Book of The Dead

Tyron didn’t have time to identify the attacker, but since they seemed to plow into the Soldiers, he had to assume they were on his side. The most important thing was that he prevented the Noble from speaking. There had to be limits or restrictions on how they were able to wield the Divine Authority, but he didn’t know what they were.

With a final surge of magick, he felt a deep pain in his limbs as he continued to burn his health for more power. Cracks began to appear in his skin, thick blood leaking through and trailing down his limbs, soaking into his clothing, but he endured.

The anti-mage gave a furious cry as the field shattered, collapsing to her knees from the strain. Tyron grinned, his free hand rising, flashing through a series of sigils faster than the eye could follow as he spoke the words of power.

The world shivered like a struck bell as Tyron worked his will upon it. Before the Noble could take even a few steps, the Necromancer shoved his hand out and sent a streak of whirling black mist in his direction.

Nostas saw the spell twisting through the air towards him and sneered in contempt. As the fist began to coalesce in front of his face, he slashed through it with his sword. Powerful enchantments ignited along the length of the blade, powered by the perfectly spherical cores in the hilt and pommel. With a flash of light, the magick was severed, not even slowing him down.

However, the unnatural warping of the air hadn’t stopped, hadn’t ceased for a moment, as Tyron continued to cast. The Field of Death bloomed once more, enveloping the battlefield and sapping the life from every living entity within range. Thanks to his feats, a portion of that vitality found its way back to Tyron, and it was very welcome.

Now he needed to get a buff for his minions ready; they wouldn’t hold for long without it. Before he could get far into the spell, Nostas’ voice stabbed into his brain.

“Cease your prattling. By the Gods, make it so!” He bellowed.

The words stuck in Tyron’s throat as his fingers seized, the spell disintegrating before it could truly take shape. He turned to glare at the abominable Jorlin. What were the limits on their cursed authority? What sort of dominion did The Five even hold over him? There had to be a way to break it!

Nostas continued to advance towards him, blade shimmering in his hand. The battle raged around them, Tyron’s minions pressed back by the human Soldiers, forming a solid wall that protected him from harm, but for how long?In the distance, he was dimly aware of the roaring figure who had stormed into the chamber. Metal shrieked and crashed beyond his line of sight, but he didn’t have the space to care since he was in such personal danger.

“Have you learned your place yet, worm?” Nostas stated coldly as he strode forward, limbering his sword arm by whipping the blade from side to side. It was clear he had a combat-related sub-class at least, judging by his expert handling of the weapon. “Cease your pointless resistance. I can kill you whenever I want.”

Tyron grit his teeth. What could he do? If he started casting again, would he even be able to? What would be the point, if he was shut down with another word anyway?

He opened his mouth to reply, only for a deafening roar to drown out the fighting as a broad, hairy Hammerman leapt forward, bringing his weapon around in a savage arc towards the Noble’s head. Nostas reacted just in time, his blade flicking up as he threw his head to the side, deflecting the hammer just before it cracked into his skull.

Watching the exchange with his mouth hanging open, Tyron could scarcely believe what he was seeing.

Uncle Worthy?!

For a moment, he thought he was seeing things. That his Uncle couldn’t possibly be here. It was so shocking that, for a moment, he neglected to pulse his fingers. Pain exploded in his chest, bringing him back to reality.

Worthy bellowed, his two-handed hammer swinging in dominating arcs, the air itself bending as it passed. Massive shoulders bunched under stiff leather armour, his arms bulged and veins stood out on his neck.

“Move your arse, boy!” Worthy roared as he continued to corner Nostas with a flurry of blows.

The Noble was severely pressed, unable to stand up against the might of a Gold ranked Slayer. Every time he tried to speak, Worthy’s hammer whipped straight towards his face, forcing him to bend and twist at difficult angles, contorting his body and cutting off his speech.

Tyron snapped into action, flicking out sigils and speaking the words of power.

Death Blades.

From one spell, he moved directly to the next.

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Blessing of Bone.

Newly invigorated, Tyron’s minions moved faster, fought harder, their weapons smoking with dark power that caused their enemies to flinch back.

It would help, but his minions were already battered and on the back foot; they weren’t going to win the fight on their own. When would the rest of his minions arrive?

Unsure of the best course of action, Tyron called out to Worthy. “Keep him busy and don’t let him talk! I’ll finish the fight over here!”

“Hurry up, idiot!” Worthy roared as he spun around, putting his whole body into a mighty swing. Nostas was forced to duck low, almost pressing his face into the floor.

Thinking he had an opening while the hammerman recovered from his swing, he began to speak.

“Coll–”

“Nope,” Worthy grunted, whipping his foot up and slamming into the Noble’s chest.

Despite the powerful blow, Nostas was able to angle his body, the powerful enchantments in his armour helping him react and move at speeds he wasn’t capable of alone.

Tyron returned his focus to his own battle. He snapped up his hand and began to cast rapidly. Bone Lance after Bone Lance ripped into the surrounding Soldiers. With perfect mental control, Tyron was able to manipulate his minions, having them duck, shift to the side or move their shields at the exact moment he released his spells. It was if they were merely an extension of his own body.

Moving in tandem with his minions, he was able to slam the magickal bones into the front ranks of the foe. Blood spattered and men screamed, but the Soldiers quickly adapted, shifting to a more defensive posture and angling their shields towards him.

It was enough that they were wary of him, making it a little easier for his undead to fight. Tyron raised his hand once again and cast a longer spell.

Death Becomes Life.

Having burned his health to a low ebb and poured his magick out into the anti-magick field, Tyron was running on fumes. He reached for a pocket in his cloak, but hesitated. No, it wasn’t time yet. He could still hold.

If the Soldiers started dying, he would have all the vitality he needed to heal himself and pour more magick into his reserves. They just had to die!

Tyron clenched his jaws and burned his health further, converting to the magick he desperately needed. Pain filled his limbs and left him trembling on his feet, but it was enough. He had the power he needed, that was all that mattered.

His hand rose anew, and he drew on his reserves to bend reality once again.

Shivering Curse.

A blistering cold filled the corridor as if all the heat had been sucked away in an instant. Breath misted in the air, limbs seized as blood slowed within veins and frost began to coat every surface.

“Janus, push,” Tyron demanded, and his wight responded, seizing control of the undead and driving them forward.

With the curse in effect, Tyron began to cast Bone Lance once more, trying to find gaps in the enemy ranks and inflict maximum damage wherever he could.

He felt a burst of vitality in his gut and the pain lessened for a moment. Then another. The tide of battle was starting to turn, but not fast enough for Tyron’s liking. Worthy was clearly stronger than Nostas Jorlin, which was only to be expected, but with his Divine Authority, it wouldn’t matter if the Noble found enough time to utter a command. Every moment that passed, he feared he would turn to see Worthy collapse to the ground, clutching at his chest as his heart betrayed him.

Come on. Come ON.

Tyron pushed harder, burning his newly gained vitality for more magick, using the power to fuel more offensive spells. Inch by inch, his undead began to push back, their blades snaking out to find flesh and spill blood.

Once a gap opened up, Tyron forced himself through, sprinting towards his uncle, who was still fighting a dozen metres away. Worthy was bleeding all over his body, his armour easily cut through by Nostas’ enchanted blade. Forced to take risk after risk to keep up the pressure, Worthy hadn’t come out unscathed, with deep wounds bleeding heavily.

“Nostas!” Tyron yelled. “Are you ready to join your brother in death?”

The head of House Jorlin turned his head toward Tyron, meeting his eyes for just a moment, naked fury all over his face.

That was all the time the Necromancer needed. His fingers flickered, and Tyron’s mind smashed into Nostas’ like a sledgehammer.

He expected to crack the Noble like a walnut, yet he was surprised to find he hadn’t broken through. Something resisted him, something foreign, a strange power that enveloped Nostas’ mind.

The Gods. Even here, they were fighting against him, shielding their favoured children from his wrath. Just how much did they favour the Nobles with their accursed Class? How hard did they put their fingers on the scale of the Unseen?

Unwilling to accept defeat, he enveloped the shield with his mind and began to squeeze it like a vice. From within its shelter, Tyron felt Nostas’ mind rise up, pushing back at him, trying to shove him away.

Never. Never!

There wasn’t any chance he let this moment slip away. Flexing his will, Tyron clamped down on the Divine protection again and squeezed until he felt as if his soul itself was about to tear apart.

The protection shattered like glass, leaving the mind unprotected within. Nostas boiled out, full of fire and fury, clawing at Tyron like a mad thing, trying to tear him to pieces.

Yet his anger was nothing compared to the Necromancer’s, a candle next to a roaring bonfire. Exhausted, wounded and spent, Tyron would never allow himself to submit. He seized hold of Nostas’ mind and smothered.

Once again aware of the material world, Tyron found Nostas staring at him, eyes vacant, unmoving.

Not wasting his chance, Worthy sprung forward, bringing his hammer over his shoulder and down onto the Noble’s head, smashing the skull and crushing the flesh to the point it appeared he’d been decapitated.

Tyron collapsed to the ground, his strength giving out at the last moment.

“I could have used that skull,” he groaned, drawing deep breaths.

Worthy looked down at him, hammer up on his shoulder, and grinned.

“Shut up, boy.”