Chapter B2 C4 - Fresh Meat

Chapter B2 C4 - Fresh Meat

With his captors distracted, Tyron knew it was time to make a move. If they decided to remove a potential complication, namely him, before dealing with the new threat, then it likely wouldn't go well for him. That meant he needed to deal with the rope. He had a method in mind, though it wasn't his favourite.

Magick Bolt was a simple and versatile spell. A ball of arcane energy, shaped and directed to fly and discharge its force into whatever it hit. It was common for a Mage to point or face their hand palm-out in the direction they wanted to fire it, but that wasn't necessary. The point of origin could be anywhere around the person casting it, within a few centimetres of the body.

Despite the growing din around him, he closed his eyes and concentrated, forming the spell directly above the rope that bound his wrists together. Not being able to see the target added another layer of difficulty, and it required all his focus to ensure the magick took the shape he desired. Once it was ready, he let it fly.

Immediately he felt a sting along his wrists as the bolt blasted downward, ripping through the fibres of the rope and taking several layers of skin along with it before it hit the ground behind him. Before the rope could fall, he snatched it in his fingers, trying not to let the pain show on his face.Follow current novels on novelb((in).(com)

"What was that?" Davon spun around.

Tyron didn't look up, his head hung low as he allowed his arms to bear his weight. He wanted to look defeated, and apparently, he pulled it off.

"Markus, watch this idiot for me, I'm going to see what the fuss is," Davon spat before he turned and jogged toward the building the call came from.

"Aw but..." Markus spluttered as his two companions left him before he kicked the dirt in frustration.

Then he had a better idea and kicked Tyron in the gut.

"Hrk!" he grunted as the farmhand's shoe sank into him.

The divines bless high constitution.

"You all tied up. Why'n I gotta watch this shit," he whined, clearly wanting to sate his curiosity and find out what the disturbance was.

That's ten bony boys marching up the road to split your head in, moron.

Without long to consider, Tyron tried to decide what to do. He could cast fear, but his good friend Markus might just scream and wail, attracting attention, which was the opposite of what he wanted to achieve. He could use Suppress Mind, but he no longer had a weapon. If he crushed the other's will and reduced him to a slack jawed, drooling simpleton... or more of one, then how was he supposed to kill him?

The other choice would be to pummel him with bolts....

He flexed his fingers as he considered what to do and felt the remains of the rope, still held in his grip. That was also an option... he grimaced.

"Holy Mother," Tyron gasped, "do you see that?"

He stared over the other man's shoulder with eyes wide, and, by some miracle, Markus turned around.

Tyron didn't hesitate, he ran toward the window, his hands already moving as the words of power rolled from his lips.

Before anyone could interrupt his cast, he progressed rapidly through the spellwork, forming sigils and constructing the magick with reckless speed. His hand flared with pain and almost threw him off, but he grit his teeth and forced the digits to align as they should before things could go awry. Even so, cold sweat broke out on his forehead as he finished the spell.

Death Blades.

Arcane energy that reeked of death began to coat the weapons of the skeletons, billowing around the blades like a cloud of black smoke. Panicked cries began to ring out amongst the bandits at this new development, but Tyron wasn't done.

Can't have you running away.

He stepped back from the window and checked his surroundings. In the chaos, it was impossible to tell exactly what was going on, but he didn't think there were any other bandits on this floor. It was likely they'd gone to the roof once they realised they couldn't shoot at the skeletons from the outward facing windows any more. Since that was the case, he decided to gamble that he had enough time to cast one more spell.

Wary of his near disastrous slip last time, he took a little more time with his next spell. When the last sigil slipped into place and he completed it, a sigh of relief almost slipped from his lips. He stepped to the window so he could see his target and released the spell with a grim satisfaction.

Shivering Curse.

He targeted the men fending off his skeletons on the ground and saw the spell take effect before he leaned back from the opening lest he be seen.

On the ground, the bandits felt as if the air itself had dramatically cooled around them before it drove into their limbs, hardening the blood in their veins. Their movements were stiff, joints became locked and their breath froze in their lungs. Faced with the silent, implacable advance of the dead in front of them, it was the last straw for more than one.

With a despairing wail, first one, then another at the rear of the fighting turned and began to run. The men left in the thick of it cried out in rage and fear, but it was too late for them. Some of them wanted to flee as well, but were too slow, cut down by the merciless bone warriors before them. In a matter of moments, the skeletons had gained access to the courtyard, slicing down the last remaining defenders.

All that remained were the bandits on the roof, and by the sounds of things, they were in the process of running for their lives, one even throwing himself from the building.

Tyron did as all proud Necromancers should: he found an empty room and hid in a corner as he mentally directed the skeletons through the remaining buildings and onto the roofs. Only when he was totally satisfied that no bandits remained did he emerge and inspect the damage.

He'd lost two minions in the fight, their skulls cracked open and the light in their eyes extinguished. It was a loss, but not one he couldn't absorb. In return, he had six fresh bandits to work with, the rest having fled. There was a distinct possibility that they would regroup and return, it sounded like some of them had already left, along with the leader, Monty. With any luck, they wouldn't return today, and by tomorrow he could have more than made up for his losses.

Still, the entire thing left a sour taste in the young man's mouth.

In future, he may well forgo any attempt at concealing his nature and just advance on them with his minions in tow. It wasn't worth the risk and things were getting more lawless, not less, as time passed in the plains.

"Blood and bone," he cursed.

With no obvious foes left nearby, he sent four skeletons to fetch the cart and brought the remaining four with him to tour the buildings. Several doors were locked, especially upstairs, and it took him a while to locate any keys. Davon had them, as it turned out; the first person he'd met here was now lying dead in the dirt, an ugly wound in his back and clean out his chest where he'd been run through. Tyron bent down and retrieved the sword with a certain grim satisfaction.

When he got the doors open and saw what was inside, Tyron no longer felt guilty. He found the women and children.