Book of The Dead

Tyron’s chest was on fire as he continued to force his own heart to beat.

Looking up at the Noble lady of House Erryn, he could see the fear in her eyes, the uncertainty starting to take hold. He savoured it. For how long had he yearned for such a moment? Every night for five years, ever since his parents had died, he had stared unseeing, burning for a chance like this. He wouldn’t let anything take it from his grasp, not even death.

“You think you’ve won?” Lady Erryn spat. “I can kill you in a thousand ways. Cut your–”

A pair of arrows flashed out from the mist behind him. The Noble’s hand blurred as she batted one aside, but the other sank into her gut, doubling her over.

“Finally,” Tyron grunted.

“It took a little time to get here,” Laurel replied as she stepped up beside him, her spirit flesh glowing with ominous light. “Nor was it easy.”

Recillia gasped in pain as she straightened herself, but Tyron wouldn’t give her another chance. His one free hand flashed through a series of sigils before a hand formed of black smoke snaked forth and closed around her. He tightened his grip, trying to squeeze the air out of her, but she was remarkably durable, glaring hatefully at him.

Of course, she was gold. Why wouldn’t the Nobles afford themselves a level of power they wouldn’t allow to anyone else?

“Defend the lady!” The Magisters behind Lady Erryn seemed to wake from a spell, realising that their only hope of survival lay in the Divine Mandate she possessed.

Tyron cursed and issued a mental order. From the darkness behind him, a horde of skeletons emerged, charging forward as his spell was disturbed, dropping the Noble to the stairs once more. She gasped in pain before once again drawing on her power.

“Cut your th–”

But he was too fast. With his skeletons racing forward and the Magisters still preparing their spells, Tyron shaped a Death Bolt with a single hand and cast, before she could finish the sentence. His aim wasn’t perfect, but it glanced off the side of the Noble’s head, sending her sprawling once more.

A barrage of spells was released at once, blasting back the front rank of skeletons, some of them crumbling apart as their bindings were undone, but at such close ranges, there was only so much the mages could do. For every skeleton they destroyed, five more took its place, rushing up with their blades at the ready.

The moment Tyron recovered, he ran up the stairs, his heart still screaming in pain within his chest. He paid it no mind, was completely oblivious to it, just like he was to the smile on his face.

He ordered his minions forward with ever greater urgency, gathering every single one from the lower floors and driving them upwards. He took the steps three at a time, charging alongside his wights and revenants as they reached his side. When he saw Recillia rising once more, he flung himself at her, dagger in hand.

Before she could speak, he landed on her chest, driving the wind out of her. Bringing the knife around, he tried to puncture her chest, but she was shockingly strong, catching his hand in one of her own. He fought to bring the knife to bear, but she resisted, slamming her free hand into his side in an attempt to push him off.

With only a single hand, getting into a brawl wasn’t the best idea, but he wasn’t thinking clearly, the pain in his chest and the roaring in his mind drove out all other thoughts. She had to die, and he had to be the one who killed her. Nothing else mattered, nothing else was allowed to matter.

Ignoring the pain in his side, Tyron launched his face forward, slamming his forehead into hers and stunning them both. With his absurdly high constitution, Tyron recovered first and dropped his knife before yanking his hand free of her grip. When Recillia came back to herself, she found his hand reaching for her throat and tried to force her chin down to prevent him from getting a grip. Opening her mouth to speak, she was prevented by another forceful headbutt that sent both reeling once more.

Around them, the final battle for the Red Tower took place, with the wide staircase filled with undead driving forward to strike at the Magisters, flowing around the private battle at their feet without interrupting it. No order came from Tyron to assist, and perhaps the wights sensed their master didn’t want to be helped, and so they focused on the Magisters, driving them back and absorbing spell after spell.

Men screamed and died, magick detonated and skeletons marched in silence while Tyron and Recillia wrestled on the ground, neither able to land a finishing blow.

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He thrashed, trying to clamp his hand tighter around her neck while Recillia fought to push him off, striking at his face, his chest, his side, whatever she could reach. Teeth bared, blood spraying and skin tearing, they grappled and clawed like rift-kin, mindless and savage.

Ultimately, Recillia fought to live, to triumph and impose her will.

Tyron fought to kill. And that was the difference.

With a scream of hatred, Tyron took the hand he had been using to make his heart beat and began to form sigils with it.

Instantly, his heart, his chest, his entire body, screamed in pain, an agony that ripped through his body like nothing he had ever known. His mind screeched in panic, adrenaline flooding his system as his body flew into shock for the second time in a short period. He didn’t care.

Recillia felt the spell coming, her face twisted into a snarl as she tried again to shove the filthy upstart away from her. Desperate, she clawed at his eyes and anything else she could reach, but that hand came for her all the same.

Death Bolt was a weak spell, but at this range, it was more than enough. Point-blank, he fired it into her throat.

Garbled, choked coughing was the only sound Lady Erryn could produce. She collapsed back onto the stairs, clutching at her throat and retching as Tyron leaned back, his hand catching the rhythm once more, using the threads to force his heart to pump.

In that moment, he felt impossibly tired. For just a second, he let himself drift, but soon his hatred lit the way and he was able to come back to himself. Swaying as his body nearly betrayed him, Tyron reached into his coat and withdrew a stone covered in runes. He stood, gathering his balance before he stepped over to Lady Recillia as she grasped at her own throat, trying to repair the damage, trying to breathe, trying to speak.

He rolled her onto her back before he placed the stone on her chest and planted his foot on it.

She glared up at him, disbelief, terror and outrage warring on her features.

“We’ll talk later,” he croaked. “I promise you. This is just the beginning.”

Too weak to struggle, Lady Erryn could only watch as a ghostly creature wearing bone armour crouched down by her side, twirled a dagger through its fingers before offering it up to the Necromancer. He took the blade, looked her in the eye, and drove it into her heart.

Tyron watched the light fade from her eyes, knowing that this was the woman who had overseen the torture of his family. As she died, he felt the burden on his shoulders lighten by a tiny fraction.

The stone suddenly blazed with light, chasing away the shadows and blinding the Necromancer, but faded again just as soon as it had come. Tyron removed his foot and lifted the palm-sized stone from the corpse of the Noble.

“You can’t have her,” he chuckled darkly, turning his gaze to the ceiling. “You can’t have any of them. They’re mine. Now and forever.”

He staggered a little to the side as he placed the stone back into his cloak, but Filetta was there to catch him.

“You look like shit,” she told him.

“I feel like it,” he replied.

“What are you doing with your hand?’

“Keeping my heart beating.”

“Oh… shit. Really? Do you… need help?”

He cast her a glance, and she could clearly read him asking ‘just what do you think you’re going to do about it?’ from his expression. In response, she could only shrug.

“I haven’t been dead so long that I don’t remember heart beats being somewhat important,” she said defensively. “Maybe you should rest or something?”

“I’m fine,” Tyron replied, shrugging her off. “The biggest obstacle here is dealt with. Now I get to kill every Magister inside this damned place.”

He held out his free hand, and a skeleton stepped forward to give him his staff back while another stepped behind him and placed his helmet back over his head.

“I want all of them. Every single soul. Do the others have the stones?”

Filetta held up her hands at his sudden vehemence.

“Yes, Tyron. They all have the stones.”

“Every single one,” he reiterated, eyes burning. “Make sure of it.”

She nodded, then hesitated before finally asking, “What about the brands? Isn’t that the reason why you’re here?”

He glared at her before he turned away to resume his ascent up the staircase.

“That comes second,” he said shortly. “First is the Magisters. They have to die, Filetta. I won’t leave any of them alive.”

“Of course,” she said. “Just don’t lose sight of the goal.”

“I never have. And I never will.”

Tyron and his undead swept through the Red Tower like a plague. There was no corner the Magisters could hide from him in, nowhere they could rely on their defences to protect them. Skeletons, revenants and wights cut through every door, overturned the beds and threw down the wardrobes. There were pockets of resistance; some of the mages found their courage as they stared death in the face, banding together to try and defend a corridor or doorway.

They used their best spells, jets of ruby light, crystalline projectiles, arcane fire, wires formed of magick that cut like blades. It was effective, but only for so long. Whenever these groups were found, Tyron was sure to arrive, leaning on his staff, one hand flexing in that steady rhythm. Once he arrived, the words of power would roll like thunder and resistance would shatter. Once it did, there would be a storm of blood and bone, leaving broken and bleeding Magisters on the ground, wights pressing inscribed stones to their chests while Tyron strode away towards the next fight.

It was clear they knew who he was when he showed his face. Some cursed him, others tried to apologise, or plead for their lives. None of it moved him. He held no interest for the words of the living. There would come a time he would listen to their voices, he was sure of it, but it wasn’t here or now, not while a single Magister drew breath in Kenmor.