Book of The Dead

Following the bone giant, a horde of smaller skeletons emerged, some bearing cauldrons of bone that they planted on the ground and began to activate.

“Charge!” bellowed Captain Janus. “Don’t give them time!”

Following his own words, the high level Soldier blasted forwards, sword aglow with bright light, but even he wasn’t fast enough. Clouds of darkness boiled out of the cauldrons and filled the ballroom in moments. Herath, frozen in place at being called by name, and by the mention of his colleague, blinked as he became enveloped in the cloud.

“It’s magick,” he said on instinct. “It probably doesn’t affect the undead.”

“Dispel it!” Janus roared. “Advance into the darkness and fight, they’re only skeletons!”

But how many were there? Within the cloud, it was impossible to tell, Herath could barely see his hands in front of his face, but he began to work on a counterspell, as did several other mages. The footmen once again formed their line, walking step by step into the unknown with their shields up.

A spear of bone glowing with an ethereal purple light flashed past Herath’s head and smashed into the wall behind him, sending shards flying in all directions. The spell died on his lips and he frantically recovered before the magick could collapse, but began to hunch down lower.

Bolts of darkness began to fly, along with more spears, until it became obvious that there were far too many spells to be cast by a single man. An odd creaking noise filled the room before a massive blade emerged from the darkness to crash down on the shield wall, which flared with light and bounced back the strike.

Then it came again. Then another massive blade, but from a different direction. Each time, the wall held, but Herath was nervous. They had just finished battling against an Abyssal. Would the Soldiers be able to hold?

He finished his counterspell and thrust his staff forward, directing the magick into the cloud that surrounded them. Immediately, it began to disperse in the area around himself, but stubbornly persisted elsewhere. The spell contained too much magick to be eliminated by his spell alone, but thankfully Herath wasn’t by himself. Other mages completed their own spells, and the cloud was driven back, revealing the still advancing Soldiers, but also the wall of skeletons arrayed before them.

Amongst them stood a strange figure, covered in green, ghostly flesh and bedecked in dark armour. Holding a blade and shield, it took its place amongst the undead.

“Come,” it said, “bring me a final death.”

With a roar, Janus lunged forward and the two shield lines crashed into each other. Herath expected to see the skeletons crumple before the strength of the house Soldiers, but to his shock, though they were driven back, they held. Again, the two giants stepped forward, swinging their enormous blades down from behind the line of skeletons and slamming them into the shield wall.

Several Soldiers staggered as they gave their all to maintain the barrier, but still, the light held, and the footmen began to exchange blows against the skeletons at the front. The more they traded blows, the clearer it became just how outclassed the skeletons were. Against the polished and high levelled sword Skills of the Soldiers, the undead were wholly inadequate, but each time one fell, another would step forward to take its place.

Then came the words of power.

Herath had never heard anything like it. Each syllable resounded in the air like a hammerblow. He could feel it in his chest! It was difficult to cast, difficult to think. Just what was happening?

The answer came in the form of a cold that pierced straight to the bone. In seconds, the Magister began to shiver, his breath a dense mist every time he exhaled.

“Dispel? Mages, are you awake?!” Janus roared.

The Captain had cut down a dozen skeletons and pressed his way to the front where he’d now locked blades with the strange, speaking undead. Even in the face of Janus’ Skills, the strange creature held its ground, aided by the magickal frost.

Snapping back to himself, Herath frowned, gathered his thoughts and ran back to the other mages.

“Form a shield!” he yelled. “We need cover from the spells. Three mages on counterspell. The rest of us cast offensive magick. Alright?”

The mages, still rattled from their harrowing experience against the Abyssal, nodded and gripped their staves. At that moment, an arrow whistled through the air and smashed against the wall just above their heads.

“Let’s get that shield up,” he urged the others.

In the freezing cold, it was difficult for the mages to form sigils, but they endured. It took a precious few minutes before they were finally able to stand against the hail of spells and arrows being sent their way. Two minutes in which the Soldiers fought against the undead while the cold sunk into their flesh and pierced their bones.

When the frost was finally dispersed, the battle in the dining hall had ground to a halt. Herath was dipping deep into his pool of magick, conjuring the destruction beams and globes, trying to snipe the ghostly skeleton or bring down the giants. His attempts were frequently thwarted, the spells crumbling before they were halfway to their targets or shot out of the air with counter-magick.

More Soldiers had arrived to bolster the lines, but there didn’t seem to be any shortage of skeletons either.

Then that voice rang out again. Herath could feel his blood pounding in his ears along with the rapid beat of the words of power.

“Prepare counter-magick!” Herath yelled, clutching his staff.

But the spell wasn’t aimed at them. Towards the edge of the shield wall, the skeletons pounced on the outermost soldier, six of them raining blows upon him. They forced him out of the wall, and then the spell completed.

At once, the Soldier collapsed, screaming, as a stream of bright red blood streamed through the air and deep into the ranks of the undead. When it reached its destination, it began to pool and spread, as if it had touched an invisible, spherical barrier.

Except there wasn’t, Herath realised, the blood was the barrier.

Surrounded by the shifting sphere of blood, he could finally pick out the mage from amongst the crowd. At some point, he’d donned armour, the same black bone-like material the undead wore, a helm covering his features.

“Bring down the mage!” Janus roared. “He’s controlling all of them!”

In response, the Necromancer, for that is what he had to be, raised a staff and began to speak once more.

Words of power thundered, and reality bent.

Dark power began to emanate from the blades of the undead.

Words of power thundered, and reality bent.

The skeletons became empowered, infused with black magick, moving faster, striking harder.

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Words of power thundered, and reality bent.

Once more, the cloud of darkness bloomed, filling the hall in moments and blinding the mages and footsoldiers alike.

“Counterspell!” Herath demanded. “We need an anti-magick field in place!”

“We’re trying!” one of the armoured mages called back.

“Try harder,” someone said.

Herath turned to the source of the voice, and came face to face with a ghostly face masked in bone armour. He lashed out with his staff, but the undead spun away, and then the skeletons were amongst them. The Magister roared in defiance and blasted the undead in front of him, scattering the bones with a bolt of magick, but another took its place. Soon, the gathered mages were fighting desperately to hold off the waves of grinning skeletons who slashed at them with their smoking blades.

How had they even gotten here, Herath wondered. The answer came to him almost immediately, and he cursed himself for not thinking about it earlier. There were two entrances to the ballroom, one on either end. The Necromancer had simply sent his servants out the other door and looped them around to hit them in the back, using the cloud of darkness to cover their approach.

Desperate, Herath lashed out with all the power he had left, trying to force the undead away, or at least destroy as many as he could. Every now and again, he would catch glimpses of the strange, speaking undead as it darted in and out of the fight, striking at the mages through the gaps in their armour, slashing their limbs or trying to slice their arteries before spinning back into the darkness, laughing all the while.

He’d only been in this close quarters fight for a few minutes, but it felt like hours. His breath came in desperate heaves as he conjured up the dregs of his magick, trying to force more power through his body for just one more spell. He’d just used a beam of destruction to obliterate the skull of one skeleton when suddenly, captain Janus was by his side, emerging from the dark cloud, bleeding from a gash on his temple.

“You need to get out of here, now!” the captain bellowed, shoving at his side.

“What? We are fighting here!”

“We are losing! Your safety isn’t guaranteed. Retreat to the family bunker, now.”

“I won’t!” Herath replied hotly, his frayed nerves pushing his temper to the limit.

Janus span, catching an attack that slipped out of the shadows square on the face of his shield as if he’d known it was coming all along. The captain slashed out, too fast for Herath’s eyes to see, and another undead crumpled.

“You bloody will,” Janus said grimly. “Our duty is to the family above everything else.”

Without any further argument, the powerful Soldier grabbed hold of Herath and tossed the protesting mage over his shoulder. No matter how the Magister cursed, kicked or threatened, Janus ignored him, cutting his way through every undead who tried to bar his way, finally bursting out of the ballroom, out of the dark cloud and leaving the desperate sounds of fighting behind.

“We have to go back!” Herath shouted. “Those are your people fighting back there!”

“They’re doing their duty,” Janus replied. “As am I.”

“My brother will hear of this!” Herath railed, still trying to break himself free. It was hopeless, but he had to try. Physically, he was no match for the veteran Soldier, and unless he was willing to attack with magick, there was no way for him to free himself.

“Good. He’ll agree with me.”

Janus found the hidden entrance and began running down the stairs, causing Herath to jostle painfully against his armour. When they reached the bottom, the Magister was finally set on his feet.

“Down this corridor. The door will be closed, but they’ll open it for you. Go, now,” Janus demanded.

Before he could complain, the captain turned and raced back up the stairs, his grim expression causing the final words of protest to die on Herath’s lips. Head spinning, unable to process what had happened, and how quickly, he staggered down the narrow corridor, clutching his staff.

There were several entrances to this underground network of tunnels, but they all eventually converged on the bunker, the refuge for the family when the manor was under attack. The great doors were reinforced and enchanted to withstand just about anything, the space behind stocked with enough supplies and comforts to abide the Jorlins for several days if need be.

Shaking and defeated, Herath staggered forward before he raised a hand to hammer on the door.

“It’s Herath!” he called. “Let me in!”

He hung his head and waited, a thousand questions swirling through his head. Who was this mysterious mage? How had they gotten access to the estate? How in the realm had they managed to subvert the wards? None of it seemed possible. Was this the doing of another of the houses?

That was possible. Certainly more plausible than a rogue Necromancer overthrowing the estate single-handedly. After a while, he emerged from his thoughts and realised the door hadn’t opened. Once again, he pounded on the surface with one fist.

“Hello? It’s me, Herath Jorlin! They’re still fighting out there, let me in!”

Again, stony silence was all he got in return. Could they really not hear him from inside? That shouldn’t be possible.

A cold realisation began to grow in his heart.

“Now that, I didn’t expect,” a voice said from behind him.

Herath spun and found the mage standing a dozen metres behind him. With his gaunt, pale face, and clad in his armour of black bone, the invader looked like a spectre of death itself.

Before he could raise his staff to cast, Herath became engulfed in a cloud of black magick that resolved itself into a fist, crushing him within its grasp. He cried out in pain as he felt his bones grinding against each other. Everywhere the spell touched him burned, as if it were eating his flesh away.

“Herath Jorlin,” the Necromancer stated. “I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“I wish I could say the same,” the Magister grated through clenched teeth, trying to hold himself against the pain.

The Necromancer placed his staff to one side, then raised his hands to lift the helmet from his head. Dark haired, and much younger than Herath had expected, the mage watched Herath struggle with infinitely cold eyes.

“I had the opportunity to spend some time with your colleague, Poranus. I spent an enlightening afternoon rummaging through his memory.”

“Impossible!” Herath ground out.

“Not so. For instance, I learned that you were one of the Magisters who was tasked with bringing Magnin and Beory Steelarm to heel. Isn’t that right?”

The Steelarms? Why would this mage even bother asking him about the Steelarms?

In his chaotic state of mind, it took some time for the realisation to finally break through.

“What… is your name?”

The mage watched him with icy, glittering eyes.

“I am Tyron Steelarm. That was my mother and father you tortured to death.”

In that moment, Herath realised that he was dead. No, that wouldn’t even be the end of it. Death would only be the beginning of his suffering. Divines only knew what the Necromancer was capable of doing to his soul. Eventually, the bastard would be caught and defeated, allowing Herath to find his final rest, but until then…

“You have me,” Herath said, “you don’t need the rest. Take me, and leave. If you don’t run soon, you’ll be caught. Leave the rest and go.”

Tyron cocked his head to the side, as if puzzled by what he was seeing.

“Why would you think I would ever leave them? They are just as guilty as you are.”

“There’s children in there!” Herath spat, incredulous. “In what way are they guilty?”

If this maniac wanted to take out his anger against his aunts and uncles, fine. But the children? What would be the point?!

“They are Nobles,” Tyron shrugged. “Born with the blood of the Divines running through their veins.”

“So they were born guilty? That’s insane!”

At that, Tyron finally laughed, a wry chuckle as he shook his head. Caught in the grip of the fist, Herath could do nothing but tremble with rage. He couldn’t even hear fighting coming from above, which meant everyone was already dead.

“How many thousands of children have been purged in the last few months? Or better yet, let’s think bigger. How many millions have been slaughtered over the centuries for the crime of not worshipping The Five? You’re outraged at the death of a handful hiding beneath their family estate? Why? Because they’re related to you?”

Tyron tsked.

“Bit late to find your empathy, isn’t it, Magister?”

“You’re mad,” Herath spat. “It won’t be long until you’re put down like a dog. When word of this spreads, the entire Nobility will hunt you down and crush you beneath their boots.”

The Necromancer stepped forward and began to examine the door, running a hand along the reinforced steel surface.

“Well… who’s going to tell them what they saw? I’m sure there will be many traces of the Abyssal, and signs of death magick all over the place, but sadly, they’re going to struggle to find any witnesses. This really is quite the door.”

“What do you mean no witnesses?” Herath said.

“I mean everyone on this estate, excluding you and whoever is behind this door, is already dead.”

The staff? The maids? The gardeners and cooks and page boys and their families?

“Are you even human?” Herath whispered, slumped in defeat.

For the first time, Tyron stepped forward and touched him, taking a fistful of Herath’s long, blonde hair and yanking up his head so he could stare him in the face.

“You helped torture my parents to death. You tell me.”