Book of The Dead

A few things snapped into place at once for Tyron. He was no rift expert, but he had obsessively studied everything related to slayers since he was able to read. A rift forming was a major, disastrous event, shifting the flow of magick in a wide area. Depending on the size of the rift, it could manifest in a cataclysmic detonation of power similar to what had happened at the Nagrathyn rift.

Another realm connecting to this one could have created enough of a disruption to cause the break that had devastated the western province. He could learn more by talking to the villagers later. For now, he had a battle to win.

At his direction, his skeletal archers began to focus on the ice-creatures, peppering them with bone-formed arrows. At the wall, the fight had degenerated into a battle of attrition. Skeletons stabbed at targets whenever they could, the archers fired rapidly, burning through the limited ammunition and his revenants stalked up and down the wall, waiting for something to break through.

Except for the former swordsman, Tyron kept it by his side for safety.

With limited options on what he could provide to the battle, he hurriedly got to work casting Death Blades. Anything he did to support his undead would help them end the threat more quickly and preserve themselves.

Interestingly, it also worked on the arrows of his archers, the arrowheads burning with dark energy just as the swords and speartips did.

Need to get somewhere I can be useful.

Without line of sight to the battlefield, the rest of his magick, limited as it was, wouldn’t be useful at all. He ran to the platform his archers had positioned themselves on and stood amongst them, looking out over the wall.

The smaller rift-kin continued to fall each time they charged, which was beginning to cause a problem. As their bodies piled up at the edge of the wall, they formed a small mound that let the next charge hit a little higher up. Some of the boar creatures were even able to bite and lunge at his skeletons when they stood on enough of their fallen kin.

The main threat continued to be the humanoid ice creatures. Already, a few skeletons had fallen to their frozen hands, which seemed to cut straight through a skull as it they were made of paper.

He had his targets.

With his growing strength, Tyron could form magick bolts with incredible speed, snapping them into existence with both hands in under a second. It was impressive progress, but it remained a weak, base level spell.

Picking his moment, he flung both bolts at the next ice creature to approach the wall. As it reared up to its full height and challenged his skeletons, Tyron let his spells rip. More practice was needed to improve his aim… only one spell hit, but it was enough to shatter a portion of the creature. Ice shards sprayed into the air, the kin clutching at its shoulder.

Shoot at my target, he commanded the archers next to him and they silently obeyed.

Empowered with Death Magick, the arrows were able to bite deeper into the ice, wounding the kin further. Tyron rapidly formed another pair of magick bolts and flung them at the monster, more accurately this time. Two more detonations and the creature reeled back. Its mouth opened wide, unleashing an unearthly screech like crackling ice before it swept out with one long arm, slashing through a skeleton’s eyes, causing it to fall.

Dammit.

He was losing too many skeletons. He had to focus and bring down those ice creatures as quickly as he could. Targeting the next closest one, he prepared Death’s Grasp. The kin turned its head towards him, as if sensing what he was doing, and began to stride forward, but there was no way it could reach him before the spell was completed.

Thrusting a hand forward, a wave of Death Magick sped over the intervening distance, wrapping around the target and immobilising it. Another command to his archers and they began to pepper the locked down monster with arrows. A moment later, he fired two magick bolts at it, both connecting before the Grasp had faded.

Still alive, but badly wounded, the kin began to slink away and he let it, turning his attention to more dangerous targets.

In this manner, the fight dragged on, the wall receiving a battering, but holding up against the onslaught as his skeletons pushed back against the tide. Whenever he saw an opportunity, he would try to snipe one of the larger kin, either dominating its mind and having his archers fire at it, or locking it down with Death’s Grasp. After another three had fallen in this manner, the rest were much more cautious in how they approached, which suited Tyron down to the ground. His casualties had slowed tremendously thanks to their reticence.

Eventually, the citizens of Cragwhistle were able to regroup themselves and rejoin the fight. Even Ortan recovered enough to take a place at the wall alongside the undead, swinging with a long-handled hammer over the barricade to swat away rift-kin that drew too close.

Perhaps it was his example that persuaded the others. Once Ortan showed his willingness to fight, the others rushed to join, picking up their bows and whatever else they could find. It took time, but eventually, the kin were driven off or slaughtered, piled high against the flimsy wooden barricade.

Splintered in places and completely broken in others, the barricade was in desperate need of repair. The boars had broken clean through in several spots, and only the timely intervention of the revenants had prevented the line from crumbling.

Tyron remained standing on the platform, breath burning in his lungs and body screaming for energy. A protracted battle was still devastating to his reserves, especially with this many minions. He had to make some choices to improve the efficiency of his force. A status ritual was also overdue. A few more levels would help alleviate his problems, though likely not solve them.

All around, people stood, trying to catch their breath, nursing wounds, muttering quietly to each other. There was an uneasy feeling in the air, and the Necromancer knew he was the cause.

He could feel irritated that these people still weren’t comfortable around him now that he’d saved them twice, but he chose not to. It wasn’t hard to understand their hesitation. Trust wasn’t built overnight, even in desperate circumstances.

Luckily enough, he’d avoided any wounds, none of the kin had been able to threaten him at range, the perfect fight for his Class. He was ready to travel at any time.

May as well head back to the graveyard and regroup. Plenty of skeletons need repairs, I can make more ammunition and then come back later.

He needed to know what was going on here.

Before he could leave, Ortan jogged up to him, hammer in hand. Tyron tensed, but he had his ghosts with him, along with his revenants. He should be safe enough. He jumped to meet with the man.

“I really can’t thank you enough,” the big man said, extending a hand.

Tyron eyed him askance for a moment before he reached out to take it. Up close, Ortan didn’t look that old, despite his intimidating size. Probably in his early twenties, which meant he had Awakened some time in the last few years.

“I’m happy to help,” Tyron said, then smiled, “but I’ll probably need more bones to compensate.”

“I figured you say that.”

Releasing his hand, the big man stepped forward and clapped him on the shoulder before turning to the others.

“Come on then, you lot,” he called to the others, “come and give your thanks to the Necromancer for pulling our hides out of the fire.”

Tyron really wanted to tell him not to bother, he didn’t like interacting with others that much at the best of times, but to his surprise, the villagers barely hesitated before coming to thank him.

True, very few of them met his eye, but he could tell they were grateful. It was almost enough to bring a tear to his eye. After being rejected by people for so long, it felt good to be thanked for doing the right thing. He’d killed rift-kin and been applauded for it. He felt like a Slayer.

Ortan and a few others gathered to divvy up jobs across the villagers with a kind of efficiency that indicated they had done this a few times before. By the time they were done, people were fetching wood, repairing the barricade, helping the wounded and sorting through the dead kin.

I should barter for a share of the cores.

Plenty of gold remained from his looting of Woodsedge, but a little extra currency in the form of cores wouldn’t go astray. He could even get a little enchanting done if he could find someone willing to work with him. Vastly cheaper if he were able to provide his own cores.

Ortan walked up to him, an exhausted expression on his face.

“Sorry to leave you standing around so long.”

“It’s not a problem. I should probably get going anyway.”

The man looked surprised.

“What? Why?”

“To get my undead out of the way, if nothing else,” Tyron gestured to the tight huddle of skeletons he’d created to try and prevent them blocking anyone.

The big man blanched a little to see the undead, clearly he had an aversion to them, but he waved Tyron’s words away.

“Nonsense,” he declared. “You can stay in the village tonight, and for as long as you like. You saved us and we won’t forget it.” He leaned closer before he continued. “It takes us a little while to warm up to people. Trust is earned here in the mountains. I think you’ve earned a fair bit here today.”

“Well… that’s kind of you,” Tyron said.

He certainly wasn’t used to this sort of treatment from people who knew what he was. How long since he’d been welcome amongst other people? It seemed like years ago he’d been sleeping in his Aunt and Uncle’s attic, attending lessons in Foxbridge.

“Come on then,” Ortan gestured, “I’ll take you in at my place, I have a spare bed. We can talk there in private, I can tell you have questions.”

Minutes later, Tyron sat down at Ortan’s table, his skeletons lined up in neat ranks outside, though not where the villager could see them. A mug slammed down in front of him and Ortan began to fill it with a foamy, dark beer.

“Brewed local. We use it to strip paint as well.”

Tyron took a drink and immediately fell into a coughing fit as the fiery brew burned down his throat.

“Sounds like good shit,” Dove sighed. “Wish I could still drink.”

Their host hesitated for a moment, then shrugged and poured a brew for the skull as well, though he avoided looking directly at him.

“Wouldn’t want to be accused of poor hospitality.”

Dove sounded genuinely touched as he thanked the man, getting Tyron to raise an eyebrow. All Ortan needed to do now was buy him a prostitute and he’d be Dove’s best friend forever.

“The rift,” he said as the big man sat down heavily in the chair opposite. “What is going on out there? For how long?”

Ortan groaned as he enjoyed a pull from his own mug.

“Give me a second,” he said, “it’s been a rough day.”

He collected himself.

“Just after the break, immediately after, really. It was only a few at first, not a big deal, but we suspected something was wrong. Only problem was…”

“You were cut off.”

“Exactly. With kin running wild in the lowlands, it wasn’t safe to travel. We could have sent ten people with no guarantee they wouldn’t be dead in a ditch. The village got together and decided we’d hole up here as best we could and send for help when the monsters had been cleared out.”

A dangerous strategy, but probably the right one. It would have worked, except…

“The attacks got too large, too quickly.”

Ortan nodded heavily.

“We were able to hold on for a while, when it was just the little ones, but when the ice creatures showed up…” he paused and took another long drink. “We lost people,” he said shortly.

All those fresh graves. They’d lost a lot of people.

“You could have asked me for help when I saved you the first time; why didn’t you?”

“The village wasn’t ready to hand their safety over to an illegal. With the kin you helped kill, we figured the plains were clear and we could get a message out. Surely, the Slayers wouldn’t be too far away. With their help, we could secure the passes and wait for reinforcements. If another rift opens, they’ll build a Keep here, right? At least, that’s what we thought. When I saw those kin coming down from the mountain, I knew we wouldn’t be able to hold against that many, so I ran to get you.”

This situation was perilous for the villagers. It was far too dangerous for them to remain.

“You should evacuate,” Tyron told him. “The plains are clear of kin, you can head to a secure village and base yourselves there. The kin won’t stray too far from the rift, at least not for a while, so you’ll be safe until the Slayers come.”

He hadn’t even finished before Ortan was shaking his head.

“I’ve tried to convince people. They just won’t leave. Some stubborn and downright stupid blood runs through these mountain villages.”

The way he said it clued Tyron in.

“You weren’t born local?” he said.

“No,” the big man replied. “I moved here after my Ascension. Not many places for a Mason to work where he can be his own master. I didn’t feel like slaving away in the city for ten years under apprentice contract, so I came out here.”

He drank again.

“These people were born here and they’ll die here, simple as that.”

Madness, as far as Tyron was concerned.

“You need help, then. Slayer help.”

He sighed.

“I think I might be able to get you some. Sooner rather than later.”