Book of The Dead

This wasn’t the sort of assignment Leon had anticipated when his Commander at House Greyling had called him in. As was his habit after years of hard training, he scanned the surrounds, using his enhanced senses to search for any sign of danger, but found none. He hadn’t expected any, not this close to the capital, but he was a professional Soldier, a warrior of the Noble Houses, and he would do his job.

Not that he could trust the rest of the group to do the same. The Priests muttered amongst themselves, making unnecessary noise, while the Magisters’ sour expressions and disinterest were plain to see even in the dim twilight.

At least the Marshals were on the job, clear-eyed and alert, but Leon trusted them in a fight as far as he could throw them. Weak. All of them were weak. He’d trade the lot of them for another Soldier from his brigade.

“Is there a problem, Ser Leon?” a voice enquired, and he turned to his right to find Marshal Grady watching from a few metres away.

“Not at all, Marshal,” Leon replied, his voice low so as not to carry, “I was merely considering how we might be best deployed to handle an emergency, should one arise.”

Grady nodded in such a way that led the Soldier to believe he knew exactly what he’d really been thinking.

“We aren’t on par with what you might be used to, but I, at least, am truly grateful to have someone of your calibre along, Ser Leon,” the old Marshal said, knuckling at his thick grey moustache. “We’ve been heading out on these patrols for over a month now, and it's reassuring to have someone of your particular skill set along.”

Someone trained to fight and kill people, is what he meant.

Hearing someone say it made Leon feel a little better about his assignment. He might not be happy to be here, but at least others were glad of his presence, which meant it wasn’t a complete waste of his time.

Grady blinked before he hid a slight smile behind his hand.

“Yours if you want it, Ser,” came the reply.

Leon resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Hierarchy. What a pain in the backside. Of course ranks existed amongst the Soldiery, but they were earned, and every foot soldier knew he could trust the people in charge not to fuck up. Naturally, a Marshal couldn’t give orders to an ordained Priest, but Leon sure as hell could.

He gave Grady a quick nod and got a salute in return, before walking back to the gaggle of robed figures engaged in an aggressive whispered argument in the middle of the North Road.

“Begging your pardon,” Leon cut into their conversation cleanly, stepping right into their midst, “I need all of you to shut the fuck up.”

Outrage flashed across the faces of several of the Priests and Priestesses, consternation and irritation at being interrupted by others, but when they looked to see who had spoken, their protests died in their mouths. He was a Soldier; he answered to House Greyling, the Duke, and nobody else.

“We are trying to move quietly down this road tonight, and if some heretics are trying to sneak up and cut our throats, I would like to be able to hear it. Does that sound reasonable to any of you?”

If his words were not enough to impress upon them his desires, then his glare said what his mouth hadn’t.

Be quiet, or I will make you be quiet.

“Of course, Ser Leon, we will refrain from speaking as we move down the road,” one of the robed figures, Father Astin, by the sound of his voice, spoke up before anyone else could.

A smart one, Father Astin. While Ser Leon did not technically outrank anyone on this patrol, being a mere footsoldier in the service of Greyling, he also wasn’t required to answer to anyone here. If he decided to enforce compliance by beating everyone senseless, they could certainly complain, but couldn’t punish him.

It was good to establish this in their minds early. He and his fellow Soldiers had been assigned to protect these patrols as they went about their duties, and he’d be damned if he wouldn’t do his job to the best of his abilities. That meant keeping these idiots alive, even if they were doing their best to sabotage that effort.

Satisfied that there was now sufficient quiet, Leon returned to the head of the patrol and began to lead them once more. Claurichard Road, named after a famed general of House Baln, or more commonly as North Road, was unusually quiet, even for this late time in the day. It connected the capital to Northwatch, the largest city in the region, and to the Slayer Keeps, Blackrift and Undermist, beyond it. This patrol was headed to Broadmeadows, a middling town just below the massive Fallwood Forest. It would take many hours of walking, but they should arrive close to dawn, ready to begin their investigations.

The Priests had been whining about not being provided a carriage for the journey, as they seemed to consider walking beneath their station. However, they had also been charged with questioning individuals they met on the road, which was difficult to do from a speeding conveyance.

Without that constant noise in his ears, the Soldier was now better able to use his superior senses. For now, he heard very little, which was good. Regardless, he didn’t allow himself to relax; he drew his blade and kept it out, held loosely in his hand as he walked. The enchantments bound into the weapon would protect it from the cold and damp, and he wanted to be ready if anything happened.

Conditions were cold and miserable, but after his earlier warning, there were no complaints. Considering everyone along for this patrol was at least bronze-ranked, they should be resistant to the temperature and fatigue anyway.

Two hours away from the city, and night had truly fallen. There was no traffic at all now, reduced from the mere trickle they’d seen at dusk. Leon remained at alert, though the same couldn’t be said for the others. At least they were quiet.

Suddenly, Leon’s ears pricked, and he held up a hand, bringing the patrol to a halt.

“What is it now?” a Priestess groaned, but the Soldier ignored her.

He could have sworn he’d heard a footfall off the road, somewhere to their right, but it had been light, very light. They’d moved beyond the well-fenced and organised farmholds that lined the road closer to the city, and now trees and bushes pushed right up to the edge of the cobbles in places. Much better for an ambush.

“Light,” he barked, tense as he continued to sweep his eyes around their surroundings.

Stolen novel; please report.

His vision was vastly superior to most in the dark, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t better in the light.

After some grumbling, a sphere appeared over the heads of the patrol, casting back the darkness around them. Leon frowned, still listening.

“Brighter,” he barked, “get some globes around us. Hurry up!”

Perhaps warned by his tone, the two Magisters with the patrol rushed to throw up more globes, lighting up their surroundings for dozens of metres in every direction.

There was nothing there.

For several tense moments, they stood in silence. Leon slowly unlimbered the shield from his back and slipped his left arm through the loops before he tightened them. Just as he finished, another sound caught his ear, and he flashed around to face further down the road. Footsteps, but different. These were normal.

“Ho, the light,” a voice called from the darkness.

Some of the patrol relaxed at the voice, but Leon did not.

“Approach so we can see you, then state your purpose, traveller,” he ordered, his tone unyielding.

Moments later a cloaked figure stepped into the edges of the light, both hands held up to show empty palms.

“Hello… Marshals? And Priests… and Magisters? Oh shit.”

“We’re a patrol under official business. Answer our questions and you’ll have no problem.”

“Of course,” the figure replied. Moving slowly, he pulled back his hood to reveal a young man with dark hair, and deep, fierce eyes.

“Are you well, traveller?” Leon enquired.

The last thing he wanted was some pox to start spreading. The young man was pale, and thin, but didn’t look sick, per se. Better to be careful.

“Oh, I’m fine,” came the reply. “Just weary. I’ve been on the road for days, heading to the capital from Undermist.”

The traveller took a few steps closer, but stopped when Leon raised his weapon.

“That’s close enough. Give me your name.”

“My name? Well, let me think for a moment,” the traveller replied with a weak, lopsided smile. Leon wasn’t impressed, and the young man raised his hands again. “Just a little joke. I must be more tired than I thought. My name is Tyron. Tyron Steelarm.”

It only took Leon a second to process the name before he was charging, a blur in the light. A voice called behind him: “Magick! He’s–”

But it was already too late. With that same lopsided little smile, the figure's hands flashed with impossible speed, and then a word was spoken.

Leon felt that word in his gut, as reality itself seemed to vibrate with the impact. Darkness bloomed, boiling outward from the figure, but not before the Soldier reached his target. With cold precision born from thousands of hours of training, he thrust his sword forward, the blade gleaming with energy.

There was no change in the traveller’s expression, in Tyron’s expression—if anything, he seemed faintly amused.

A slight sound was the only warning Leon had. The moment it reached his ears, he acted on instinct, spinning his body and bringing around his shield to cover his head and chest.

The impact was heavy, heavy enough to throw him off balance and send him rolling in the dirt. He righted himself in an instant, back to his feet and running to rejoin the patrol.

“Father Astin! Talk to me,” Leon barked.

He couldn’t see a damned thing. The darkness was pervasive, filling his ears and muffling sound.The globes of light were still there, hovering overhead, but they were muted, barely illuminating at all.

“It’s a magickal cloud of some kind,” the Priest replied, a note of panic in his voice. “It will take us a moment to cleanse it.”

“We need a barrier,” Leon ordered.

“Why?” one of the Magisters replied, shaken.

“Because there are fucking archers out there,” Leon roared, “why the fuck are you asking me why?! Do it, now!”

The two mages blanched and began to cast immediately.

It was too late. He heard the sound again, not quite the familiar twang of bowstrings, but similar enough that he knew what it was. With a kick of one foot, Leon became a blur, flashing through the air to come before the mages, shield raised.

He was braced this time, and the impacts weren’t enough to make him budge. Spooked by their brush with death, the mages continued to cast, wild-eyed as they stared out into the darkness.

It took them five seconds to erect the barrier, and another ten seconds after that for the Priests to finally dispel the darkness.

When they did, several cried out in fear at what they saw.

The cloaked figure, Tyron Steelarm, was still there, but there was now so much more.

Undead, hundreds of them. Blades as black as night were gripped in their skeletal hands, each one smoking with a dark energy. They were surrounded, completely, yet Leon did not concede defeat. He wasn’t going to be intimidated by skeletons, regardless how many there were.

“Surrender yourself,” Leon called. “I can still make it painless.”

There were no smiles from the traveller now, just a cold, dead stare.

“I can’t make you the same offer,” he said. “Fight, struggle and suffer. I need to know how well my servants will perform.”

From the edge of the light, more figures emerged. Clad in black armour, covered in ghost-like flesh, their purple eyes blazed through the gaps in their helmets.

“Are you a Soldier?” the traveller enquired.

“Ser Leon,” he replied, “of the House Greyling. That is who you make an enemy of today.”

“They became my enemy long ago,” the traveller waved a dismissive hand. “Now. We may as well begin. Put up a good fight, I need the data.”

No sooner had he finished speaking than his hands rose and began to flash through sigils once more, words of power slamming into the air with the force of a hammer. This was no normal mage.

The Marshals stepped forward, expressions grim, but the Priests and Magisters were white-faced and staring.

“Retaliate!” Leon roared. “Cast or die!”

He turned to the Marshals beside him.

“We charge the mage. If he goes down, the undead are useless. Can you bind his magick?”

“If we get close enough,” Grady replied from his left.

“I will get you there. Go!”

No sooner had he started his charge than a flash of light speared out of the darkness towards him. Leon angled his shield, deflecting the projectile upward, but he felt the impact rattle his shoulder even so. Some sort of bone projectile? It hadn’t sounded like metal on his shield.

The Marshals were beside him, but the strange undead loomed ahead, weapons drawn. Spells were being exchanged behind him, and arrows continued to fly, spearing out of the darkness. Several were hit, but Leon pressed forward.

His blade was like a snake, twisting in the air as it slashed and stabbed, seeking weakness in the armour as he bulldogged his way forward. This was what he was trained for, to get up close and personal, to dance in close quarters and use his short sword to best effect. With his shield, he battered away any blade that drew near even as he lashed out again and again, always pushing forward, no matter how the undead tried to press in around him. He roared with defiance, his voice tinged with his unyielding will, rallying his allies and driving back their fears.

He twisted to the right, cut to the left, and then he was through. The Necromancer, for what else could he be, stood before him.

His blade slashed through the air, but this time, it extended, a bar of gleaming light growing from the tip of the blade. His sword bit into flesh, but in that exact moment, he felt an unstoppable force crash into his mind, halting all of his momentum.

“Impressive,” the Necromancer murmured. “Silver rank, not bad at all.”

He gestured, and Leon stepped back, against his own will. Another gesture, and he crashed to his knees on the cobbled road.

“What have you done?” Leon ground out.

“Preserved you,” the Necromancer stated, staring down at him with those cold, cold eyes. “I wouldn’t want to risk any damage to those bones.”

With every fibre of his being, Leon fought against the hold on his mind, trying to move, trying to take up his weapon and stab it through the eye socket of the man before him.

“Over my dead body will I serve the likes of you,” the Soldier spat.

Tyron frowned and looked down at him.

“Of course. That’s how it works.”

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