Book of The Dead

“By the authority of the Divines, cease breathing and DIE!”

There was desperation in that voice, a rising pitch that grated on Tyron’s ears even as it widened the smile on his face.

“No,” he said, “I don’t think I will. Your words aren’t strong enough to touch me, little lord. They won’t save you, just like they didn’t save your brother.”

Wearing the finest armour available, positively humming with enchantments, this man looked every inch of the god’s lineage. However, upon hearing Tyron’s words, his tanned face turned ashen and he drew in on himself like a bug retreating into its shell.

“It’s not possible,” he mumbled, staggering to the side, “Elias lives! He would never fall to the likes of a demon such as you.”

Deep in the castle in the heart of the city, the man before him, Irastos, Lord of House Ladisla, was the last living person inside, though he didn’t yet know it. While the loyal Soldiers of his house had fought and died on his behalf, he had cowered here, behind his most powerful guards. Even his own brother had stepped out to take part in the defense of the city, yet the Lord had declined to participate.

“Trust The Five Divines to choose the wrong brother,” Tyron stated, causing the Lord to flinch. The Necromancer reached to the pouch belted at the waist of his armour and withdrew a small stone glowing softly with a sickly green energy. “Did you want to say something to your brother? I have him right here.”

Hateful eyes stared at Tyron before they flickered to the stone in his hand. Yearning, misery and shame warred across his features in rapid succession.

“Take me,” Irastos muttered.

“Excuse me?”“Take me,” the Lord said, straightening, “but let my brother go. He deserves better… he deserves a better fate than this.”

Tyron’s brows rose. He hadn’t expected for Lord Ladisla to show a little self-sacrificing backbone now at the end. Resigned to his death, he offered his own soul willingly if Tyron were willing to release his brother to go to the embrace of his gods.

He rolled the small stone between his two fingers for a moment before placing it back into his pouch.

“I think I’ll take both,” Tyron said.

“You fucking cret–,” the Lord shrieked, sword rasping out of its sheath at last.

Tyron raised his hands.

His first word slammed the Lord against the back wall. His second shattered the table between them. He took a step forward. Though the Lord tried to press forward, the reality-warping power of Tyron’s magick was too strong for him to withstand from such a close vantage. He was driven to his knees, eyes rolling back in his head before Tyron had even completed his spell.

Reaching out and placing a hand on his head, the Necromancer spoke the final syllable and unleashed his weaving.

Soul Spike.

Dark energy poured from his hand and wrapped around the Lord’s head, sinking into his mouth, eyes, nose and ears, worming into his flesh and driving deeper.

For a moment, nothing happened, then he began to tremble, as if something warred within him. A moment later, he began to scream, a piercing wail of anguish that rose and rose impossibly high. Desperate, he writhed on the ground, tearing at his armour, scrabbling for his throat so hard his nails tore and began to bleed.

Tyron watched.

It was an interesting spell he had devised, though not overly practical. Soul Magick as it existed in this realm was very different from the kind of Soul energy that could be harvested in the Realm of the Dead, a qualitative difference as wide as an ocean and deep as a canyon, but that didn’t mean it was useless. It could be molded, interacted with, if one knew how.

The scream choked off into gurgling horror as a dark spike of mixed purple and green energy erupted from the Lord’s mouth, followed by more bursting out of his chest and limbs, piercing straight through his armour.

A torrent of blood began to drain out of the gaps in the armour, flowing out onto the ground and pooling thickly on the carpet.

“Some might say that it’s needlessly cruel,” Dove noted from the door. “Is there really a need to turn a man’s soul into a spike that splits him from crown to arsehole?”

Tyron frowned.

“That’s not what it does,” he refuted. “The spike is mostly Death Magick, and his soul is still captured in there.”

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“And the crown to arsehole bit?”

“I didn’t plan for where the spikes come out, Dove. I really don’t think there’s one coming out of his backside anyway.”

“Want me to check?”

“I do not.”

He’d wanted the spell to do damage, of course, but also to act as a measure to cage the target’s spirit before it could be whisked away. It was effective enough against people weaker than him, but once again was likely overdesigned. He was spending too much to achieve too little, and the lack of efficiency was completely unacceptable to him.

It needed more range, not that he needed to be touching his target, needed to be faster to cast and also take less magick to do the same job. If he could achieve all of those, then Soul Spike would be a passable offensive spell.

Stretching forth a hand, he formed symbols rapidly, speaking a few short words as his other hand withdrew an empty stone from his pouch. Released oh so briefly from its cage, the Lord’s soul drifted out of the twisted wreckage of its body and fused with the crude stone repository that would be its new, temporary housing.

“That must have seriously fucked up his skeleton too,” Dove mused, leaning down to poke the body. “Aren’t you just making work for yourself? Or are you starting to enjoy their suffering just a little too much?”

“I don’t especially care if they suffer,” Tyron replied, brushing off his armour, “but I’m not seeking to maximise it, either.”

Maybe he could also modify the spike to be less… vigorous. That would help save on the energy cost.

“Right,” Dove drawled. “Well, everyone here is dead, what’s the plan?”

“Process the bodies, raise more undead, then march. There’s a lot of work to do and not much time to do it,” Tyron sighed, rolling his shoulders.

Fighting in the city was dying down, the final dregs of the defenders were already dead or had fled over the walls. His minions were now coordinating to put out the fires and restore order to the city, such as it was. By the time the light returned, the city would have lost eighty percent of the population, but he intended that those who remained wouldn’t suffer as a result of his presence.

His skeletons would patrol the streets to prevent looting and other, more degenerate behaviours until he left.

In the meantime, he would devote himself to his craft. He needed thousands of skeletons to replace those lost in the assault and now had a surfeit of materials for revenants, as well as a few candidates for wights and demi-liches. These new recruits could be pushed out to one of the rift garrisons to gain experience, which meant Tyron could bring in the souls gifted to him by the Old Gods. Hopefully they would prove to be useful in the fighting to come.

“Always work with this guy. He’s no fun at all,” Dove lamented as the pair walked out of the room.

“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve had quite a bit of fun with him,” Filetta teased from her place leaning against the wall.

“Good luck trying it now,” Dove retorted. “Even putting aside the logistics of the situation, he doesn’t have the inclination. There’s nothing in his head except for bones and the things he can do with them.”

He paused.

“We’re quite similar in many ways,” Dove reflected, miming a tear dripping from the hollow socket of his eye. “He must have learned it from me.”

“I’m only trying to bring down an empire and kill a few gods,” Tyron said, not bothering to look over his shoulder as he strode away. “How much work could it possibly be?”

Right now, he was focused on the immediate problem of conquering the Southern Province. If he failed here, it would be almost impossible to make another attempt as successful as this one had been so far, even supposing he escaped with his life. Or escaped without it.

He was under no illusions as to the power the Empire was able to wield when it wasn’t mired in self-obsession and dogmatic bureaucracy. There was a reason it had remained standing while the rest of the realm crumbled around it.

When he strode out of the castle, the outer courtyard was already bustling with activity. The grisly, macabre work of undeath was already well under way, with Corpse Handlers working alongside skeletons to process and butcher the remains, separating the meat and offal from the bones, neatly organising the skeletons before handing them over for further processing.

All in all, there were dozens of humans involved in the work and hundreds of skeletons to act as helpers. Already the gaps between the cobbles ran thick with coagulated blood while increasingly stinking flesh gathered flies in thick clouds.

Tyron had one of the demi-liches create a field of Death Magick. Weak enough to only mildly effect the humans, but strong enough to ward off the bugs. It wasn’t much but it would make the environment more pleasant for the human workers.

Among whom were his two remaining students.

“Master Steelarm,” called Richard as he jogged over, his arms red up to the elbows. “Is… is everything alright?”

Tyron glanced at him.

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Well—never mind. It’s nothing. Are you going to help here?”

“We’re doing what we can, but we don’t want to do any spellwork,” Briss said, brushing her hair out of her face and smearing the muck from her fingers across her forehead. She didn’t seem to notice or care.

“Are you still not up to the standard?” he said dryly.

“Well…” Briss trailed off, scowling.

Clearly she was frustrated by her own lack of ability. A similar look was on Richard’s face, the young man staring down at his boots, eyes hard.

“Don’t worry yourselves,” Tyron said, shaking his head, “you’ve been developing well. Don’t be impatient. I have enough time to give you some assistance while you’re here.”

“Are you sure?” Richard asked while Briss’ face brightened immediately.

He didn’t, but he was able to multi-task. He felt sorry they wouldn’t have his full attention, but they would have what he could give them.

“Of course. Now, let’s begin. No time like the present.”

Already his mind was branching out, connecting through the conduits to his minions, putting a dozen different tasks in motion, preparing to cast spells and utilise his skills.

There would be thousands of new undead before the day was done. Then, they would march.