Book of The Dead

No matter how much time he spent on the plains, Tyron could never grow used to the wasteland. In fact, he could go further and say he actively disliked it, even hated it. An unnatural, inhospitable state, where everything he would expect from a natural environment had been stripped away or destroyed.

No trees, not even stumps. The soil was barren and dry, without insects, or worms, or anything living within to make it vibrant and rich. Instead, it was dry and hard, ground down to a hard, blackened sand. Where one would expect to see flora and fauna there were crystal growths, some ankle-high, others towering a dozen metres into the air. Shards and flakes of the stuff were everywhere, ground into the dirt, or lying as a fine powder atop the surface.

This was what the entire world would become if the magick wasn’t contained, wasn’t pushed back. The kin had invaded, destroyed and purged every living thing in these lands, and then the highly concentrated arcane energy flowing from the unregulated rifts had gone to work.

The crystal lizards were probably what he hated most. They weren’t overly strong, as kin went, but it wasn’t how dangerous they were that made him hate them, it was the fact they had never come through a rift.

They were being grown, born right here in the ground, home-grown kin.

Even if they had never engineered the deaths of Magnin and Beory, the Divines deserved to die just for the ruin they had brought upon the world that birthed them.

Towards the head of the column surrounded by his honour guard, Tyron stared out across the landscape with hard eyes.

“You look angry,” Filetta purred from beside him. “Something you want to get off your chest?”

She prodded him in the side with one finger, but since he’d donned his armour, he didn’t really feel it.

“Go to the front and fight something,” he ordered. “You’re close to advancing your Class, aren’t you?”“I still need three levels,” she exclaimed. “I’m not that close.”

“You won’t get them standing around annoying me. Go.”

“Shouldn’t have poked him,” she muttered to herself as she lightly stepped away. “Although he poked me often enough.”

“You know I can hear you,” he said.

“Of course. Why else would I say anything?”

Tyron rolled his eyes, but at least she was gone.

Ghosts roamed ahead of the column, seeking out any sign of life for them to torment and hold in their freezing grasp. Every now and again, he would check on them, ensuring they were moving correctly and hadn’t been distracted by their single-minded viciousness. A task he would normally leave to Laurel, but she wasn’t with him right now.

A roaming pack of monsters caught his attention. As large as horses, they ran on two powerful legs, their four arms tipped with curved blades formed of bone or chitin. Seeing the column approaching, they shrieked and turned, lifting their pace as they rushed headlong towards the skeletons.

Deal with it, Tyron ordered.

From somewhere behind and to his right, he felt small, rhythmic vibrations through the ground as the cavalry charged, pounding the ground with their skeletal hooves. Before the kin could even intercept the frontline, they were run down, the undead horsemen expertly controlling their servant mounts to slam into their sides, shoulder-checking them into the dust, then skewering them with their blades.

It was nice to charge into the kin, rather than be charged by them all the time, Tyron reflected. His disciplined ranks of skeletal infantry were strong, able to absorb all sorts of punishment, but the skeletal cavalry certainly expanded his options.

More movement caught from the corner of his eye caused Tyron to turn and raise his hands. Responding to his silent order, the skeletal cavalry returned to the column as the front ranks of skeletons turned to face this new threat.

Shields braced and spears at the ready; the skeletons stood silent and still, unflinching and unwavering, without fear, without passion. Tyron spoke the words of power, each syllable slamming into the air with the force of a giant’s hammer. He could feel the magick within him, a veritable ocean of power, roil and crash as he seized and shaped it, using words and sigils to give it meaning, form and purpose.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

This was a large pack of kin, likely fresh from the rift. A mix of beasts, some large, some small, ran towards Tyron as he continued to cast.

He timed his execution to complete the moment they were in range, extending his hands and speaking the final word. Silver white power flowed through the air, forming a grid of magickal sparks that raced over the land and buried themselves in the ground. As the kin streamed forward, pillars of bone speared upwards, skewering some who screeched in rage and pain. Several monsters tried to destroy the pillars, slamming into them with their heavy bodies as they ran past, shattering several, but the rest ignored them, flowing around the obstructions as they sought to reach Tyron.

A fatal mistake.

After several seconds, the pillars exploded, shattering into thousands of bone shards that tore through flesh and sliced sinews like a hail of blades. Dozens of kin collapsed to the ground, torn apart by the bone, while others continued, their thick hides able to protect them from the worst of the damage.

With a thought, Tyron ordered his skeletons to advance, and soon battle was joined, but not for long. With overwhelming numbers, archer and mage support, the power of the revenants and wights amongst his minions, there was little danger. In less than a minute, the remnants had been swept away, and the column continued to advance.

The fighting continued as they progressed, the kin growing more numerous and larger as they grew closer to the rift. After a time, they suddenly thinned out, and soon it was easy to see why. Raised earthen walls surrounded an outpost with an army of undead within, drawing in the monsters like moths to a flame.

A strong line of ranked skeletons barred the entrance, with Brigette the wight holding the centre. As he approached, Tyron’s skeletons parted and formed three-deep ranks on either side, protecting the entrance.

There was fighting all around the camp, but Tyron left it to his minions, moving his students and the materials they’d brought with them inside. He only stepped within when everything else of consequence had gone before him. With the full undead horde within, there wasn’t much room to move inside the packed dirt walls, the undead standing shoulder to shoulder, packed together like fish in a barrel. At least there was a small collection of tents in the middle in which they could comfortably rest.

“You’ve been doing well,” he said to Brigette, who had fallen in alongside him.

“Thank you,” she replied, somewhat awkwardly. “It’s been pretty much non-stop out here.”

“That’s why I sent so many powerful minions.”

The bone giants had been sent with this first group, along with some of his best wights and several demi-liches. If they hadn’t been able to hold, he would have been very disappointed.

“The damaged minions have been gathered together. Unfortunately, some were lost during the fighting–”

“I know,” he said, cutting her off.

Of course he did; nothing could happen to his horde without his knowledge. It was interesting, watching someone like Brigette. He’d noticed that the longer someone had been undead, the less… living they became. Newly raised wights might forget that they didn’t breathe, causing their ribs to rise and fall rhythmically for no reason. Small mannerisms and behaviours that had been learned throughout their lifetime—using the back of their hand to wipe sweat from their forehead, shifting their weight from one foot to the other, any of the thousands of things a person did during the course of the day as they moved their body.

Brigette was still in this stage. Sometimes she flicked her head in a certain motion, and it had taken Tyron some time to realise she was expecting her hair to get in the way, so she was trying to shift it before that happened.

Over time, these micro-actions would fade away as the new reality was gradually ingrained. Without any sense of temperature, or pain, or fatigue, with no need for air or water, it appeared as though they started to forget, on the subconscious level, what it had been like to be human. Perhaps this was the reason Filetta still acted so much like she did while she was alive. She may have realised her connection to her former self was slipping away, piece by piece, and was actively fighting to retain it.

For most of the revenants and wights, they had slowly changed to the point they behaved similarly to the soulless undead. More and more, they stood motionless and unmoving when they weren’t actively engaged in an activity, as still as a statue. Their voices and thoughts became more hollow and unfeeling over time, as if their emotions were leaching out of them along with their humanity.

An interesting phenomenon, to be sure, and one he would need to study more closely.

Once the distribution of undead around the temporary camp was completed, Tyron moved to the central tent and found the students gathered inside. Georg, Richard and Briss nodded to him, while the other five, younger Necromancers avoided his gaze. He wasn’t surprised. When he tried to teach the newly Awakened, they had always seemed intimidated by him.

“We will remain here for a day,” he told them. “Time to rest, and to hone your skills. There’s an unending stream of kin to use for target practice and to gain some levels. You three,” he nodded to his own students, “can take your undead to the walls and fight if you want, but be careful not to overextend yourselves. It’s very dangerous here, and if you need to retreat, you should do so decisively.”

“Thank you, Master Steelarm,” Richard said respectfully.

This would be an opportunity for Tyron also. Before advancing toward the rift, he would perform the status ritual himself, and encourage all of his wights and demi-liches to do the same.

He may have gained a level since he’d last performed it. He would need to be at his very best to succeed at the rift. He left the students to their own devices and headed to his peronsal tent before taking off his armour and sitting on the low cot that had been put up inside.

“Well then,” he said to the floating skeleton before him. Staff in hand, with glowing red crystals visible through its eye sockets and joints. “How nice to see you again in person, Lady Erryn. I’m sure you missed me.”