Book of The Dead

Skeletal archers pulled back on their ghostly strings and loosed, sending arrows forged of bone whistling through the air to shatter against the trees.

As low on resources as he was, he couldn’t afford a dragged out fight… unless.

He had one, maybe two Arcane Crystals left in his pack. If he could get to the cave, he would be able to replenish at least a little of his magick. As it stood, he was in a precarious position. Marshals weren’t just a job title, they were a Class, or a set of Classes, that imbued the individual with unusual abilities.

Since he was a criminal, those skills would be highly effective against him. He had to fight assuming a single touch would be enough to seal his magick and bind him.

Skeletons rearranged themselves into loose ranks, forming a wide box around him. Shielded, he began to march forward, angling his way down the slope toward his cave.

“This seems very inspiring,” Tyron called down to the Marshals. “You waited until I was exhausted defending the village, and only then did you emerge to declare me a murderer. Very fair.”

Not a flicker of emotion troubled the bland-faced Marshal’s expression, nor on those of the officers behind him. They didn’t even bother to reply, spreading out to approach him from different angles.

What would be their approach? Attempt to whittle down his minions? Or come for him directly? If they had the ability, they probably would have attempted to charge straight at him. That was the best way to fight a Necromancer, if you could pull it off. Although, as weakened as he was, it may be better to drag it out. The longer it went on, the worse his disadvantage would become.

“Wait… is that fucking Langdon? Hey, Langdon, you shitbreather! Remember me? You better, after all the shit you put me through! Still got a stick rammed all the way up your arsehole, I can still see it poking out your mouth!”

Despite trying to keep himself composed, Tyron stumbled at Dove’s outburst.

“You know him?” he said, pointing to the Marshal who’d spoken to him.

“Know him? I fucking hate him! He recruited me to try and track you down after that bullshit you pulled in Woodsedge.”

He was from Woodsedge? That helped explain how pissed he was.

“Another one of your victims?” Langdon said, eyes flicking to the skull tied to Tyron’s waist. “How many of these skeletons represent a life you stole?”

“Hey, I’m not a victim! Not in the normal sense, I suppose. I mean, I am being kept here against my will….”

“You aren’t helping, Dove,” Tryon murmured through grit teeth.

“Oh, right. This puking kid who can barely wipe his own backside certainly isn’t responsible for my death! Having that on my obituary would be way too embarrassing! I died during the break after murdering an entire farm filled with civilians. Get it right!”

Anger flickered in Langdon’s eyes as he drew back on his bow once again.

“Then are you responsible for this boy’s rapid growth?” he said, speaking to the skull directly. “Is this about revenge?”

“Of course it’s about revenge! What self respecting Slayer doesn’t want to go out giving a strong middle-finger to the fuckers who brand us like cattle? To fight back against self-righteous pieces of shit like you, who wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for fucking heroes like me?”

Dove cackled, light blazing from his hollow sockets.

“I keep trying to get this kid to burn it all down, but he’s too fucking nice! It wasn’t my idea to come up here and corner himself to protect a stupid village, I can guarantee you that!”

“That changes nothing,” Langdon said, eyes focused on Tyron once more as he aimed down the length of his arrow. “He murdered two Marshals. He’s an illegal. This is justice.”

“Fuck your justice,” Dove barked. “Fuck it right in its stupid blind eyes. Kill this prick, Tyron, then stuff his soul into his own skull. Use him as a codpiece!”

“I don’t wear a codpiece….”

“Make an exception!”

“Nobody wears a codpiece….”

“I did!”

I can believe that.

“Don’t judge me,” the skull muttered. “Now get moving. I know you’re on your last legs.”

The skull-bound Summoner had been trying to buy time for Tyron, who had continued to shuffle his way toward the cave, surrounded by his shield-bearing bodyguards.

Despite his best efforts, it wasn’t possible for Tyron to keep track of the three Marshals as they separated. Only the first, Langdon, was still visible to him now. He was careful to position his ghosts to cover his sides and back. If he were jumped from a blind spot, that would be the worst case scenario.

The Marshal showed nothing on his face, to the point that Tyron had begun to wonder if he was even capable of it. When the lawman loosed his arrow, the Necromancer was taken by complete surprise, as the man had given no sign he’d been prepared to fire.

The arrow streaked through the air, only to thud into a shield as a skeleton stepped up to block. With one skeletal hand, the undead snapped the shaft, leaving the head buried in the wood of its shield.

More arrows were fired from the left and right, flying from behind cover in angles that Tyron couldn’t see.

The skeletons were there, shields up, absorbing the shots for him. Worried, he tried to reposition his ghosts to cover himself better, but before they were in position, two more arrows whistled out from the trees.

Thunk! Thunk!

His shield-bearing minions were forced to move to different positions to cover him and he adjusted the formation around him reflexively. The Marshals were moving and firing, not wanting to get pinned down.

If he had enough magick, he could encircle them with the dead, or reach out with Death’s Grasp to hold them down, but that wasn’t an option. Even manoeuvring his troops was costing precious energy.

Are they just hoping to get lucky and slip a shot through the shields? That doesn’t make sense…. I understand they don’t want to engage directly, but this isn’t likely to succeed.

Perhaps they were just trying to wear him down over time, hoping to weaken him to the point he couldn’t fight back at all. It wouldn’t work.

Arrows continued to streak from the shadows, all three Marshals hiding in the darkness and attacking from beyond the reach of his undead. His archers returned fire as best they could, but after a few volleys, he made them stop. A waste of ammunition and magick, his archers were a long shot to hit a moving target in these conditions.

The creeping advance to the cave continued under fire as the Marshals remained elusive. Somehow, they managed to slip away from even his ghosts, though he couldn’t afford to see through the spirits’ eyes to help guide them. Conserving energy as best he could, Tyron continued to move down the slope.

He lost the first skeleton to an excellent shot from behind a tree. The arrow whistled into view before burying itself directly into the skull of the undead, carrying the head clean off. Irritated, Tyron drew his minions closer, hoping the greater distance would make them harder to hit. It worked somewhat, but he still lost two more, and several others suffered damage before he finally arrived at the camp.

The blanket covering the opening remained, dim light from the fire emanating from behind. Tyron felt a little of the tension drain from his shoulders. At least now he’d have some energy to fight back.

The three Marshals leapt from cover, arrows nocked and ready to loose, aimed directly for his head.

“Now!” Langdon roared as he released the string.

The revenant slayer snapped forward, drawing on Tyron’s power as it slashed through the air, cutting an arrow from the air and taking another on the hilt of its blade. Had it not acted, he would have been wounded for sure, his shield-skeletons were far too slow to react. The final arrow was caught, but only just, on the steel rim of a shield.

The Necromancer crouched down behind the wall of his minions as they gathered in front of him, wondering what was going on.

Then the roar sounded behind him.

Wordless and filled with rage, the bellow echoed out from within the cave, followed an instant later by pounding footsteps as a large figure hurled itself forward. The firelight was blocked as the fourth assailant moved past the fire, blasting the cloth cover aside.

Fuck! They’d already found the cave!

This had been a trap from the beginning. Tyron’s hands moved on pure instinct, his mouth spitting out the words as magick formed in his hands, but he knew it was too late.

A large man leapt from the cave mouth toward him, blade in one hand, the other outstretched to clamp itself around his neck.

It’s over.

Tyron’s mind rang with despair in that instant. All his ambitions and hopes crashing down around him, bitterness welled up in his chest till he felt he might choke on it. It wasn’t fair.

“I’d say you owe me for this, but the price has already been paid. Lucky boy.”

Yor’s voice positively purred as it drifted from within the cave and Tyron blinked as the Marshal sprinted past him toward the others, still bellowing with rage. Only then did it register what he’d heard. What he’d seen. That man’s eyes. They hadn’t been normal.

The vampire emerged, blood dripping from her lips, feral light burning in her eyes.

“Brom? What the fuck?!” The female Marshal shouted as their former ally rushed toward them, blade swinging.

“Was that his name?” Yor said. “Not that it matters now. I think I’ll call him… Rabbit. Because he’s my pet now.”

“Curse you, Necromancer,” Langdon swore, “what have you done?”

Brom… or Rabbit, screamed as he brought his sword down in a wild overhead swing, crashing into a two handed block from Langdon.

“Oh, the boy didn’t do this,” Dove chortled from Tyron’s waist. “You guys are so fucked.”

“It was a good plan,” Yor observed, “but it was foolish in one particular respect.”

Her eyes gleamed with dark purpose.

“You attacked at night. We, the dead, rule at night.”

Another Marshal crashed into Brom’s side, knocking him down. The man… or what was left of him, bellowed in rage as he struggled back to his feet. It was clear watching him that his coordination wasn’t what it should be.

What has Yor done to him? Is he still alive, or is he dead?

The vampire sighed in satisfaction as she wiped the scarlet drops from her lips, then turned to Tyron.

“Weren’t you going to do something?” she said, brow arched.

He scrambled into the cave and dove for his pack, fumbling for a mage candy which he rammed between his teeth the moment he found it.

“It pays to be prepared,” she said, “but I will take care of this… soiree, for you. Not to worry. Others have paid in advance.”

He barely had a moment to register what she’d said before black smoke billowed from the Vampire’s body, blinding him. A second later, the smoke flew, boiling through the air toward the Marshals who still worried over their former comrade.

Langdon saw it coming, eyes widening and for the first time, Tyron saw fear in the man’s eyes. It was far, far too late for that.

The Marshal pulled at the others, trying to turn them around, to get them running, but Yor arrived a moment later, congealing from the smoke just as quickly as she’d vanished. One long, elegant finger extended outward, impossibly fast, and buried itself through Langdon’s eye and into his brain.

The two surviving Marshals looked in shock as Yor effortlessly lifted the dead man with one finger before tossing him away with a gesture. She turned to them, her smile twisted and feral.

“Run,” she said.