Book of The Dead

Chapter B5: A Tide of Death

The Grave Moon bore down from above, unleashing an unceasing pressure that felt vaguely familiar to Tyron. From within the sphere, perhaps the size of a barn, thick drops of concentrated Death Magick began to fall. Many dissolved into arcane energy before they reached the ground, but others didn’t, falling onto the undead or clashing with the defensive light the opposing mages had cast.

It had taken days for the full Grave Moon spell to be decoded, and even longer for the preparations to cast it to be completed. From atop his construct, Tyron gazed up at his newest creation, well pleased with what he saw.

An engine, a beating heart, pumping nothing but death and destroying everything else. If his enemies wanted to cut him off from the flow of magick, they would have to overcome the power of the Moon, which would be an almost impossible task. Much easier than doing that, would be to try and destroy it.

No sooner had the thought struck him than fire blasted into the sky, streaking towards the ominous sphere of pure black that hung overhead.

Tyron almost smiled. It wouldn’t be that easy.

Ritual circles he had carved around the square flared to life, unleashing a wave of power that manifested in a grand shield protecting the Grave Moon. Destroying his fine work after he’d spent so much effort to put it up there? They would do so eventually, so long as they were willing to commit the necessary resources. Only after the defensive arrays he’d been charging overnight were depleted would the spell become vulnerable.

Even then, it wouldn’t be destroyed so easily—it was well-made, if he said so himself. For now, he would let it continue its work. With a little luck, the Golden Legion wouldn’t understand just what was happening until it was too late.

Raising his hands, Tyron spoke the Words of Power.

Feeling the force of his mind smash through the laws of reality was an addictive feeling, one that he needed to be wary of. He hadn’t amassed this power for his own satisfaction, but to kill. Despite knowing this, it was hard to suppress the satisfaction he felt when utilising his magick. Ahead, he could see the Golden Legion were once again beginning to push back the ranks of his skeletons. Already he had lost several hundred of the rank and file undead, perhaps as many as a thousand. In return, the casualties he had inflicted were at a minimum, perhaps as little as a few dozen. That didn’t matter, all was in line with his expectations.To kill opponents such as these, he needed to drag them down into the mud, sap their vitality, rob them of the strength in their limbs and blind their eyes. Only then would they die. Every minute that passed without giving away a decisive edge was a minute he came closer to victory.

Field of Death.

Mist poured out from around his feet, billowing outwards while clinging to the ground, obscuring the dirt and grass on which they fought. When it came into contact with the dome of light the Empire’s mages had conjured, the mist hissed and crackled, burned away by the defensive magick.

Tyron nodded to himself. He’d expected as much. If the enemy had allowed him to work his will on them without any pushback, the battle would have been a short one indeed. Against hundreds of mages, a direct confrontation would never work, he had to grind them down, exhaust their resources, tire them out.

Although it wasn’t accurate to say he was a single mage against hundreds, due to his skeleton mages, spellcasting revenants, and host of demi-liches, he was still grossly outnumbered. It would take a significant amount of time before his spells began to penetrate their defences, but that was fine. At the border of the miasma and the light, some of the soldiers were vulnerable, enough to supply him with the life energy he needed to keep fueling his magick and healing his minions.

“These bastards look hard to kill,” Filetta observed from her position beside the platform on which he stood. “Even those massive skeleton constructs are struggling.”

“The big boners,” Dove observed sagely from the other side. “I’ve never seen such powerful shafts.”

“Shut up, Dove,” Tyron and Filetta groaned.

“Are you going to do something useful or just stand there being annoying?” Filetta demanded.

“Oh, I’m going to get involved,” Dove promised her with uncharacteristic seriousness. “Sooner rather than later.”

There had been a change in the undead summoner over the past week. He’d been less frivolous, more purposeful. If Tyron were being honest, Dove was a little more like he’d been when he was alive. Annoying, yes, but also a man of morals and drive. Something had changed for Dove, drawing him out of the self-destructive spiral he had engaged in since Tyron had brought him back from the dead. Whatever it was, he hoped it stuck.

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Once more Tyron raised his hands and drew in a breath. Already he could feel the air becoming more saturated with Death Magick, slowly changing to become similar to what he had experienced in the Realm of the Dead. Given enough time, this entire area would transform into a place inimical to life.

“Yes, give them the business, boy,” Dove encouraged him. “Make them long for the soft days of being caned by their fathers.”

“Why do you always have to make it weird,” Filetta said, frowning.

Tyron ignored them both.

Long shafts of bone manifested in the air around him before being launched through the air at blinding speed. Shields were raised, barriers cast and his projectiles shattered, unable to penetrate his enemies’ defenses. That was fine, if a few weren’t sufficient, he would conjure many.

Hands weaving at dizzying speed, Tyron cast as many Bone Lances as he could, firing them as soon as they were ready. In a moment the front rank of soldiers before him had gone from steadily advancing to stumbling back under the unrelenting barrage of missiles. The moment one of them faltered, Tyron leapt on the opening.

One hand continued to cast Bone Lance while the other switched to Death’s Fist. Using the alternating word technique, he wove both spells around each other while each hand worked on separate sigils. In a second, it was ready and he sent the wave of Death Magick twisting through the air towards his target.

Trying to kill such powerful opponents with basic spells such as these was a fool's errand, but that wasn’t what Tyron wanted to do. Off-balance, the gold ranked Soldier was taken by surprise by the magick that homed in on him. Still, he reacted with inhuman speed, correcting his posture and lashing out with his enchanted blade. Seeing the danger, his allies stepped to his side, raising their own shields and readying their blades to defend him.

Down came the titanic blade of the nearest skeletal giant, forcing them to shift their posture, forcing their knees to quake as they absorbed the fearsome blow. This left just enough room for Tyron to sneak the remains of his spell through. He wasn’t able to do much, hardly anything to such a powerful warrior, but in a battlefield such as this, small things could make a large difference to the fate of a single warrior.

What was left of the Death's Fist seized hold of the man’s arm and pulled.

To move someone with so much strength wasn’t easy, and the sudden, unexpected force did little more than force the Soldier to take a single, unwanted step forward.

It was enough.

Skeletal hands reached for him, taking hold of his arms. Smoking swords of bone speared toward him, forcing him to twist and spin wildly, trying to free himself. Another step forward, and the soldier was lost, surrounded and without support.

It took eight skeletons, stabbing and hacking at him while the giant occupied his closest allies, to bring him down, and two of those skeletons were destroyed in the effort. Red light slipped through the mist, drawn towards Tyron as the Soldier finally died. When it reached him, he felt his own vitality skyrocket, as if he’d had a week’s rest and three good meals.

Quickly, he burned off the excess, converting it to magick so that none of the energy would be wasted.

Even afflicted as they were, these men and women were so damned difficult to kill. And they hadn’t shown him a fraction of what they were capable of yet, he was sure of it.

As if to prove him right, or perhaps in response to his sudden barrage of spells and the death of one of their own, he heard their officers call out an order, voices rising above the din of battle. Through the conduits that bound them, Tyron could feel some of his wights responding, orders flitting back and forth at the speed of thought.

Light exploded from the shields of the front rank of Soldiers, and a second later, they pushed. Helpless to resist, the skeletons were blasted back, five full ranks of them unable to absorb the blow. Only the skeletal giants were able to hold their ground, if only just, which was what the Soldiers had been counting on. They leapt forward and Tyron could see that his constructs would be surrounded in a moment and literally cut off at the knees.

He couldn’t have that.

Pillars of bone erupted from the ground, only to be cut down in half a second. A second row of pillars followed after the first and were destroyed just as quickly.

Heavily enchanted, the blades and armour of the Golden Legion were far from ordinary. If he hadn’t been able to develop noctic bone after his ascension to platinum, Tyron was certain his skeletons wouldn’t have been able to hurt them at all. Those swords were certainly more than capable of cutting through even heavier plates of armour worn by his wights, let alone the regular undead. If they were able to slash at the legs of his skeletal giants, they would be cut down in a hurry.

Forced to deal with the pillars, the Soldiers were slowed just enough for the giants to take a steadying step back and swing their mighty blades. Each of the closest Soldiers raised their shields and braced while the front ranks of skeletons finally regained their feet, slipping into formation under the direction of the wights.

Before the giants were overwhelmed, the skeletons pushed back, shields slamming into their enemies and drawing heavily on his magick to gain strength. Just like that, the lines were reformed, front ranks grinding against each other while the giants continued to swing their long blades over the top.

Although he was losing skeletons at a steady pace, Tyron was satisfied to see the return to the status quo. With a thought, he committed more of his wights and revenants toward the front.

For now, his opponents seemed content to simply grind down his skeletons, confident that their advantage was steadily amassing over time.

They needed to keep thinking that way.