Book of The Dead

For whatever reason, Tyron had left the ancient dead at Skyice. High atop a mountain, with frozen winds and ice shards like daggers, it was one of the most inhospitable places he’d ever been. The dead, however, seemed to quite like it.

Stepping out of the Ossuary, Tyron was immediately struck by a cold that pierced straight to his bones. Without his inhuman constitution, he would freeze to death in minutes. As it was, he could endure just fine, he simply didn’t like it much.

Within the Broken Lands, with warped and twisted reality around him, Tyron could feel the abundant flow of magick pouring out of the gate like wind on his face. It wasn’t unpleasant. To a Mage such as he, it was like being immersed in an ocean of power, the currents around him so strong they threatened to sweep him off his feet. He could feel the energy flow as it streamed through his fingers and washed around his face.

Yet he knew what it really was: a poison, seeping into the heart of the realm and slowly killing it.

Reaching out along the conduits, he could feel his undead were nearby, still attentive around the rifts, keeping them clear and preserving the siphons put in place to tame the flow of magick. It would take years to meaningfully shrink the rift, but the process had to be started at some point and it was well under way here.

From behind him emerged the newest of Tyron’s ‘recruits’. Former Nobles, high-ranking Soldiers and Magisters, they were the lucky few pulled from the dead at Kallas and added to the Horde. Inwardly wailing in terror and despair, yet outwardly expressionless, they would serve as the new garrison for the Skyice rift until they had gained sufficient levels to justify allowing them to rejoin the main force.

After all, he hadn’t poured time, energy and limited resources into raising them to commit them to battle before they were properly ready. There was a limitless supply of kin coming through the rift for them to grind levels from, and he was going to take advantage of it.

“I feel cold.”

Tyron turned and looked to Filetta, brow raised. She glared at him.

“I know I’m not cold, I can’t feel temperature. It’s like… a memory. I see all the snow and ice and… feel like I should be cold.”She shrugged, feeling self conscious.

“Forget I said anything,” she muttered.

The Necromancer continued to stare at her, thinking.

“It’s remarkable how well you’ve been able to hold on to the memory and feeling of being alive,” he said. “You, more than any of the others, have maintained your personality. I desperately wish I knew what made you so special.”

Filetta looked back at him, her ethereal eyes going wide.

“Well…” she said, “... you could try sleeping with more of your victims before you turn them into undead.”

He turned his back to her.

“You’re as bad as Dove.”

“Take that back.”

“I won’t.”

Grumbling, but incapable of actually harming him, the best Filetta could do was kick snow in his direction as they made their way closer to the rift.

“Stop that.”

“No. How dare you say that to me?”

Sighing, he kept walking toward where he knew the undead he wanted were gathered. As they drew closer, he heard voices through the hail and sleet.

“Vas is freeling wastrikken.”

“Auld aksannis farsa!”

Even through the wind, Tyron could hear the uproarious laughter that followed. It was so strange and unexpected that he checked the conduits once more only to find that, yes, that was a large gathering of undead right in front of him.

Pushing through the snow with ease, Filetta still kicking at him, Tyron walked forward until he could finally see them. Gathered around each other, skeletal hands on shoulders, laughing and joking, nudging at each other, it looked like a gathering of old friends more than a group of horrifying undead creations.

If they weren’t made of blackened bone covered in the same ethereal flesh that Filetta possessed, he might have been mistaken for thinking they were still alive.

They saw him coming as he approached and one raised a hand.

“Ah! Wilkom, bossus shlag!”

More laughter. Feeling a little awkward, he raised a hand in return, but didn’t say anything, since they wouldn’t understand him anyway. Instead, he ‘spoke’ to them via the conduits.

I’ve come to bring you back to the horde. These are your replacements.

With a thought he ordered the new minions forward. They weren’t the only undead here, of course. There was a sizeable garrison of regular skeletons and revenants, who couldn’t gain levels, that would remain in place to do the bulk of the fighting. The wights and demi-liches were there to lead them in battle, provide support and engage where necessary.

Head tilted to one side as if listening to the thoughts in their head, the wight with the raised arm stepped forward.

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These are from the Empire?

The thought was rough, direct. Tyron nodded. The figure turned back to the others.

“Auld kasser vurminslung!” he declared.

A great cheer went up from the risen dead. As one they ran forward, going straight past Tyron so they could start mocking the freshly undead warriors and mages behind him. Jeering and poking, they laughed heartily at the former Nobles’ expense, but didn’t attack them.

It was bizarre to see. Overwhelming every other emotion through the conduits was a vibrant sense of… cheerfulness.

“I like this lot,” Filetta smiled. “They seem like fun.”

“They’re dead,” Tyron emphasised. “How is it possible they’re having fun at all?”

She shrugged and pointed.

“Seems like they figured it out.”

That was undeniable. Tyron couldn’t help but wonder, if this was how much enjoyment they had while dead, what had they been like while they were alive?

As someone who had spent most of his youth reading in an attic, and most of his adult life on the run or secretly plotting vengeance in the dead of night, he struggled to relate to this jubilant attitude.

That’s enough, surely. We need to get moving.

The lead figure turned back to him once more. Wearing the same gear he’d used in life, the wight didn’t resemble the others of his kind Tyron had raised so much as a wild, undead barbarian. By modern standards, the armour was crude and inefficient, with poor protection for the arms, but enough freedom of movement to swing a massive, two handed sword of pitted iron.

Tyron got a strange sense from the weapon, not magick, not exactly. If he were to guess, he would say it was likely to be the power of The Three imbued into the metal in one way or another. If he got the chance, he should take a closer look.

You have sympathy for the Empire? The wight challenged him.

No, Tyron replied, terse.

After a tense pause, the ghostly figure laughed uproariously once more.

Good! We fucking hate those guys!

With a wave of his hand, he called off the others and they listened, ceasing their teasing of the newly undead, who hadn’t visibly responded in any way. Beneath, they were seething and filled with anguish, but Tyron was the only one who knew that.

I am Wulfrick. Once I was the Sword Warden of the Westfold and I slew many a kin until those damned false gods started their crusade. If you aim to bring them down, you will have the best of my blade.

Not content with the force of his words, Wulfrick slammed a skeletal fist against his chest armour for added emphasis. Not used to such enthusiasm from the unliving, Tyron could only nod. As he remained taken aback, another undead, a demi-lich, drifted forwards.

I greet you, a warm, feminine voice resounded in his mind. I am Hila, Witch of the Blackwood. This idiot was my friend and rival in life. She gave Wulfrick a playful shove that did absolutely nothing to shift the lumbering wight.

Even as a spirit flesh coated skeleton, Wulfrick had clearly been a large fellow in life.

We appreciate the chance you have given us, Hila went on, to seek vengeance and bring down the false gods. We will fight well just as we did in life.

Well, that was exactly what he needed them to do. As long as they pulled their weight, he had no complaints, and he was still in desperate need of capable commanders for the horde.

You’ve all reached at least level twenty, am I correct?

Wulfrick laughed, his enormous blade slung over one shoulder.

Of course! We’ve been killing kin day and night!

Tyron blinked.

And have you been commanding the skeletons in battle?

Hila glanced at Wulfrick, then down to the ground.

Sometimes… she hedged.

Wulfrick appeared either unable, or unwilling to engage in any form of subtlety.

No! They’re weak!

Tyron sighed. So these recently awakened ancient souls had just been… killing all the monsters that came through the rift themselves? It was impressive, in a way, but also nonsensical. They had well over a thousand skeletons here to help them, and he had specifically asked them to make use of them, had he not? Getting used to having minions that didn’t have to do what he told them was going to take some getting used to.

When we get back, you’ll have to practice directing them. I understand that they aren’t as strong as you, but they can be effective if you guide them with your thoughts. That is one of the roles I need you to fill.

Of course, we can do it, Hila assured him. She batted Wulfrick across the back of the head.

Fuck! Yes, of course we can. I led many men into battle in life.

Some of them even survived.

Hah! The strong ones did!

Tyron was starting to regret the deal he had made with the Old Gods. Would this really work out? He would only know for sure once they had been tested in battle.

Let’s go then, into the Ossuary.

Eager to get to it, the undead rushed forward and trampled into the Ossuary, looking around curiously. They’d been inside before, when they were first raised and again when he’d dropped them off here, but they still found the premise of moving through the realm using this strange space to be remarkable.

When the door was closed, then conjured again on the other side, Wulfrick and the others pushed forward, hoping to be the first to squeeze out the door.

“Flicken! Vas is Uutaarg!” Wulfrick roared and the others burst out with enthusiastic chatter.

What’s the problem? Tyron asked, frustrated he couldn’t understand their speech.

This place is fucking huge! Wulfrick replied. They build cities like this now?

Tyron blinked.

Yes, and much bigger than this one.

Kallas was a reasonably large city, he supposed, but nothing compared to the provincial capitals. He had never been to the Central Province, but could only imagine that the capital there was large enough to dwarf Kenmor.

Bigger? Wulrick looked around the market square in the centre of the city. Fucking hell.

We’re about to leave, fetching you was the last thing I needed to do. Are you all ready to march?

Wulfrick laughed.

Of course. I don’t even get tired now! It’s great!

“They really have endless enthusiasm, don’t they?” Filetta remarked.

“You’ve been talking to them?” Tyron inquired.

“I have. Quite the difference compared to the rest of the undead around here.”

“Apart from you.”

“Well… yes, I suppose so.”

Something for him to think about further another time. For now, it was time to march. The dead had been processed and raised, his stocks of skeletons replenished. There was no point dithering. Every day brought the Golden Legion closer.

“Time to march,” he said aloud to Filetta while he issued the order mentally via the conduits. It would be up to General Crow to organise the column while they moved, freeing the Necromancer to work on something more productive.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

Tyron grinned like a wolf.

“To Mirasmus. We end this with one more battle.”