Book of The Dead

Tyron allowed his wights to coordinate the charge as he moved away from the arch before de-summoning it. The wide road before the tower gate would soon be filled with his enemies, and if they got inside the ossuary, who knew what they might do?

The arch faded from existence, taking the door with it, and Tyron turned to stride back toward the battle. Archers continued to exchange fire overhead, arrows forged from bone or wood seeking out the vulnerable and unaware. Few managed to land a meaningful shot, but it added to the general chaos, which gave Tyron a greater advantage. Unlike the living beings they were fighting, the skeletons didn’t feel fear and had no instincts of self-preservation. When arrows shattered on the cobblestones around their feet, they didn’t flinch, second-guess or waver in their resolve.

The same wasn’t true for the other side.

Once the fear took hold, he knew he would have won, his undead would trample the wavering spirits of the living beneath their heels. All he needed was to shock his opponents into giving him an opening.

Once more he raised his hands and began to fling spells into the melee, waiting for the right moment to strike.

The frontline of the battle was chaos, shields crashing on shields, blades rising and falling, the press of bodies so dense it was difficult to tell one form from another. The humans roared battle cries, shouted crisp, disciplined orders and fought with controlled fury, holding the line against the unending tide of grinning skeletons who came at them time and time again. The undead were silent, unfeeling and untiring. Skeletons up and down the lines continued to fight with cracked skulls that leaked magick or missing arms.

And they were strong. When their opponents expected them to be light and weak, they dug in and pushed back with strength that belied their light frames.

Then there were the wights and revenants. Human spirits, severed from mortality, they fought like demons, unfeeling and unrelenting, they stalked up and down the line, crashing to the front whenever they saw an opening, fighting with a calculated, disciplined style that the regular skeletons lacked. Whenever the undead line buckled, they were there, enchanted bone armour granting them incredible resilience as they battered back the Soldiers and stabilised the fight.

When he judged the time was right, Tyron moved closer to the front and prepared to cast. Field of Death was still providing him small bursts of vital energy, though it wasn’t enough to defeat his enemies. The damage caused was slight, and their opponents appeared to have enough divine healing to offset the damage it caused. Yet Tyron maintained it. The healing was meaningful enough, and it was yet another thing that his enemy had to contend with.

The moment he did, a barrage of spells from above lanced down towards him, and Tyron was forced to abandon his cast, flicking the still-forming energy away from himself before any backlash could take shape. Dozens of spells crashed into the road where he’d been standing, turning the stone surface to slag in an instant. Several spells shattered, sending shards of crystalline magick scattering everywhere, and without the timely intervention of several shield-bearing skeletons, they would have landed, possibly scattering off his armour, or maybe piercing his flesh.

Tyron picked himself up off the ground and glared up toward the tower. They were waiting for him to start casting, using the ripples of magick to locate him, and then pummeling his location with spells. A simple, but apparently effective method to stop him from using any larger magicks.

Gritting his teeth, the Necromancer considered his options. He could bring all his skeletal mages back to protect him, but they were in position to support the front line. Getting them to extricate themselves would take time and leave his regular skeletons vulnerable. However, if he let the Magisters take him out of the fight, it would be disastrous, especially at this key moment.

Throwing caution to the wind, he made a snap decision and mentally commanded his undead. Skeletons rushed to his side and raised their plated-bone shields to cover him. A few of his skeletal mages weren’t committed to the front, so he gathered them, then took a breath and raised his hands once more.

He knew what was coming, and so worked as quickly as he could. Despite the rapid pace, his pronunciation was flawless, his execution of the sigils without error. The rain of spells came, as expected, but he didn’t flinch. His skeletons held their ground, drawing deep on the reserves of power they contained to bolster their strength.

Shields shattered and skeletons fell, only to be replaced by others stepping up to protect him. Some spells got through, searing light burning grooves into his armour and helm, but Tyron didn’t flinch.

Once more he cast Blessing of Bone, then smoothly transitioned to his next spell as the endless barrage of spells fell on him. More and more of his undead fell, their shields burned through or broken by the magick, and his skeleton mages were quickly running out of power as the flimsy shields they conjured were completely unable to hold back the tide.

Once the second spell was done, Tyron began to move, putting distance between him and the casting location as once again his life force poured out and over his minions. His breath grew haggard as the vitality that sustained him withered away, his body becoming wracked with pain, but he didn’t stop.

When half of his life force had been given to his minions, he stopped the flow and took a moment to gather himself. Even with his absurdly robust constitution, there wasn’t enough to repair all the damage to such a large number of minions. He estimated he might have already lost a hundred or more, but it didn’t matter, there were so many more.

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“They’re ready to charge.”

The oddly distant voice came from his left, and Tyron turned to see Filetta standing there, indicating the mounted undead moving into position.

“Hopefully it works,” he grunted.

If it didn’t, he was going to be in trouble. He couldn’t afford to let this battle drag out any longer.

Tyron eyed his spectral steeds and the revenants riding them. Putting horses together had been a nightmare of experimentation, but the final product, he hoped, would be worth it. ṟ

Without a word, they charged, and Tyron raised his hands once more.

The skeletal cavalry stormed over the ground, a clear path opened for them by the other wights organising the troops. In a flying wedge with the wight who had once been Captain Janus of the Jorlin family guard at the head.

Even Tyron had to admit it was an intimidating sight. Each of the riders, along with their steeds, was covered in the heaviest, most durable bone armour he could forge. The plates themselves were also enchanted, making the riders by far the most resource-intensive minions he had ever created.

As they neared the front, Tyron once again began to cast. After the first few syllables were spoken, the rain of spells began again, only to halt when the skeletal riders came into view.

By then, it was too late.

With the mighty, ethereal wight at their head, the cavalry leaped directly over the front two rows of skeletons, their speed greatly enhanced by the blessing of bone. Soldiers recoiled in shock, but there was nowhere for them to go in the crush, and they could do nothing but raise their shields as the horses crashed down on them, their riders laying about with their swords.

The pressure on Tyron immediately lightened, and he raced to complete his spell. Power flowed as the words rang out, and in a few more moments he was done.

Death to Life. Just like the Field of Death, it was a spell that required constant upkeep, yet another drain on his resources, yet he felt, in this moment, it would be worth it.

With a mental command, Tyron drove his minions forward, pressing up himself as he began to throw more spells.

A rain of blows and magick fell on the skeletal riders, but they endured, shields raised and blades falling all about them. The undead horses kicked and tossed, causing mayhem through the lines as they soundlessly responded to their riders’ commands.

The charge of the cavalry had created a crack, and the undead poured into that opening like a collapsing wave. The trickle became a flood, the shouts of the living turned into the screams of the dying, and Tyron continued to press forward.

Shortly after, a burst of vitality reached him and Tyron gasped as the life-force flowed into his own. The pain in his limbs faded and the lethargic fugue he was experiencing lifted, if only slightly. Then another burst arrived, and Tyron closed his eyes.

His spell was working, reaping a harvest of life from the enemy fallen. Every burst of healing he received represented the death of a mortal, and he was sorely in need of the energy.

Spells from above continued to rain down, but they weren’t targeting anything in particular anymore, merely attempting to stem the flood of undead as they squeezed through the breached gate, driving back the defenders.

Push. PUSH! Tyron demanded of his undead, and they responded.

His skeletal warriors fought recklessly, burning through magick as they fought, heedless of their own survival, throwing themselves on the buckling enemy lines in an endless wave. More bursts of vitality reached Tyron, and he began to convert his life force into magick once again, seeking to fuel the increased expenditure of his minions.

Despite the punishment they were taking, his skeletal cavalry continued to stand tall, their thick plating absorbing blows and spells alike. Skillful and quick, they moved in perfect concert with their mounts, as if they shared a single mind, which to all intents and purposes, they did.

As the cauldrons advanced, so did the cloud of black mist, washing over the battleline, no longer able to be held back by the mages there. Once the soldiers were plunged into darkness, the flow of vitality into Tyron increased.

Then, the line broke.

When it happened, it happened rapidly. A desperate voice called for them to fall back to the Tower, and the Soldiers were running.

Tyron’s heart surged and he laughed as his undead streamed forward, cutting down whoever they could reach. The Red Tower was accessed by an enormous set of double doors, which had been open during the battle as the wounded who could be reached were taken inside during the fighting.

Now, in the midst of the desperate and chaotic retreat, they began to swing closed. Those within were clearly desperate to keep the skeletal horde out, even though their own allies would be left in the cold as well. Covered once more by the black mist, the undead spread quickly throughout the compound, encircling the tower as they continued to hunt anyone who’d been left outside.

Several Archers had made a run for it, leaping down from the outer wall and into the street, avoiding the skeletons who still remained outside and disappeared into the gathering night. For the Soldiers and mages who hadn’t been on the wall, escape was not so easy. In pockets here and there, they fought, desperate shouts and screams filling the night as the doors slammed shut, leaving dozens trapped outside.

Through it all, Tyron strode, his life force rapidly refilling as so many died around him.

The compound was now his, and the tower itself would soon follow.

“That worked out better than I expected,” Filetta mused beside him.

“You thought we were going to fail?” he asked, giving her a flat stare.

The wight chuckled, an odd sound coming from a ghastly skeleton.

“I’m going to be honest, Tyron. I thought this whole thing was completely insane. I never expected you to even get this far.”

“Then why go along with it?”

Filetta shrugged, flipping her black knives through her spirit flesh fingers.

“It’s better than being a disembodied spirit howling into the void.”

The Necromancer rather suspected that it was.

“So, what’s next?” she asked. “They’re all holed up inside the tower. Do you have a way in? Some trick you prepared in advance?”

“Something like that,” Tyron muttered, staring up at the tower.

Despite the death that surrounded him, Tyron was far from satisfied. There had been Magisters mixed in amongst the defenders, but the majority of them were still in the tower. Those were the lives he yearned to reap. Everyone who had fallen to this point was merely collateral damage.

Those doors would give way, and his undead would rush into the tower like a plague of locusts.

Vengeance was at hand.

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