Book of The Dead

Cold air rasped in Tyron’s lungs as he forced himself further up the mountain. Covered by his shield-bearing skeletons, each step was a danger as arrows continued to shoot through the air, coming close to piercing him on several occasions.

If Laurel was one of those shooters, then she’d clearly improved a lot since he’d last seen her. It was only natural, that’s what Awakening did for you. One day a normal person, a potential superhuman the next. His ability and capacity to wield magick had grown by leaps and bounds, it stood to reason that her archery and tracking skills would make a similar leap.

Whatever the reason, it didn’t bother him that Laurel had turned up for the price on his head. Knowing her as he did, he understood there was no malice in the decision. Likely she needed money and this was an opportunity to get it. Get a lot of it, if that man was to be believed. Two hundred sovereigns? An absolute fortune, enough for an entire slayer team to live like merchant princes for a year or more.

That didn’t mean he would spare her. The more arrows rained down on him, the more he wished he had a revenant who could do the same.

You wouldn’t hold a grudge, would you, Laurel? It’s just the most practical thing for me to do….

A grim thought, but not an inaccurate one. She probably would hold a grudge, but since she was actively trying to kill him, Tyron could get over that.

“Hah!”

Tyron turned as he heard someone shout and charge from the trees to his left. A staff wielder, judging by the long weapon he held in his hands, possibly some sort of Striker class? He commanded a group of skeletons to approach, backed by one of his weaker revenants. Surely this guy hadn’t just charged out on his own. Tyron wouldn’t commit too much until the others revealed themselves.

Thunk! Thunk!

Arrows continued to thud into the shields covering the right side of his body. Was this a coordinated attack between Rufus’ group and another? Or had the hunters descended into chaos and engaged in a free for all?

The Necromancer grit his teeth as he tried to decide how to deploy his minions, but his hand was quickly forced. It turned out that the staff wielder was incredibly effective against his skeletons, keeping them back with long and wide sweeps of his weapon. That was bad enough, but he interwove sharp whipping motions that shattered bones entirely when they connected, cripping several of the undead.

Tyron would have to step in to protect his minions, which meant investing further magick and attention when others could be trying to strike at his back.

“How many of you are there?” Tyron grated as he prepared his next spell. “Shouldn’t you be training to kill rift-kin?”

The staff-wielder took a graceful step back and smirked.

“Only an idiot talks in a fight,” he said.

Tyron stared at him.

You’re talking right now….

Suppress Mind.

Cheaper and faster than Death’s Grasp, the Necromancer battered into the slayer’s mind like a cudgel through a glass window. Fueled by his pain and desperation, he crushed the man’s will in a grip of iron, freezing him on the spot before his skeletons stepped forward to finish the job. Blades stabbed forward, biting into the slayer’s flesh, but Tyron was flung from his trance before they could complete their strikes.

A powerful impact slammed into his back and he lurched forward, the concentration required to maintain the spell snapping in an instant. A new pain blossomed as he fell forward onto his hands, groaning. A moment later, his skeletons huddled tighter around him, covering his prone form.

Saved at the last moment, the staff slayer twisted away from the skeletons and rolled backwards, putting some space between himself and the undead. Blood poured from several wounds on his arms and chest, which he quickly assessed with his free hand.

“He has some kind of mental attack!” the slayer called, before he retreated out of Tyron’s reach, staggering clear of the fighting.

No you don’t.

A ghost drifted after him, sliding through the trees and brush, waiting for him to rest. The moment he fell still, the ghost would pounce. That was the best the young mage could do in the moment; he had bigger trouble to deal with.

Reaching back with one hand, he felt the shaft of an arrow jutting from between the plates covering his ribs, close to his spine. Once again, the bone armour had saved the day, preventing the arrow from penetrating too deep and puncturing a lung.

I am definitely investing in advanced bone armour after this, Tyron promised himself, I don’t care what people think, I’ll cover myself head to toe in bones if it keeps me alive.

He couldn’t reach it properly, so he ordered a skeleton to grasp the shaft and rip it from his body, groaning in pain as it did. Fresh, hot blood leaked from the open wound, seeping into his clothes and cooling rapidly.

Just perfect.

The angle of the arrow, though….

As he pushed himself up from the ground, he paused in the act of rising to his feet and looked behind him, not down the slope, but up in the trees.

His gaze met Laurel’s as she peered at him down the length of a fresh arrow, drawn and ready to loose from her position on a sturdy branch.

Thought so.

His hand flicked and the magick bolt he’d prepared shot forward, causing Laurel to jump up to avoid the strike. Except he hadn’t been aiming for her, but the branch beneath her feet.

The spell slammed into the wood with an audible crack, and when the Ranger’s weight landed back on the branch, it broke, sending her tumbling to the ground. It was a five metre drop, enough to kill if she landed poorly, and for an instant, something gripped Tyron’s heart, but he released it just as quickly. This wasn’t in his control anymore. It hadn’t been for a long time.

In the end, it didn’t matter. Laurel adjusted gracefully as she fell, landing on both feet and executing a roll to absorb the force. She came up, bow in hand, ready to fire, but he was ready for her.

Suppress Mind.

Low levelled and without the mental fortitude he had been forced to train, there was no chance a Ranger could possibly resist his mental assault. He blasted through her defences and held her still.

True to her nature, she railed against his control, squirming, kicking and writhing furiously within his grasp, but it wasn’t nearly enough.

A nearby ghost drifted close, a malicious grin on its ethereal features and it plunged into her, freezing her from within.

“No you don’t!” Rufus roared as he sprinted into view, scooping Laurel up and running clear.

Tyron broke off the spell with a curse before he staggered.

Can’t afford to keep letting them get away. They’re draining me slowly.

Although he possessed unnatural endurance, there was only so much blood he could lose. Fatigued before the fight had started, now he was almost utterly spent. A headache pounded in his temples and his breath wheezed in his lungs. The longer this went on, the worse his position would be.

Hanging over his head was the awareness that Laurel, Rufus and the rest weren’t even the strongest opponent. Waiting for them to fail was that man, Brun, who was at least a Bronze ranked slayer, someone with actual levels and trained Skills.

“How could you, Tyron?” Rufus bellowed from behind cover as Laurel shivered in his arms. “You heartless fuck!”

“You cannot be serious,” Tyron groaned. “She put an arrow in my fucking back. Are you a child?”

“She’s not a murderous cunt on the run from the law.”

“So, what? You want me to just stand here and die? Maybe just lie down while you run me through and get rich? I can’t believe you’re still this stupid, Rufus.”

“He really is,” Dove agreed, piping up from Tyron’s belt. “I’ve seen some fucking morons in my life, believe me, but this guy is a whole new level. News flash, idiot. When you try to kill someone, they fight back!”

The young swordsman stuck his head out from behind the rock he’d been crouched behind, murder written all over his face.

“You’re fucking dead today, Tyron. I’m going to gut you like a FISH!”

“I’m sure mommy’s proud of you, Rufus. Her jaw is probably busted, so she can’t say it, but she’s proud.”

“YOU FUCK!”

Rufus roared in mad rage and lunged out to charge straight at the Necromancer and Tyron had to fight to keep the smug grin off his face as he formed two magick bolts in his hands.

He let them fly, expecting them to take Rufus straight in the chest, but Laurel leapt out to tackle the Swordsman before he could really get going, forcing him to tumble to the ground as the spells whizzed over his head.

Shit. More magick wasted.

He couldn’t hear what Laurel said as she growled at her lover and hauled him back behind the rock, but it was probably similar to what Tyron himself had mentioned.

“You could always just run, Laurel,” Tyron called as he redistributed his remaining skeletons, ensuring he was covered from archer fire and resumed his slow march up the mountain. “Hard to spend money when you’re dead!”

There was zero chance he could persuade Rufus to back down. That prick had hated him since they were children. Combined with an overblown sense of his own ability, the idiot probably thought he could beat Tyron if he was the only Slayer here. If Tyron killed him and spoke to his ghost, Rufus would still call him names and accuse him of cheating, he was a lost cause.

Laurel, though, she was only here for easy money. If he convinced her there was no money, or that he was a genuine risk to her life, she would bail.

“You guys know there’s a new rift forming here, right? You fought the kin. Go and report it to the slayers. There may even be a reward in that! Isn’t it your damn job to protect the civilians and all that?”

“Someone already went back,” Laurel called up at him. He could hear the wry amusement in her voice, despite the fact he’d almost killed her only moments ago.

She knew what he was trying to do.

“That means one of you was smart.”

He could’ve rushed down to fight, try and finish them off, but Tyron was still wary. At least one more Slayer was out there, the archer, along with the staff wielder, who hadn’t been caught yet. He couldn’t be too cautious, one mistake would mean his death. Especially since he was wounded already.

Not for the first time, he wished he had more mage candy on hand. It would be dangerous, and he’d risk poisoning himself were he to take it, but he’d rather do that than run dry of magick. That would be an instant death sentence.

Briefly, he considered taunting his old friends a little more, but gave it up as a waste of time. Even breathing was becoming difficult and he didn’t have the energy to spare. Maybe Rufus would be dumb enough to fall for it twice, but Laurel surely wouldn’t.

“Hold it together, kid. You’ve almost won,” Dove whispered from his waist.

Tyron nodded and forced himself to keep pushing. If he could get a bit closer to the rift, then he could set up a defensive position, tend to his wounds and try to recover some energy. As long as he avoided having to fight any large pack of kin who came through, he’d be in a good spot. That close to escape, the slayers would have to attack or risk letting him slip through their fingers. If they weren’t prepared to fight him when so many kin were around, then he could recuperate and go on the offensive.

He was close now. Very close.

The air felt charged, and he knew he would cross into the broken lands any second. Another advantage. He’d experienced the disorienting effect of being close to a rift, but he doubted any of these Slayers-in-training had.

“Now!” someone called, and Tyron turned to his right to see one of his skeletons sent flying. The undead arced gracefully through the air and landed in a shattered heap five metres from where it had started, revealing a leather armoured slayer with a sturdy shield in one hand and a solid mace in the other charging toward him.

Blood and bone, you have to be kidding me!

The sight of the bull-charging slayer wasn’t what shocked him, but the pearly shimmer of magick around him was. Tyron wasn’t an expert, but he suspected he knew what that kind of spell was. Dove confirmed it a moment later.

“A force mage? Why in the flying fuck would a force mage be out here?”

Enhanced by the spell covering him, the armoured slayer rushed forward, battering his skeletons out of the way in a violent charge. Clearly, he intended to remove the problem at the source.

Tyron was frozen. He could deal with the attacker, but where was the mage? Where was the archer?

His moment of indecision almost cost him his life, but he threw himself aside at the last second, recovering just in time to whip out his sword and clumsily parry the mace before it could crunch his skull in.