Book of The Dead

There were a lot of spirits clinging to the land. A lot. Death and devastation had been visited on the Western Province by the Empire on an obscene scale, and even in these remote areas, with only villages and farmsteads dotted across the landscape, the remnants were clear.

Seen through the eyes of the Ashenflame skeletons, the spirits wailed and screamed in silence. Thrashing and clawing at anything living that drew close enough, but unable to have any effect on the tangible world. They flocked toward Tyron, filled with hatred for the life he held, and he recruited them by the dozen.

Ghosts were not his area of expertise, not by a long shot, but they remained useful, ideal for spreading out around the horde and scouting the terrain.

With this growing cloud of spectres in place, and his wyvern flying overhead, Tyron finally encountered the first pack of kin roaming the grassland. Although the rifts were far away, the closest being Dustwatch, Endless Sand and Skyice, well to the south, he’d expected to see more of the mana-born monsters roaming, considering there were no active Slayers in place. Totally unguarded, the rifts would be spewing an endless stream of magick and kin into the land, growing wider, the pressure building until further breaks were likely.

Thinking about the situation only angered Tyron further.

They knew. They all damn well knew what this was doing to the world. All his life, he had been raised among Slayers, told that protecting people from the kin and controlling the rifts was the only thing keeping this world alive. Even thinking about an entire province, seven rifts, left completely untended, seemed like utter madness to him. It went against every instinct he had from his time growing up.

Bulky and covered in thick scales with long, serrated spines protruding from their backs, Tyron knew these creatures had come from the rift at Dustwatch, over two hundred kilometres to the south. With their grotesquely overdeveloped front arms, they were powerful melee combatants, but ungainly, the magick having twisted their forms away from nature.

An excellent test for his new ashflame skeletons.

Although none of his wights or revenants had yet been improved to the new standard, he wouldn’t send his basic minions forward without any support at all. He chose Brigette, the former swordswoman, to lead the assault.

“Don’t get too involved unless you have to,” he told her. “Don’t control them too much either. I want to see just how intelligent these skeletons are without us having to babysit them too much.”“Are you sure?” she asked him, clearly hesitant to question his judgement. “What if some of them are destroyed?”

He knew what she was worried about, the ashflame skeletons were expensive and difficult to create. It would be a waste if any were lost before the looming confrontation.

“We have to see what they can do,” he told her. “I won’t hold you responsible even if all of them are lost, don’t worry.”

It was one thing to test the strength of the reinforced bones, to order minions and see how capable they were, it was another to see them fight. As his father had often remarked, battle was always the true test. Even Magnin’s vaunted instincts could sometimes prove to be off when he tested new methods and techniques in combat for the first time. Tyron could recall several wry shrugs from his father as the man had laughed off a particular failure.

So it was with keen interest that Tyron watched through Brigette’s eyes as she led a hundred ashflame skeletons into battle. Against a pack of almost two dozen of the spiked kin, it was easily half as many as Tyron would have sent of his regular skeletons. He had high hopes for the newly made undead.

A mix of sword and shield and sword-only skeletons, Brigette arranged them into a simple formation, shields in front, swords behind, and marched them forward, following his instructions not to interfere too much.

Predictably savage, the kin reacted as soon as they noticed the skeletons drawing near. The entire pack turned and began to bound over the grass, snarling and hooting, their powerful forearms smashing the ground as they ran.

In response, the ashflame skeletons braced, assuming a defensive stance, without any prompting from their wight commander.

That was interesting….

As any fight against the kin tended to be, the battle was brief and brutal. Howling with blind rage, the monsters threw themselves against the skeletons, hooked claws reaching, desperate to rend and destroy. Tyron wondered just how many would be lost in the initial charge, only for his eyes to widen in shock as the undead held the line.

Leaping into the ranks of skeletons, the kin tried to smash their way through, only for the skeletons to brace against their shields, holding firm. Some even deflected the charge, turning their shields to redirect the momentum of the kin, sending them sprawling to the side.

Stolen novel; please report.

Reinforced, their bones were far heavier and more durable, giving the skeletons increased stability and strength. Their new weave might be crude, but the vastly improved strength of the threads enabled them to expend a huge volume of magick and exert far more power than before.

From behind the wall of shields, the longsword-wielding skeletons gripped their blades in two hands and thrust over the shoulders of the leading undead. Blood and ichor flowed as the kin screamed. Newly reforged, the blades had also been transformed, heavier, sharper, more durable. Using these traits to their advantage, the skeletons were easily able to penetrate the scaled hide of the beasts, plunging them deep to pierce flesh.

Of course, the fight wasn’t entirely one-sided. With their unnatural, muscular arms, the monsters lashed out, striking wildly about themselves. Although the skeletons did an admirable job getting out of the way or catching the blows on their shields, the sheer strength of the kin was enough to do damage. Shields cracked, bones broke and skeletons fell back, injured. Yet others stepped into the breach, swords at the ready and striking home with deadly effect.

In a short span of time, the combat was over. Brigette, the former swordswoman, stood stunned, not having had to intervene in the slightest. Watching from a distance, Tyron was impressed. Without any support from his wights or assistance from himself in the form of spell support, the ashflame skeletons had butchered the kin, demonstrating immensely improved strength, speed and coordination.

Just as well, because they drew far more magick. Tyron estimated over the fight that a single ashflame was utilising the same amount of magick as five regular skeletons. That was a price he was more than willing to pay. Everything he had done to defray the cost of his minions and improve their efficiency was paying him back in spades now.

Dove whistled from beside him.

“The new bony boys are doing work,” he said. “I’m speechless. I never thought skeletons would be able to do something like that.”

‘Speechless’ was, as ever, not a literal term when applied to the former Summoner.

“I may have to promote them from bony boys,” Dove noted, observing closely with a hand on his chin. “Perhaps they have risen to the level of shaft soldiers.”

“Shut up, Dove,” Tyron groaned.

“No, seriously. These new skeletons are long and strong. I’m certain the shaft soldiers will be feared all over the Empire.”

“Did you have something productive to say, or were you just coming over here to make bad jokes?”

“Mainly the bad jokes, but also to express my shock and surprise that you managed to make skeletons look actually fearsome. I was certain it couldn’t be done. Those ghouls and other assorted nasties raised my opinion of what a strong undead could be, but I think you’ve met the bar.”

“Uh, thanks. I guess.”

A sincere compliment from Dove couldn’t help but feel like a trap. The man had lost so much of his humanity since his death, which was only to be expected, but perhaps a small ember of who had been before still burned within him.

At least, a part of him that cared about something other than inappropriate comments and blasphemy.

Turning his mind back to his minions, Tyron was more than satisfied. He knew there was a lot more he could do to improve their performance, and he was also aware of just how much of a force multiplier he himself could be. What the ashflame skeletons had shown today was the minimum base level of what they could do.

Tyron was also starting to wonder what would result when his wights and revenants were also improved to make use of the new methods he had earned.

It would happen, but his base minions needed to be improved first. If his rank and file skeletons couldn’t hold the line, even with all of his support, then he didn’t have a horde, he had a menagerie of harmless mice.

“We need to move faster,” he said, causing Dove to turn around and face him. “If we don’t get to Foxbridge soon, there won’t be enough time to work on my minions.”

He was doing everything he could while still on the road, but that was limited. With a plethora of new abilities and spells to try and sort through, Tyron was targeting them one by one, teasing out the sigils and putting together his initial versions of the various spells.

With so much on his plate, he was confident he wouldn’t be sleeping any time soon. Luckily he’d managed to get some rest while he could.

“I recognise that look in your eye, kid,” Dove said. “You’re about to do something you probably shouldn’t.”

“When am I not? Do you want to be a pain in the neck, or do you want to help for a change?”

“Excuse me? I’m very helpful. Just because I’m not platinum like some people…”

“You also have a slave contract engraved on your soul.”

“That too. Outside of those issues…”

“Your personality is also… just… the worst.”

“Damn it, Tyron! Do you want my help or not?”

“If you’re offering, I’ll take it. I have a lot of spellwork to do.’

“Fine then, let’s get to it.”

If Dove was feeling like being useful for a change, the Necromancer wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Gathering up the ashflame skeletons he’d sent into battle, Tyron burned his own health to repair the damage, raising his brows at just how much it took. Clearly the more advanced material had an increased cost of repair as well. Good to know.

Once the column was reformed, they resumed the march, not stopping day or night. Along the way, the devastation became more and more visible as they entered more populated regions closer to the river.

Skeletons and kin wandered freely, roaming the grasslands, empty farms and devastated villages. When they drew too close, Tyron allowed his undead to fight, smashing the monsters and gathering up the bones of the dead whenever they could.

Although the column didn’t move that quickly, it never rested, Tyron himself directing their progress from the back of his construct. It took a week, but eventually the town of Foxbridge could be seen in the distance.

Tyron had known it was coming. He knew the outlying farms and villages by name, knew the families that had likely been buried beside their own houses.

This was where he would make his stand.