, the creature was fast and mobile, not easy to pin down.

Difficult prey for a zombie, but Georg had found a few methods that worked.

The kin advanced in stop-start motions, sensing the air and hunting for life to destroy. It smelled him, faintly, and it would come towards him in time. All he had to do was be patient.

Working as a farm hand was boring work. Back-breaking at times, mind numbingly repetitive almost always, so it was little wonder he and other young boys had sought out other pastimes in the little free time they’d had. Jom Dream had been the first to really push them to compete with the sling. His name hadn’t really been Dream, of course, that was his nickname. Ma Gonnel called him an archer’s dream, thanks to his fat head, and the name had stuck.

All the boys would get together and challenge each other to various difficult shots with the sling. Hit a horseshoe from ten metres. Twenty metres. Knock a mug off a fence post around the cows.

Georg had never been the best, but he wasn’t the worst, either. Now he put that Skill to good use.

Quietly, he lowered the sling by his side and fit the nice, egg-shaped stone he’d found the previous day into the cup. Gripping it tight once more, he checked to make sure he had room, and started to whirl it. Slowly at first, but with growing momentum, he spun it until the sound of it cutting through the air became more and more audible.

The kin heard it just a moment before he sprang up from behind the bushes and released the stone. It wasn’t that difficult a shot, and his rock flew true, striking the creature hard in the side and knocking it over.

From behind him, Georg’s minions lurched forward, eerie moans emanating from their throats. The zombies certainly weren’t quick, and the kin had managed to right itself by the time they reached it.

The little beast threw itself at the nearest undead and latched onto the zombie’s leg, hooking in with its claws and shredding the flesh as it swung wildly with its two bladed arms.

Unfeeling, Georg’s zombie merely reached back with one arm before delivering a clumsy, stilted blow with the crude club he’d given it. Not to be outdone, the other zombies crowded around, smacking the kin, and each other, with wild, disjointed swings until at last the kin was dead.

Georg watched the whole fight from a safe distance, remaining in the spot he’d thrown the stone, and couldn’t quite keep the frown from his face.

“It was fine,” Richard said from a few metres away. “There’s no need to look like that.”

“I know it was fine. The kin is dead, isn’t it?”

“If you think it’s fine, then why do you look like you stepped in cow shit?”

Georg raised a brow and turned toward his fellow student. Realising his mistake, Richard grimaced.

“Right, sorry. Farmhands probably don’t care about stepping in cow shit.”

“It’s not ideal,” Georg shrugged, “but sometimes it can’t be avoided. Why do you think we wear such tall, thick boots?”

He stomped his feet for emphasis, which caused Richard to look down appraisingly. Now that he was no longer working on a farm, Georg could wear more practical, comfortable shoes, but old habits died hard. Also, his current work was still quite messy, so the boots were quite appropriate as far as he was concerned. Judging by the thoughtful look on his face, Richard agreed.

“I just wish they wouldn’t hit each other so much,” Georg eventually sighed, looking back toward his minions. “It looks like they did more damage to themselves than the kin did!”

Richard held up a hand and wobbled it back and forth.

“It’s close, but I think the kin takes it.”

“Thanks, I feel so much better.”

The studious young Necromancer wasn’t very good at being sociable, or offering support, but he stepped up and clapped Georg on the shoulder, and the former farmhand appreciated the gesture.

“Look, your control over the zombies and your ability to repair their flesh is only going to improve over time. They’re already better than they were when you started, right?”

“They sure are.”

Georg almost shuddered recalling how ungainly his first minion had been. It was a miracle the poor thing could walk at all. He’d been reminded of a newborn foal, staggering and flopping about as it tried to figure out how to walk.

“But your zombies have something that separates them from skeletons. I don’t think they’ll ever move as well as our teacher’s minions, but they can certainly take a heck of a beating. Way more than my minions can.”

The two walked through the low bushes and approached the undead, who still stood over the unmoving form of the defeated kin. With a thought, Georg ordered them to line up, and watched, dissatisfied, as they staggered into position.

“Look at how badly this one got chewed up,” Richard exclaimed, gesturing towards its leg, “and it's still moving around, perfectly ready to fight. If this was a skeleton, it would be hopping to the next battle.”

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“It isn’t much better,” Georg observed. “It’s not moving very well at all.”

The kin had made a complete mess of the leg, ripping the calf muscle to shreds and taking chunks out of the bone. The zombie could still walk, but it wasn’t pretty.

“But you can fix it. A hell of a lot easier than I can fix a skeleton. Can you imagine how much Briss and I would love to be able to heal damaged bone with a single spell?”

“You probably can, eventually,” Georg told him. “And look there. You aren’t the only ones who need a spell to repair bones.”

Richard hummed in thought as he inspected the wound. “I see what you mean. But even so, you can make do without it a lot better than we can,” the bookish young man replied seriously.

“Alright, fine, you’ve made your point. Thanks, Richard, I appreciate your kind words.”

His fellow student looked pleased and abashed at the compliment, shrugging his shoulders awkwardly as Georg knelt down and concentrated.

Of all the magick he’d learned, this was the one he was most proficient with: Flesh Mending. He spoke the words of power, performed the sigils, then maintained focus as the power began to flow.

The process was slow at first, the damaged muscle barely moving. Then, slowly, it began to twitch, as strands of new dead flesh began to emerge, knitting themselves together. Sweat began to bead on Georg’s brow as he maintained the flow of energy until the muscle was actively writhing, pulling itself back together and closing over the hideous wound that had appeared only moments before.

“It’s so useful, but it looks…”

“Creepy as shit,” Georg finished the thought as he stood back up with a sigh.

Ordering the repaired zombie to walk, he watched its performance and judged his repair had done enough to keep it in the fight, for now. All of his minions had various bits of damage, chipped bone and torn flesh, from where they’d beaten the heck out of each other, but none of it was enough to render them unable to kill kin.

“I’m going to keep hunting for a bit,” Georg said. “Hopefully I can find one or two more of these before I head back.”

He moved over to the kin, pulling his carving knife from its sheath on his hip as he went.

“What are you planning to do with the core?” Richard asked.

“Sell it.”

“You aren’t planning on—”

“Learning enchanting like Master Steelarm? No chance of that, I’m afraid.”

Georg butchered the monster with casual efficiency, extracting the core with a wet pop. He polished it on his pants leg before tucking it into a pouch attached to his belt.

“My hands have gotten nimble enough to cast spells, but doing that sort of thing is just beyond me. I’ll be focusing my efforts in another direction. Besides, if one of you two can figure it out, I can just pay you to do it for me, right?”

“You think we’ll just ‘figure it out’?” Richard asked, taken aback.

“Tyron did, right?”

“One, Tyron Steelarm is a genius, and two, he studied enchanting under the best Arcanist in Kenmor!”

“So you need lessons. It’ll be fine.”

Georg chuckled as he checked to make sure he had everything he needed to keep hunting. He’d learned quickly just how bad things could go close to the rifts, and being careless was the fastest way to end up dead. He was willing to work with the dead, not be one.

“What level are you, by the way?” he asked Richard in passing.

“Level seven. Why?”

“You prick. I’m level six. When did you Level up?”

“Yesterday, after I raised my newest minion.”

“Damn you. How many is that now?”

“Well… six in total, but only three are still… alive?”

“Probably not the right choice of word.”

“Probably not, no.”

Georg himself had raised four zombies, three of which were still in fighting shape. He still couldn’t handle more than that. As much as he would dearly like to try and make more, he needed more levels and more magick first.

“I might leave you to it, then. I take it you don’t need more of my stellar advice?” Richard asked.

“I’ll be fine. I appreciate you coming out, and your words of encouragement. I mean it. Thanks.”

Richard waved off the compliments, clearly embarrassed.

“It’s fine. We need to help each other, right?”

“Right,” Georg nodded. “But you should make sure you don’t give up too much of your time. We all need to get stronger.”

“Says the guy with the lowest level.”

“Oi.”

With a smile and a wave Richard retreated, heading back towards Woodsedge, his own undead emerging from the trees to protect him on the journey.

It was easy to be jealous of Richard. The young man seemed so well suited to magick, with his studious and meticulous nature, but he was such a self-effacing and humble person that it was almost impossible to dislike him. Also, he was wound so tight it was extremely easy to make fun of him.

Georg shook his head and pushed all such distractions from his mind. Out here, close to the rift, kin could appear at any moment. Any of the larger monsters would be more than capable of slicing his zombies apart in seconds, and then doing the same to him. He had to be cautious at all times.

One more time, he looked over the zombies to ensure they were in fighting shape, then ordered them forward. Shambling, poorly balanced and still emitting those uncomfortable groaning noises, the zombies were far from the ideal travelling companions.

Also, they stank, but Georg was more than used to working with a poor smell filling his nostrils. It didn’t bother him at all, but both Briss and Richard had complained and insisted his poor zombies be kept far from their homes.

Which he felt was a bit rich coming from people who were up to their elbows in human remains every other day. Did they really think they didn’t smell?

Senses alive to the slightest sound or hint of movement in the woods around him, Georg continued his hunt. He was on a wide sweep around the perimeter of the broken lands, and there were many teams between him and the rift itself. It would be unlikely for anything too large to get through, but there was always a chance.

It was far more likely for small critters like the one he’d found before to get this far out. They were perfect for young Slayers like himself to practise their Skills on.

It wouldn’t be long until he was ready to fight something bigger. Georg was ambitious. With every level, he grew stronger, his control improved and his reservoir of magick increased. With more minions, he would be able to fight more often, increasing the speed at which he gained levels. The cycle would feed into itself, and it wouldn’t be long until he reached the level twenty threshold and became a bronze ranked Slayer.

But that would only be the beginning. For him, for Richard and for Briss, they would rocket up in power so much faster than most Classes could ever hope to achieve.

He could only imagine just what his teacher, Tyron Steelarm was now capable of….

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