Book of The Dead

The city of Mirasmus wasn’t quite as large as Kenmor had been. While the capital of the Western province had practically straddled the border with Central, making itself not only the political centre, but the major trade hub as well, Mirasmus was further south. Situated amongst the most fertile lands of the south and pressed against the Serpent’s Tongue, an enormous river delta, it was the breadbasket of the province and its cultural heartland.

Living in Kenmor, Tyron had been intimately aware of the flow of trade. The main roads sliced through the city like a knife, moving west to east as an almost endless supply of goods moved towards the capital of the Empire, trying to quench a thirst that never seemed slaked.

Even from the outside, he could see that Mirasmus was a very different beast.

The army had marched for days and nights, the undead never tiring as the kilometres were eaten away under their bony heels. There had been four further attempts on his life during the journey, but none had been nearly as successful as the first.

Alerted to the danger, Tyron was careful to never leave himself as exposed as he had been. Covered with shields both magickal and mundane at all times, subsequent attacks had failed to touch him at all, though two had forced the intervention of his mantle.

Were they trying to build a sense of false confidence? Letting him believe that his measures were effective and that he was relatively safe from assassination? Or perhaps they were simply attempting to tire him out, keeping him paranoid and alert at all times, never knowing when the next strike would come, or from where?

In the distance the mighty walls of Mirasmus rose high into the sky, towers spaced evenly around the perimeter, with outer walls pushing away from the interior, creating a star-like pattern when viewed from above. Even from this distance, he could feel the power thrumming through those walls as the defenders powered up their enchantments and readied themselves for the siege to come.

“That looks like an absolute prick of a city to siege,” Dove whistled. “Fucking hell. I’d need an army of kin to knock down those walls, just look at the things!”

“Hopefully an army of undead will suffice,” Tyron said flatly, eyes roaming over the walls.

They were in there, huddled together in fear. He could practically smell it.“There’s going to be a full army inside those walls,” Dove said conversationally, “not a half-baked garrison of knock-kneed morons like last time. How do you think it’s going to go?”

“Painfully,” Tyron grunted.

His former mentor was right in pointing out the challenge ahead. This siege would be nothing like the last. Kallas was a soft target, underdefended and vulnerable, which was exactly why he’d struck there.

Mirasmus was a fortress. Unlike Kenmor, there wasn’t a shanty town outside the outer wall for him to take advantage of either. Inside those walls, every Noble house of the South had gathered their Soldiers. The Magisters had doubtless recalled all of their best Mages to aid in the defense, along with whatever Slayers they had been able to torture into cooperation.

And behind him, the Golden Legion approached. How many had the Empire sent against him this time? Ten thousand? Twenty thousand? Fifty? In between the two forces, Tyron and his horde sat exposed, a nut waiting to be cracked.

He was vulnerable, had made himself so.

“Just whose side are you on?” Filetta demanded, glaring at Dove. “If Tyron loses, what do you think is going to happen to you?”

“Oh, unspeakable things,” Dove said, nodding enthusiastically. “When my soul winds up in the Realm of the Dead, I may get my balls back and then wish that I hadn’t. Only the most exquisite torture awaits me. I was just trying to make sure that Tyron had his head in the fucking game! I don’t want him to lose, this rebellion is the only thing keeping me sane.”

Eyeing his former mentor sideways, Tyron considered what he’d said. Dove had been significantly better since finding a purpose in his unlife. Watching the Empire begin to crumble had continued to breathe new life into the man. Well, perhaps that wasn’t the right wording. Were Mirasmus to fall, and another Tower of Magisters be scoured from the face of the realm, then Dove might even be happy.

For a little while.

“Any idea what sort of enchantments they might have on the walls?” Tyron asked him, returning his gaze to the towering barrier between him and his vengeance.

He would get them. There weren’t walls high enough anywhere in the Empire that could prevent him from taking what he wanted. What he needed.

“Fuck no,” Dove barked a laugh, hands on his bony hips. “I made a study of magick, obviously, but Slayers don’t tend to be involved in the design of city walls, kid.”

Tyron grunted. He was in much the same position. Even during his time working under Master Willhem, he hadn’t had any cause to work on defensive enchantments. Almost everything revolved around his own secret projects, or the killing of rift-kin.

“What does the General have to say?” Tyron asked, turning to another undead figure in their midst.

General Crow of the Golden Legion stood nearby. As a wight, his spirit flesh gave a hint to what he had looked like in life, yet his expression was now passive and emotionless. That wasn’t how he felt on the inside, however. Tyron alone was witness to the General’s struggle. He could sense the wailing and thrashing of his soul as he tried to break free, to rebel, to deny even a tiny portion of his expertise and knowledge.

Of course, it was futile. Tyron had bound him in chains so tight that no spirit could possibly break them unaided. No matter how hard Crow resisted, he was unable to act against his master’s wishes, and couldn’t even think of doing Tyron harm. Already there were signs of numb acceptance beginning to show through the defiance.

“This will be a difficult siege,” the General replied. “I highly doubt we will be able to get over the walls before the Golden Legion arrives. To break Mirasmus could take weeks, even months.”

“And how much time do you estimate we have?” Tyron asked him.

“Five days,” the General said, showing no sign of his inner-conflict.

Just five days to bring down one of the mightiest cities outside of the Central Province. It certainly wasn’t a lot of time.

“In your opinion, do you think we should siege the city?” Tyron asked, never taking his eyes away from the walls.

“No,” General Crow replied. “The risks are too great.”

Inside those walls, hundreds of Nobles were waiting, the tainted blood of their gods flowing through their veins. In his mind’s eye, Tyron saw the light leaving his mother’s eyes as Magnin had laid her tenderly down to the ground. He saw his father take up the knife and plunge it directly into his own chest.

“Deploy the horde,” Tyron ordered, his voice as cold and inevitable as a glacier. “Every second they live in my sight is a sin.”

He was the only one who could sense the silent exaltation of General Crow as Tyron refused to take his advice. The fool still had hope. There were others in the horde who still hoped that Tyron would fail, much like the Nobles within the city and their gods looking down from above.

Hope was a luxury that they couldn’t afford. Tyron refused to fail and he was the only one in the fight who would pay any price to win.

And they thought walls would be enough to stop him.

~~~

Within the city, Leras Sathin marched alongside the esteemed General Artur Greyhame along the walls. It had been a privilege to work alongside the General during the preparations for the siege, one granted by the Duke himself. Despite putting him technically beneath a commoner, Leras had accepted, wanting to see just what it took to become so favoured by the Duke and Duchess.

As it turned out, it took ruthless competence, inexhaustible energy and a boundless capacity for the minutiae of war. Artur Greyhame did not seem to sleep. Did not stand still. Did not take a moment to doubt or question his direction. All he did, every second of every day, was move forward.

His staff were a highly polished machine, an engine of operational destruction. They took in logistical problems and shredded them like an enchanted sawmill. Hammering the disparate forces of the Noble houses into a cohesive whole was an impossible task, even with an Imperial Mandate hanging over their heads—there were simply too many competing interests.

So Greyhame had simply abandoned the idea of doing what couldn’t be done, created an overarching command structure and placed each house where they could work far from their rivals and competitors.

Preparing the city for a siege was a monumental task with thousands upon thousands of critical tasks needing to be completed, and Artur Greyhame seemed to hold the entire list in his head. With Leras by his side, he had simply gone through them one by one, ensuring each was done to his satisfaction, not even the tiniest detail beneath his attention.

Even at this late hour, with the undead horde beginning to spread out across the field before the walls, there was a flurry of activity from the General’s staff. Things that had been checked would be checked again. Heads that had been browbeaten into cooperation would be beaten once more. Until every single Soldier was fully aware of their role and responsibilities, Greyhame wouldn’t be satisfied.

His own responsibilities demanded that now, in this moment, he be here, on the wall, watching as the enemy began to deploy.

Once again, the General was forced to lament that he didn’t have such precise control over his own troops.

“Look at them move,” he complained to Leras, sweeping a hand out over the battlements. “You couldn’t ask for better on a parade ground.”

Indeed, the blocks of infantry moved with inhuman precision, even marching straight through each other without becoming entangled, every individual moving at precisely the correct speed.

“I’m not sure why you feel the need to praise our enemy, General,” Lord Sathin noted.

Particularly under the watchful eyes of the men and women manning the wall. There were dozens of them in hearing distance of the General, burnished and enchanted plate mail gleaming under the sun.

Which wouldn’t last long, as the looming cloud of darkness continued to creep overhead.

“I don’t underestimate my opponents, Leras,” Greyhame snorted. “You’d be shocked at how rare that is, by the way. Everyone seems to think everyone other than themselves is a fool in this Empire, especially the Nobles.”

“I am a Noble,” Leras grated.

“Yes, but you seem to have a decent head on your shoulders. Is your family inside the city?”

The sudden change of direction took Lord Sathin by surprise, but he quickly regained his footing.

“Yes, they arrived last night.”

His wife had been here for some time, but his children, Alicenza and Chol, had only just arrived.

“Don’t worry, they’re going to be safe,” the General declared softly. “This Necromancer bastard is going to shatter against these walls. I swear on my life.”

Outside, under the gathering darkness, the undead horde continued to move with unnatural precision, spreading out to encircle the city.