Book of The Dead

He snatched a few hours of sleep, but only after thoroughly searching the surroundings with his ghosts. The ravine was still relatively close to the rift, and therefore still highly active. Packs of kin roamed past regularly, on their way to the broken land to try and push through to his home realm. Luckily, very few wanted to pass through the ravine he had settled in, and those that did were handled by his undead without making too much noise.

When he awoke, blinking, for a moment, he was disoriented as he stared up at the purple clouds roiling overhead.

Oh right, this really is another world.

With that realisation came a sense of urgency, the need to be doing something, achieving his aims, but he slowed himself down. In a place as dangerous as this, he needed to be at his best at all times. As he drank and ate, his mind inevitably turned to the experiments he had conducted the night before. The words of power had acted… so visibly in this realm. It was as if he could see his spell taking shape, whereas before, he could only feel it, in a vague sense. Perhaps nothing would come of such playing around, but he felt as though he were on the verge of grasping something meaningful.

After refreshing himself, Tyron once again studied the landscape through the eyes of his ghosts. Even here, they appeared to be invisible to the kin, though he didn’t eliminate the possibility that something out there might be able to sense them, perhaps even destroy them. For now, they made ideal sentries, and though their vision was poor, it was enough for him to feel safe stepping out of the ravine.

Once again, he was exposed to the elements here on Nagrythyn, and he found it surprisingly pleasant. Compared to the frozen wasteland which was his only other experience beyond a rift, this was a paradise. The temperature was warm, and the winds were high, but the lack of snow and ice were welcome. Of course, the powerful kin lurking right beneath his feet put something of a dampener on his enjoyment.

Ranks of skeletons formed around the Necromancer as he drew his minions into a tight formation. There had been losses yesterday, and though he could absorb losses, too many too soon would force him to return before he was ready, before he had achieved what he wanted to. He would have to fight intelligently, conserving his troops and ensuring he utilised every possible advantage to tilt the odds in his favour.

Clad once more in his armour of bone, Tyron strode forward, leaving behind only a small guard to protect the campsite.

He didn’t want to go too far, the spires were far more common the closer to the rift he travelled, and he didn’t want a repeat of the day before. So instead, he found an area where he could intercept most of the kin bypassing the ravine, as well as pick off those who emerged from the dozen or so spires he could see within a kilometre.

Being where he was, it didn’t take long to encounter his first kin. In fact, he hadn’t even reached the spot he’d decided was a likely hunting ground before a pack of roaming monsters spotted him and rushed forward, eager to tear him apart.Although there weren’t many of them, only four of the ‘regular’ sized kin, Tyron went on the offensive, using his magick to devastating effect against the monsters.

Blood shield inflicted damage and offered him an extra layer of protection, then he rained down Greater Death Bolts, Bone Spears and Death’s Grasp. The kin were pummeled by his rapid-fire spells, allowing his undead to step forward and finish them off without difficulty.

It wasn’t the most efficient way for him to hunt. He wouldn’t gain levels for fighting on his own, only his minions fighting for him would grant him experience from the Unseen, but he couldn’t afford to allow even the smallest fight to extend unnecessarily. The feeling of getting bogged down and surrounded still haunted him, and Tyron was not keen to repeat the experience.

Once he established his little hunting ground, things went a lot smoother. Kin would emerge from the spires nearby and attack the moment they spotted him—sitting upon a small rise as he was, he was hard to miss. At regular intervals, packs travelling toward the rift would come close enough to spot him, and similarly would charge in a blind rage.

The kin of Nagrythyn were terrifying creatures. The bulk of those he saw were large, horse-sized monsters, hunched over and scuttling about on sharp, insect legs. Some were swift, incredibly so, with scythe-like blade arms that could sweep through unprepared skeletons like they were made of paper, where others were heavier and slower, use their powerful jaws to snap at his undead, or trample them to the ground with sheer bulk.

Swarms of the smaller ankle-biters were also fairly common, requiring his skeletons to spear them on the ground before they chomped through their shins. It was the mixed groups that caused him the most trouble. Swarms of little biters, arriving alongside groups of either kind of larger kin, or both. On those occasions, he had to unleash the full force of his magick, using curses and offensive spells to weaken the monsters and strengthen his undead. Fortunately, he was yet to see anything larger, like he had the day before.

Except at one point… where he had felt a tremor through the ground beneath his feet. At first, he’d thought it might be caused by something below, and had been carefully considering getting the heck off the little rise, but then he’d seen something in the distance.

The light was dim on Nagrythyn, with the sky blocked by the perpetual storm, so he could only just make it out in the distance, but what he saw had been terrifying.

Perhaps as tall as the wall around Woodsedge, the beast looked like a moving hill. Propelled on legs as thick as trees, it slowly heaved itself forward, heading toward the rift.

As he’d tracked the slow march of the creature, Tyron could only stare, eyes wide as he witnessed the passage of the kind of monster his parents had regularly been called on to fight. Indeed, judging by the size of it, that had been exactly the sort of monster which had knocked through the walls around Woodedge and bulldozed a path through the buildings inside. Multiple of them had come through the rift during the break, and now another was heading that way. Normally, they couldn’t get through… but that was before. Now? Perhaps it was possible….

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

But there wasn’t anything he could do about it at the moment. He wasn’t strong enough to fight something like that. Not yet.

So he settled back down and returned his attention to the field around him. For the next few hours, Tyron maintained his vigil and the undead fought. Several times, he was forced to use the cauldrons, blanketing the area with dark fog in order to overwhelm the kin, and his skeletons were pressed many times.

Learning to juggle commanding the undead and casting was perhaps the greatest challenge he faced. His undead possessed extremely simple minds, and when they weren’t being directed by him personally, they acted in predictable ways, which left them open to getting overwhelmed or cut down. So he couldn’t stop paying attention to the minions and focus solely on casting, but if he wasn’t casting spells, then that also left his skeletons under threat.

It revealed a troubling weakness that Tyron would need to overcome if he wanted to achieve the scale of undead horde that he wanted. If he were managing a thousand skeletons, or ten thousand, he couldn’t afford to be directing all of them himself. Even if he focused all of his attention to the task, he still wouldn’t be able to manage it, and couldn’t cast any supporting magick at all.

It was something he considered as the day continued to go by, filled with nigh-constant fighting.

When he was starting to contemplate returning to the ravine for the day, he heard something unexpected, a human voice, calling out to him.

“Ho the slayer!”

Tyron pricked up his ears and began to look around, not seeing anyone nearby.

“Ho the slayer!” he called back.

He knew there were other teams here in Nagrythyn, but he hadn’t really expected to run into one. Tyron continued to look around, but he didn’t see anyone coming forward.

“Just to be sure,” the hidden voice called out again, “you aren’t a crazy illegal who’s looking to murder us, are you?”

“No to the last part,” Tyron replied, cupping his hands around his mouth to help his voice carry further. “But I am definitely crazy, and possess an illegal Class. What was the first clue?”

“The undead horde was a bit of a giveaway,” a man said wryly as he stepped out from behind a rocky outcrop.

He was much closer than Tyron had thought he was. Perhaps he’d used some trick to cast his voice? Or a skill?

“You’re a scout?”

“Guilty,” the man replied with a smile that never touched his eyes. “My team has been tracking a rather large beastie that seems to be heading toward the rift. I’m going to assume you saw it.”

Tyron grimaced.

“I did,” he replied, then pointed. “I spotted it over there, heading that way.”

The scout turned to look where he was indicating then nodded. “You’re lucky it wasn’t any closer. Not sure how well your troops would have held up against it.”

“Not at all,” Tyron replied honestly, then considered for a moment before he sighed. “Look, I have a camp nearby, well supplied and sheltered. Obviously, it’s not easy to trust the guy covered in human bones, but I’m here to kill kin, the same as you, and if you need rest, I can provide it.”

He wouldn’t blame them for turning him down. Necromancers needed strong remains to grow their power, and a team of slayers beyond the rift… If they went missing, who could possibly say what happened to them? He could slaughter them and reanimate their bones with no one being the wiser.

As expected, the scout appeared somewhat leery of the suggestion.

“Well… I won’t say we don’t need a rest… but I think I’d better consult with the team before agreeing to something like this.”

Tyron could only shrug.

“I understand. If you need supplies, I have fresh water and food that I can bring back here and hand over in open ground.”

That suggestion brightened up the scout’s expression.

“Well, I think I can agree to that directly. Thanks very much. I’ll be back in… an hour with the rest of my team. Is that reasonable?”

Tyron nodded. He could hold out for that long. In a blink, the scout was gone, vanishing before Tyron could even acknowledge that he’d moved.

Scouts. A combination of speed and stealth was frankly terrifying to contemplate. When he thought of what incredible feats the trained assassins of the empire might be capable of, because he was certain they must exist, he began to wonder if he might have to live under a permanent cloud of cauldron smoke, just so they couldn’t see him.

He sent a pack of twenty skeletons along with two of his revenants back to camp to retrieve supplies as he continued to maintain his position, thinning out the kin and practising his abilities.

After a full day of fighting, he felt he was starting to get a handle on his new offensive spells. He could cast them with greater speed and precision, but his aim still needed a bit of work.

It took thirty minutes for his minions to return with the supplies, but as the scout had said, Tyron didn’t see the slayers arrive until just after the full hour had passed.

There were six of them, and clearly they’d been out in the rift for some time. Bedraggled and weary, each of them carried minor wounds and scrapes to show for their extended stay in the field.

The scout raised a hand as they approached, and Tyron waved back. With a small group of skeletons around him, as well as some carrying the packs, he stepped forward and stopped twenty metres away.

“I’ve got some food, water and basic medical supplies here. Bandages, poultices, nothing fancy,” he said, sending his skeletons forward to place the bags on the ground.

He’d brought more than he needed, and this sort of thing was expected beyond the rifts. His parents had told him many times of the camaraderie and shared mission of slayer teams battling in the harshest conditions in other realms. Tyron didn’t expect to make any friends out here, but he would do his part to help others keep back the kin without complaint.

“Thank you, slayer,” the scout acknowledged, sounding genuinely grateful. “My team appreciates it.”

There was a chorus of muttered agreement as the rest of the team eyed the skeletons warily. Then one of them landed their gaze on Tyron himself.

“Wait… Lukas. Is that you?”

Tyron’s head swivelled on his shoulders as he turned to stare at the young man who’d spoken out. For a brief moment, he even wondered what face he was wearing, but he knew he didn’t have a glamour up at the moment, so they should be seeing his normal appearance.

“Uh… that’s not my real name, but I have gone by Lukas. Can I ask who’s speaking?”

The young man stepped forward and planted his spear in the ground, spreading his hands so Tyron could see him more clearly. Something tickled at his memory, and the Necromancer gaped.

“Wait… are you Rell?”

The young man grinned.

“The very same.”