Book Of The Dead

They noticed, of course they noticed. Shouts could be heard in the distance, feet pounding on the road, drawing closer. Questions, commands, one coming on top of the other.

Tyron blocked all of it out. There was only the ritual, only the magick.

Before they reached him, the ritual was complete. Rising from the ground came the arch of bone, inset in its centre, the door. Reaching out a hand, he opened it, sending a mental command the moment the space beyond became connected to the realm in which he stood.

“Oh SHIT!”

The Marshal at the forefront of the charge, the one Tyron had spoken to on the road, gaped in shock as the first skeleton emerged from the horrid archway. Dark purple light glowed in the eyes of the undead as it strode forth, shield and blade held at the ready. Then came the next, and the next.

Who’s to say what they expected to see, but the officers of the empire reacted with admirable speed. As others arrived, they quickly organised themselves and made a wise decision.

They tried to run.

Tyron was almost a little surprised when the order rang out.

“Retreat to the manor!”

Almost.

The Shivering Curse descended on them before they could take two steps. A penetrating cold drove straight into their muscles, locking them up, and then further, into their blood, freezing their hearts in their chests. Before they could adapt, the first of the skeletal soldiers were amongst them, and Tyron’s hands were still moving.

The undead moved with deadly grace and efficiency, crashing into the officers as they attempted to flee, using their rapidly swelling numbers to press their advantage, flinging themselves on their adversaries. Only two managed to escape the radius of the curse, but it was too late.

I really should have stored the revenants closest to the door instead of furthest away.

His latest creations were very different from his old revenants. Thieves and scoundrels, rather than proud slayers, they used very different methods to fight. As the Marshals attempted to flee, the former leaders of the ‘Guild’ hunted them down. Nimble, light and fast, they slipped alongside their targets, slashing and stabbing from tricky angles with long, curved blades made of bone.

It didn’t take long for the last of their opponents to fall.

“This is going to be annoying,” Tyron grumbled to himself. “Let’s get this cleaned up first. Put the bodies inside the Ossuary for now, then we can bring out the cauldrons.”

His skeletons moved to obey him, lifting up the bodies and laying them out neatly inside the door. Marshals weren’t exactly a combat Class, but they did have much better stat gain than the average farmer or citizen. Tyron was already looking forward to how well his next batch of undead would perform.

“Wha… what the fuck?!”

A strangled yell from closer to the road brought Tyron’s head around. Giff, the carriage driver, had come looking for him. Most unfortunate.

He didn’t make it back to the carriage.

“Damned fiend,” he choked, hand clutched to his shoulder where a spear of bone protruded, blood pouring into the grass.

“I apologise. I promise you that your remains and spirit won’t be touched after you pass. Die in peace.”

“Fuck y—”

Tyron ended it himself, then frowned when he realised what he’d done. Progression for his Class wasn’t granted if he fought for himself! Now the man’s death was doubly a waste. He wouldn’t repeat this error with the other driver, and he didn’t.

Two more bodies tucked into the Ossuary, and Tyron dismissed the door, ordering his minions to obscure the circle he had created as best they could. Such a hasty ritual, performed without the proper diligence he would normally exercise for such a spell, it was bound to leave significant traces. Hopefully, his lack of a focus would make the residue too difficult for someone to accurately read.

However, the significant use of Death Magick in the ritual was almost certainly detected by someone at the manor. He had to move quickly.

There were a little more than a hundred skeletons in total within the Ossuary, all he’d been able to create since his return to Kenmor. It would have to be enough.

There was no doubt in Tyron’s mind that every individual who had attacked the estate would need to die. Once he exposed himself, word of his existence had to be prevented from escaping. Not even altering their memories would be enough to ensure his anonymity. With the purge underway, everyone remotely close to an incident like this would be checked, and any manipulations would be quickly uncovered.

Dead men tell no tales.

There were four cauldrons in total, so Tyron divided them amongst his minions, splitting them into roughly equal groups. It wasn’t difficult to activate the constructs, there were magick-capable skeletons in each group who could perform the task, and they would be able to draw from the well of power contained within as they fought.

Rummaging through the luggage in the second wagon, Tyron found the case he was looking for and opened it. Inside, six orbs lay, each with a soft, ethereal glow around it.

With a gesture, he conjured the spirits forth, forcing them from their containment. The ghosts weren’t happy to be removed, but then again, they weren’t happy no matter what happened.

Scout the way, he ordered them, do not attack.

They rasped and hissed at him, the sounds of their ire scraping against the edge of his awareness, but he paid them no mind. With the ghosts leading the way, he fell in with one of his skeletal teams and began to ascend.

Lastly, he found another case, within the Ossuary this time, that contained the bones he had custom fashioned to form his latest armour. With a short spell, the armour rose into the air and fastened itself to his body. Adequately protected, he was ready to proceed.

The manor itself stood atop a hill, a little over a kilometre from the road. After splitting from the main road, the path followed a gentle curve, bending this way and that as it cut into the side of the slope until it ended at the house. Tyron didn’t take that route. Instead, he and his skeletons went off-road, hunting for those Marshals who were surely patrolling the wooded property.

If he’d arrived at night, things would have been so much easier. As it was, he needed to move cautiously, letting his ghosts roam until they found what he was looking for.

If a single Marshal saw his skeletons and managed to escape, it would be disastrous. With the purge already underway, it would be trivial to gather the levelled individuals necessary to hunt down a Necromancer, and they would prioritise it, no question. Despite all that he had gained, Tyron wasn’t ready to match the full might of the Western Province. Not remotely.

The first squad was dispatched easily, as was the second. Teams of five men and women who didn’t take their task lightly, the Marshals had been impossible to sneak up on, but he didn’t need to. All he had to do was get close enough to cast the Shivering Curse. Within that freezing field, they couldn’t run fast enough to escape the swiftest of his skeletons.

It was then that he ran into complications. There were more groups patrolling the grounds, he was sure of it, but he was unable to track them down. Perhaps they had retreated to the manor after noticing the others couldn’t be contacted? It was possible.

There was nothing else to do except advance on the manor.

After a final sweep of the land between the road and the house, Tyron gathered his minions together and sent the ghosts forward once more. The ethereal creatures drifted nearly invisibly, passing through the trees without disturbing a leaf until they reached the clearing.

With a simple spell, he looked through their eyes, and cursed at what he saw.

The manor was being ransacked. He didn’t know how long the Marshals had been here, perhaps only a few hours, but they would finish with the house and begin checking the various sheds and cellars soon. Kept under guard, the staff and perhaps even the owner of the property were still on site, bound and gagged, and many of the maids were openly weeping.

There had been fighting, too. Some semblance of resistance had been put up, but quickly overwhelmed, judging by the looks of things. A shame. He had met many of the men and women who now lay dead, dried blood splashed across their faces.

But the Marshals themselves… they weren’t alone. Several priests had accompanied them, along with several soldiers. These were the warriors of the noble houses, men and women trained, not to hunt rift-kin, but people.

Tyron almost couldn’t help the smile from tugging at the corner of his lips. He had to have them.

With no time available to draw up a sophisticated plan, he decided to simply commit with everything he had. So long as one of his minions reached the entrance to the cellar and pried it open, he would have an overwhelming advantage in numbers.

The defenders were on guard, watchful, but even so, they were momentarily stunned as a wave of black fog burst up around the manor before it rolled toward them. Covered by the darkness summoned by the cauldrons, Tyron marched forward along with his undead. His ghosts hunted for the soldiers, heading straight for them, but they were fast. The moment one of them felt the icy chill of the spirit on his flesh, he was gone, shifting to another place, calling out a warning to the others.

Of course it wouldn’t be easy….

Tyron’s hands were already moving as the first defenders were enveloped by the thick cloud of black mist.

Death Blades.

He poured his magick into the blessing, stretching the range as far as he could. Within the cellar, the skeletons' weapons began to glow with an ethereal light as they were infused with Death Magick.

Shivering Curse.

Again, Tyron cast the spell with all the force he could muster, widening the area of effect to cover as much ground as possible. If they wanted to confront his skeletons, they would have to do so on ground that favoured him.

Tyron committed everything he had, holding none of his skeletons or revenants back. The silent undead rushed forward on bony feet, their heels clacking against the stone pavers of the courtyard before the manor.

Terror gripped the enemy. Marshals cried out in fear as they caught glimpses of glowing purple eyes coming towards them from within the darkness. Priests called out to the Divines as they raised their staves, trying to invoke a blessing, of perhaps just praying to be spared.

The exception was the soldiers. They were decisive, and quick to act. Though there were only six of them, they moved to rally the rest of the officers quickly. He could hear their voices rising above the growing din, shouting out commands, demanding that the cowards turn and fight.

Yes. Turn and fight. It’ll be so much faster than having to hunt you down one by one.

As blades were drawn and the fighting grew more widespread, Tyron noted, pleased at how well his regular skeletons performed against the Marshals. Perhaps one on one they were still inferior, but that’s what their numbers were for. Following his commands, they were quite capable of fighting in small groups.

At least, for relatively small skirmishes like this. If he had thousands of skeletons on his side, there would be no way he could efficiently command so many.

His revenants, he sent against the soldiers. They were the only ones with any chance at all to stall the soldiers long enough for him to get to the cellar. With a silent command, he ordered his trapped minions to try and force their way out from inside.

As the hundreds of undead came to life, he felt the drain on his magick increase precipitously. Although, it was nowhere near what it should have been. His investments in efficiency and enchanting to help defray the costs of his undead continued to pay dividends.

Right now, there were over three hundred minions moving, all following his commands, yet the draw on his personal reserves was still manageable. More than manageable.

With a deep feeling of satisfaction, he flicked his eyes around the battlefield before judging that the way was clear. Best he keep his minions in the fight and go to the cellar himself, keep himself out of sight and out of harm's way.

After watching the unfolding battle for a moment, he judged he was safe and began to run through the darkness. The skeletons wielding the cauldrons had remained back from the frontlines, protecting the constructs as they continued to pour out the black mist. He slipped straight past them, moving to the westward-facing side of the house. It didn’t take long for him to leave the darkness behind, reaching the edge of the cloud and emerging into the light, but he didn’t stop moving.

There it was!

The cellar door was twitching and jumping as his minions pounded against it from the inside. The damned thing was sturdy, way more sturdy than it needed to be.

He’d found that a comfort when originally locking his undead in there, knowing they would be safe, but now it was extremely inconvenient. As he ran, Tyron reached a hand within his armour and removed a small sliver of bone, words of power already rolling from his tongue.

With a thought, he urged his minions to retreat from the doors as he flung a hand forward, launching the bone shard through the air. Like a howling dervish, it blasted through the air and crashed into the wooden doors, splintering them.

His undead surged against the doors again. It wouldn’t be long now until they broke through. All he had to do was wait.

Might as well find a spot to conceal myself until they break free….

He began to look around, only catching a glimpse of something flashing toward him at the last moment.

He raised his arm to neck height out of pure instinct, only for his own limb to crash into his face, sending him sprawling.

Throbbing pain exploded in his arm as he rolled across the dirt, scrambling to his feet as quickly as possible.

“Thought I had you there,” the soldier grinned at him. “You’re quick, for a dead man.”