Book of The Dead

Chapter B3C39 - The Skeletal Legion

As he watched his minions sort themselves into neat ranks, Tyron felt a surge of pride at what he had accomplished. The skeletons moved smoothly, with balance and strength. Despite having such a large group on the move, he was more than capable of supplying the magick required, proving his efforts in enchantment were paying immense dividends.

Particularly here.

As a mage, he was sensitive to arcane energy, and the way it filled this place was… disturbing. Magick swelled and overflowed here, an abundance that felt suffocating, like a thick blanket pressed over his senses. It was warm and comforting, but no less dangerous than a blade to the throat. It was this power that had ruined this realm, destroyed all that had lived here and that power now produced the rift-kin, sending them out to spread the contagion.

Magick and the Unseen, blessings and curses.

“How far ahead, kid? I can’t see a fucking thing. I’m as blind as a decapitated cow in a mineshaft.”

“Not far,” Tyron replied, directing his troops. “You’ll see them in a second.”

Responding to his mental commands, his archers formed up, notched arrows, drew their bows and fired. In the horrific wind, it was impossible to fire with any accuracy, but sheer numbers counted for something. The shots flashed out into the blizzard, less than half finding their mark.

A trumpeted bellow of rage resounded, followed by others as more kin answered the call. The ground rumbled beneath their feet as Tyron focused, shifting his troops. Of course, he couldn’t just focus on that alone, he had a role to perform that was greater than simply telling his skeletons where to stand. Words of power began to puncture the air as he formed the magick, hands flashing through the sigils he shaped with consummate skill.

Death Blades.

Cast over a much wider area, the spell settled across his army as they braced. The moment he was finished, his hands began to flash once more, the next spell coming hard on the heels of the first.

Through the storm came a mammoth, just like the one Tyron had faced outside the rift at Cragwhistle. The only difference was, this mammoth wasn’t alone.

Two more thundered forward behind it as Tyron’s skeletons moved to intercept. Spears thrust forward as the light and nimble undead skated to the sides of the beasts, avoiding their charges even with the sleet and snow making the footing uncertain.

Ethereal bowstrings thrummed and another wave of arrows was fired, much more effective at such close range. He moved his archers like skirmishes, sending them forward, then scattering them as the rime-coated tusks of the mammoths swept in their direction.

Show me what you can do.

He ordered Laurel forward, along with his first mage skeleton. The first snatched an arrow from the quiver strapped to her bony hip and fired it at a speed and power unclassed humans could never hope to match. Even without reaching bronze rank, Laurel had trained her Skills and invested her feats wisely, it seemed. Alongside, the mage began to shift its hands, taking far, far too long to weave the simple magick, but eventually a death bolt was formed, the shadow ball of death magick streaking through the air to smack into a mammoth.

The beasts bellowed in fury as the continual barrage of stinging arrows and spears began to penetrate their thick coats. They swung their heads, sweeping their tusks across the ground in wide arcs that forced Tyron’s minions to dance back, though they weren’t always fast enough.

Get in the fight.

Propelled by his will, Rufus, or what remained of him, stepped forward, two handed sword held tight in his skeletal hands. Alongside him, Tyron committed the rest of his longsword-wielding skeletons.

As they surged forward, he finished casting his spell, flinging his hands down to point at the ground beneath his feet. Energy poured from him and manifested as a billowing cloud of black energy that spread rapidly. Tyron himself was quickly enveloped within as the cloud expanded.

Already empowered by Stormwise, his cast of Black Miasma expanded with eerie silence and shocking speed. Soon, the cloud had encompassed the entire battlefield, blinding the living and eating at their flesh while the undead were empowered, drawing in the energy to fuel themselves.

Thankfully, Tyron himself was immune from the negative effects, otherwise he likely would have killed himself by casting this magick.

“This is a good spell,” Dove observed, looking around himself.

“Didn’t you want to kill kin?” Tyron asked him, then pointed. “There they are, go get them.”

“You want me to kill one of those mammoths? I don’t exactly have a lot of firepower right now.”

“Give it a shot. Otherwise, you could just stand around scratching your own backside, I suppose.”

“I don’t have a backside, thank you very much,” Dove sniffed before he turned and brought up his hands.

Able to speak the words of power, he expertly wove a Death Bolt, following the patterns Tyron had taught him, firing the bolt of energy into the nearest target. The speed and power of the spell was vastly better than what his revenant had produced, and the Necromancer turned and glared at the undead, who remained next to Laurel, firing the spell over and over again.

Fueled by the miasma, the longsword skeletons charged forward, Rufus at the front. They descended upon the flank of an unsuspecting and enraged mammoth, leaping forward and sinking their blades up to their hilts in the creature’s side.The beast immediately reared back, pulling several unsuspecting minions from their feet, before it wheeled and stomped down, but the skeletons were already gone.

Pleased with the sight, Tyron couldn’t repress a savage grin. The clumsy, stumbling skeletons he had started with were nowhere to be seen. His treatment of the remains was better, the weaving of the musculature and ligaments couldn’t be compared, the extra magick the minions could draw on, and the improved Raise Dead ritual all combined to produce a transformative improvement. Now his undead moved with sure feet and rapid steps, their light frames carrying them over the snow and muck with ease.

Unfortunately, as the minions fought, they drew on the miasma deeply, both to heal any damage and to fuel their movements, depleting the spell much faster than Tyron had anticipated. Briefly, he considered casting it again, but after carefully examining the battlefield, he decided against it.

The mammoth beset by his longsword skeletons was faltering. With a thought, his archers switched targets, and began to pepper the ailing monster, alongside Dove and his revenant mage. Unable to turn and face any foe without being exposed to another, the beast could do nothing but succumb to the death-infused blades of the skeletons.

With one of the great creatures down, the skeletons charged at another mammoth, quickly overwhelming it before they turned on the last. Against overwhelming numbers, nimble opponents and the suffocating miasma, the mammoths were dispatched with minimal damage to Tyron’s budding horde.

“By the blessed buns of the Goddess,” Dove exclaimed, “I can’t believe how well that went! Three of those mammoth creatures, and they were slaughtered! I guess it’s true what they say about Necromancers.”

Despite the victory, and the welling pride Tyron felt, he didn’t allow it to distract him.

“We have to move,” he chattered, suddenly reminded of the cold now that the frenetic battle was over. “We still have a little way to travel before we reach the rift.”

Skeletons rushed back to form into ranks while others began to carve through the remains. Tyron certainly wouldn’t turn his back on cores if they were right in front of him.

Despite the cold, he felt something from his minions and took a moment to hunt it down.

Unsurprisingly, the source of the disturbance was his new revenants. Resentment and anger swirled in each of them, though it positively stormed inside of Rufus. Unable to direct their rage at the cause, namely himself, they were left screaming within their own souls.

A dreadful fate.

Perhaps some were deserving of this existential torture, but how many who were not would he subject to this torment before the end came? That thought would have bothered Tyron once, but not now. Now, the answer was simple: as many as it took.

When the cores were retrieved, Tyron finished forming his ranks and proceeded to march forward to the rift, eager to be free of the cold. As he expected, the ice-kin he had encountered before swarmed around the opening, trying to push through into the other realm. With his numerous minions, Tyron stormed through them, using the Black Miasma once more to cover the rift and secure the opening.

He directed his undead to form a protective circle around him as he magickally enhanced his eyes. Momentarily blinded by the surging arcane power all around him, he staggered and clutched at his head.

“It’s pretty wild, right?” Dove said from beside him.

All the magick Tyron felt in his own world came from rifts such as this one. The amount of energy flooding through even this tiny rift was staggering. A torrent of power screaming through like an ocean forcing itself through a barn door.

He had travelled through this rift once before, but Yor had handled the journey, fulfilling the agreement she had struck with Magnin and Beory. This time, he would have to manage it himself.

As he stepped forward, Tyron felt as if he should have been swept from his feet by the raging arcane winds, but of course, they had no effect on the physical realm. His eyes told him the maelstrom existed, but he couldn’t feel it, it didn’t buffet or throw him from his feet. This close, the rift warped reality, bending space and perhaps even time in strange and unpredictable ways. It was a dangerous place to be and he had no intention of staying long.

Planting both feet in the snow and ice, Tyron thrust forward his hands and began to speak. Immediately, he felt as if he had slammed his mind into a brick wall, but he didn’t allow it to perturb him. The words flowed smoothly from his lips and his hands danced gracefully, shaping the power that poured out of him.

Manipulating a rift in any way was fraught with dangers, but stabilising it to allow smooth passage was a necessity. As each word was spoken, the air around Tyron resonated like a bell. Every syllable dropped like a hammer blow that he used to shape reality and bend it to his will.

Bit by bit, a small pocket of stability began to take form around him, then extend, little by little, into the rift.

All around, his skeletons fought without his direction, pushing back the rift-kin who trickled toward the rift, drawn to it almost mindlessly. He tasked his revenants with fighting on the frontline, hoping to preserve as many of his base soldiers as possible for the grind ahead.

By the time he allowed himself to lower his hands, frozen sweat clung to Tyron’s face and his mind ached. But he had been successful.

“You want to go first?” he asked Dove.

Without a word, the onyx-skeleton sprung through, whooping. The Necromancer shook his head before he issued the mental command. His guard of sword and shield wielding skeletons formed around him and Tyron stepped forward, pushing through the rift and back to his home realm.

According to Beth, Cragwhistle had gone through significant change since he had last seen it. He was a little curious to find out if she was right.