Book of The Dead

The arrows continued to be fired from above, but little resulted from it. These weren’t professional archers or even casual hunters shooting, after all, but it forced the bandits to approach with a little caution and Tyron was grateful for the extra time.

“Any advice?” he asked, his voice shaking.

“Not really. Try to keep a cool head. Remain aware of your surroundings… that’s about it.”

“I… I’ll try.”

“That’s the spirit. Now come on, kill some shit.”

The words of his friend twisted in his gut slightly. Despite everything that had happened, he still found it difficult to kill people.

It’s either them or you, Tyron. You wouldn’t blink twice if Yor killed them. Do it!

The young Necromancer grit his teeth and hardened his will. He wouldn’t die here, he refused to allow it.

The bandits advanced steadily, huddled together with their crude shields held high. Forty metres. Thirty metres.

The moment they crossed that threshold, Tyron stepped forward. He spoke the words, snapped out a few gestures and then thrust his palm forward. The magick bolt sped from his open hand, crunching into a leading man’s thigh. The bandit cried out and collapsed to one knee as the others flicked their eyes from the windows to the young Mage.

Tyron’s hands were already moving when someone, possibly Monty, yelled “Run!”, the second bolt flying out to slam into a shield that dropped just enough to take the blow.

As a group they charged, rushing over the final gap as the Necromancer skipped back into the protective ring of skeletons, his hands already in motion as the Words of Power rolled from his tongue.

The two lines clashed with shouts of anger from the bandits and cold, emotionless steel from the skeletons. With their shields up, his front rank of minions absorbed the initial blows, but were pushed backwards by the belligerent men. Tyron felt his magick reserves drop precipitously as the skeletons drew deeply on his power to strengthen themselves.

Bony heels dug into the grit and skeletal fingers curled around the handles of their weapons as the purple fire in their eyes ignited all the brighter.

In the relatively narrow gap between buildings, the bandits couldn’t use their full numbers to beat down on his minions, but they could brace against each other and push into his line. Unable to match the force being applied to them, his front line began to buckle.

He couldn’t panic. If he lost his composure and failed to cast, he was dead.

Words and gestures came together in a final flourish as he completed the spell.

Death Blades.

The dark energy of Death manifested around the blades of his minions, causing the bandits to pull back slightly. When the skeletons struck, their blades bit deeper than before, empowered by his spell. It was an equaliser, but not enough on its own.

No time to rest. Tyron snatched an Arcane Crystal from his pouch and stuffed it between his teeth before he began to cast again.

The sound of metal on metal, the shouts and screams of combat, the faces twisted with rage in front of him combined to overwhelm his senses. The young Mage pushed his concentration to the limit and took another long step back to put more distance between himself and the brawl as he continued to work.

The Shivering Curse would help even the playing field even further, slowing and weakening the bandits. Once that spell was in place, he’d be free to cast bolts or attempt to dominate minds to tip the balance even further.

“Get the fucker!” he heard Monty yell as the bandits surged again, shoving into the skeleton wall, hard. “Once ’e’s dead it’s over!”

You have to get past the minions first, idiot, Tyron sneered in his mind as he continued to cast his spell.

A dull impact rocked his left side, throwing off his rhythm. Surprised, he glanced down to see a handaxe lodged into his bone armour. A second later, the pain blossomed as blood began to flow.

He froze in shock for a full second before he ducked to the side, just in time to avoid another axe hurled from the rear of the bandit pack.

“Fuck!” he cursed as he used his right hand to pull the crude hatchet from his shoulder.

A roar went up from the bandits when they realised he’d been wounded and they surged again. The skeletons pushed back, drawing more power from their master to fight. Tyron grimaced and sucked on the mage candy harder, trying to supplement his own energy.

A quick flex of his left hand revealed the extent of the damage. He could use it, but it hurt like hell. If he hadn’t had the bone armour on, it would have gone much deeper, perhaps even lodged in the bone.

You blasted idiot, he cursed himself.

Of course they could throw shit at him. They might not be trained soldiers, but they were smart enough to throw a damned axe or knife. He’d looked down on them.

He twitched as he felt one of his skeletons go down. They’d managed to grip its shield and pull it forward away from the others. Exposed, a sharp blow to the skull had been enough to see it off.

Not going out like this. No fucking way.

To make himself a harder target, Tyron slid down onto his knees and began to cast the Shivering Curse once more. The pain in his shoulder was fierce, but he forced himself to bear it. He couldn’t afford the delay a one-handed cast would cost him.

Another skeleton went down as the fighting at the front intensified. Monty was urging his men to push forward, his voice rising above the din as he cursed and roared at them to fight harder. It wasn’t going well.

Don’t think about it. Focus!

Nothing mattered but the spell. Finish the spell!

Shivering Curse.

The moment the spell completed, he felt the heat around him drain away. In the epicentre of the magick, it was sure to feel much worse. The cold suffused air began to leach into the bandits, slowing their movements and buying more time.

“What the hell is this?!”

The slight hint of fear in that voice was music to Tyron’s ears. If one broke and ran, more would follow. He rose from the ground, but kept his head down, wary of being hit again. Blood continued to flow from his wound and he could only spit in frustration that he hadn’t brought anything to bandage himself or stem the flow.

He flicked his eyes upward. It was still light, but not for long. Every minute brought the sun lower on the horizon.

“Ignore it! Push through!” Monty bellowed.

The second rank of skeletons thrust their weapons awkwardly, not coordinated enough to take advantage of the narrow openings when they appeared. Even so, they’d managed to score a hit here and there. Several of the bandits were bleeding and several more had suffered from wounds inflicted by the archers above.

Annette was still screaming and shouting like a demon, as were a few others, but Tyron couldn’t hear well enough to know what they were saying. Perhaps just as well.

He clutched at the sword on his waist again, but let it go just as quickly. With his poor skill, there was no point drawing it. He needed another spell.

The Necromancer locked eyes with one of the bandits in the front row, a scruffy bearded man who looked no older than twenty-five. Muscled like a smith or labourer, he sported a savage grin as he rammed his crude shield against the skeleton line over and over, trying to break them.

You’ll do.

Deftly, he wove together a shorter magick, desperate to slow the enemy’s momentum.

Fear.

Suppress Mind may have worked, but he didn’t want to expose himself to a potentially difficult battle of wills in the middle of the fight. He’d be unable to focus on himself and likely be brained by a thrown brick or some other nonsense.

Instead, he wanted to weaken the bandit frontline. What better way than to inflict them with fear?

A wry grunt of satisfaction left him as he felt the spell complete and take hold, his target immediately stiffening, eyes going wide. There were many aspects to the spell that Tyron didn’t understand, but he knew enough to understand that the magick was somewhat akin to a spike, one that drove deep into the target mind and unleashed something upon it.

The powerfully built bandit began to shake as his wild eyes flicked around himself, as if seeing things that weren’t there. Low, pitiful moans dripped from his lips, almost inaudible in the din, and his arms fell limp by his side as he tried to flinch away from the skeletons in front of him.

Magick Bolt.

The spell slammed into the man’s exposed head with a sickening crunch, and down he went. Confused shouts rose from amongst the bandits as they pulled their man back, but Monty’s voice rose over all of them.

“Get that fucking kid!”

Tyron ducked as a wave of thrown weapons came his way, half a dozen of them crashing into his skeletons and throwing them off balance, the others missing their target entirely.

“Who’s next?!” he yelled back at them.

He put all the confidence he could muster into his tone, but inside, he didn’t feel it. He clutched at his wounded shoulder with his right hand. His clothes were slick with blood now, he was starting to feel light headed. That wasn’t good.

He was preparing to start another spell when he realised someone was tugging on his cloak. He spun quickly, throwing the small boy behind him off balance and down into the dirt. The kid looked up at him with fear and cringed.

“What?” Tyron demanded. “Quickly!”

The boy shivered before he raised a shaking hand, pointing back to the courtyard.

“More come,” he stammered. “From the south!”

Shit.

“Get back inside, hurry,” he urged the boy as he pulled him up with his good arm and pushed him back toward the house.

A quick cast of minion sight confirmed what the kid had said. His five reserve skeletons could see men approaching, though he couldn’t be sure how many there were. In a minute, they’d be in the courtyard.

What could he do? By the five, what could he do?!

He tried to calm down and think. He could abandon the fight here and try to deal with this new group. His skeletons would fare much worse without his support. Death Blades and the Shivering Curse wouldn’t last forever, and when they ran out, the remaining bandits would make short work of his minions. But if he could finish the others and come back before that happened, he may still be able to hold.

He could order his minions to return and protect his back from this new group. He’d be fighting on both sides, but he’d be surrounded by skeletons and able to influence both fronts at least.

But that would mean nothing was preventing the new group from entering the houses.

“Damn it,” he ground out.

He ordered his remaining minions to hold the line, turned and dashed away as he ripped his sword free. His left hand felt numb now, but he could still move it. That would have to do.

He ran to where his five minions were gathered and directed them forward to confront the new group.

When they came into sight, his heart sank. There were ten of them, grinning as they swung their crude weapons back and forth in their calloused and dirty hands.

“Oy there, lad,” one laughed, “ready to get what’s comin’ to ya?”

Tyron flashed a magick bolt straight into his gut.

“Shut up and die,” he spat, “I don’t have the time.”

As one of their number collapsed with a groan, clutching at his belly, the smug looks vanished from the others’ faces and they advanced quickly to engage his skeletons.

No time to work up a spell, Tyron realised his magick was draining incredibly rapidly and crunched down on the crystal in his mouth, shattering it instantly. He snatched another from his pouch and threw it in his mouth before he brought his blade up to divert a crude swing.

He hadn’t trained in a long time, and it showed in his clumsy form. His father would have shaken his head in despair if he’d seen how slow his son’s riposte had been, but in the moment, Tyron didn’t care. By some miracle, he actually connected and cut a deep line in his attacker’s arm before he shuffled back to make some space. Outnumbered, his skeletons were being battered, and there were still two more men coming after him, as the one he’d injured picked himself up and swapped weapon hands.

“Yer fucking dead,” the bandit growled.

“You first,” Tyron growled back.

The two men rushed him, and Tyron tried to slip to his right, slashing a wide cut to discourage them, but his footing was terrible. Off balance, the swing lacked power and the farmhand batted it aside with what looked like a woodcutter’s axe.

Pull it back faster than you send it out, his father’s voice whispered in his ear, attack fast, regain your form faster. That’s the key.

He moved almost instinctively, pulling the blade back to himself as the axeman brought his weapon high with a bellow.

The point does more damage than the blade, son. The blade’s the flashy bit, the point is for killing.

It was a terrible stab. His weight wasn’t fully behind the strike, the line of his arms wasn’t correct, the angle of the blade wasn’t straight, but against an unarmoured man, it hardly mattered. Before the axe could come crashing down on him, the blade slid straight through the bandit.

Between the fifth and sixth rib, he noted, detached.

The air burst out of the man and he dropped. Tyron watched the light fade from his eyes for a short moment before his other opponent attacked, slamming into his left side and knocking him off his feet.

Tyron sprawled in the dirt, trying to avoid landing on his injury as he rolled. He tried to bring his blade up, but the bandit was there too fast. Metal flashed in the dying light and Tyron scrambled to one side, narrowly avoiding the strike. He got back to his feet just in time to catch the next attack on his blade.

The bandit surged forward, locking their two weapons together as he tried to use his weight to bear down on him. The man’s stinking breath blew straight into his face and the mage quickly realised this was a fight he was going to lose. With his left arm injured and with less physical strength, he’d be overpowered in short order.

Drop the left and cast a bolt as quick as I can.

Just as he pulled his left hand from the hilt and began to flick the gestures required, something speared into his opponent in the corner of his vision. The bandit went stiff, just as shocked as Tyron before he collapsed to the side.

Stunned, Tyron turned to see a furious farmwife, tears running down her face, with a pitchfork gripped in both hands.

“Glynnis?” he gaped.

“Kill the bastards!” she screamed as she ran forward, half a dozen others on her heels.