Chapter B2C11 - Darkness

Chapter B2C11 - Darkness

The furious farmwives crashed into the fight with whatever tools they’d had at hand. Stunned as he was, Tyron didn’t have time to gape at the spectacle. As the man before him staggered with a pitchfork rammed into his side, the Necromancer hastily slashed him across the throat and pushed forward to engage another.

With Bone Armour providing at least some level of protection, he would rather the bandits targeted him than the unarmoured women.

But those women didn’t seem to share his concern. As he rushed to fight, he was confronted by the scene of enraged mothers stabbing, bashing and cutting, making their attacks with no regard for their own safety. The melee was so brutal, he didn’t see an opportunity to throw a magick bolt without risking serious injury to the people he wanted to protect.

“You piece of shit!” Glynnis screamed as she rushed forward, blood dripping from the prongs of her pitchfork.

Tyron’s five skeletons had already been reduced to three when the help had arrived, but now the numbers advantage had tilted in their favour. Cursing solidly, he adjusted his grip and stepped around the melee, looking for an opening.

The moment he found one, he lunged forward, putting his weight behind the blade as well as he could with one uninjured arm. Once again, he felt the point slide through living flesh as he punctured a human being, the breath rushing out of the man as his lung collapsed.

Tyron ripped the blade free just in time to deflect a wide, horizontal swing that threatened to take his head off. The bandit’s eyes were wild, his face twisted into a snarl that Tyron didn’t realise was matched on his own. Bigger and stronger, the criminal bull-rushed him, weapon held defensively and shoulder lowered.

The Necromancer could barely remember the footwork his father had taught him, but he managed to slide out of the way just in time. His blade cut a clumsy line as he moved, barely enough to draw blood, and he cursed his lack of speed.

The wound further enraged his opponent, who bellowed like an animal and turned to charge again.

Someone was screaming nearby, a high-pitched wail that drilled into Tyron’s ears. Had one of the widows been injured? The thought distracted him for a fraction of a second, enough that this time, he was too slow to move.

Wise to his movement, the bandit tracked him better as he tried to sidestep. Tyron’s eyes widened as he saw the steel coming towards him. At the last second he rotated his wrists and tried to parry.

Pain ignited across his hip on the right side and he hissed as the bandit crashed into him, sending them both sprawling onto the ground. Blood welled from the new wound, soaking into his pants. He was already starting to feel cold, this was the last thing he needed.

He dropped his sword before he landed, thudding into the ground and knocking the wind out of him temporarily. His opponent was more sprightly and scrambled after him on his hands and knees, murder in his eyes. Tyron sucked in a breath before his hands began to move and his tongue obeyed him.

Magick Bolt.

He flung his hand forward and flung the missile forward where it crunched into the man’s head less than a metre from his palm. Blood splattered across his face, forcing him to blink and wipe at his face as he tried to clear his vision. He pushed himself off the ground and gathered his sword before staggering back to the bandit now writhing on the ground clutching what remained of his face.

A swift stab to the chest finished him and the Necromancer blearily turned to find his next opponent. Except there wasn’t one. The skeletons, what was left of them, shuffled over to him as the widows hurled abuse at the bandits who had turned and fled, leaving half their number dead on the ground.

Not without inflicting casualties. More than one of the bodies slumped in the dirt didn’t belong to their attackers.

“Make sure they don’t come back,” he rasped to no one in particular, “I’m going back to the other side.”nove(l)bi(n.)com

“I can come with you,” Glynnis stepped forward, determined to help.

Tyron just shook his head.

“You need to be ready in case the skeletons fall. If I fail, then you need to fight them off yourselves.”

He joined them, one good arm stabbing every time he saw an opening as he ducked and bobbed behind his undead. Over and over again he lashed out, sometimes finding a mark, sometimes not, desperate for the fight to end.

With the Necromancer so exposed to danger, the bandits redoubled their efforts, trying to strike him with whatever they had to hand. Hoes turned into spears, machetes used for clearing vegetation, crude swords and whatever else they’d managed to get their hands on thrust toward him constantly.

He did his best to dodge, but he wasn’t perfect, getting nicked and sliced several times.

At least it takes the pressure off the skeletons.

And it did. A minute ticked by, then two, and his line held. Two more skeletons had gone down, but the bandits were suffering as well. It was impossible for Tyron to tell, but he felt their numbers were thinning. He couldn’t see beyond the few right in front of him as he cursed and spat as he stabbed at them.

He was so cold.

The final dregs of magick stirred in his guts. He was running empty. He tried to focus, tried to think about what he needed to do, but it was so hard. Stab, duck, stab duck, stab duck. That simple pattern consumed all the attention he could muster and even that was growing impossible. The sword was so heavy in his grip he almost couldn’t hold it up anymore.

There was screaming. And yelling. From where, he couldn’t tell, but suddenly there was no one in front of him to stab anymore. He turned to try and see where the bandits had gone. Did they get behind him? Had his magick run out?

The skeletons were still standing, though, if only just. The light that burned in their eyes was dim, barely a wisp compared to its normal glow. If the skeletons were still here, then where had the enemy gone?

He tried to turn again, but that was the moment his hip decided it’d had enough. The pain flared and he staggered to one side until he ran into the wall and slid down. He ended up sitting, his back resting against the wall, and in that moment, he realised just how far gone he was. He felt like he had ice in his veins, his hands shook constantly and his vision was starting to blur.

He might have done too much.

“You’ve had an eventful day, haven’t you?” a cool voice cut through the fog in his mind.

He looked up to see Yor staring down at him, her lips drawn back to reveal her fangs, eyes burning with wild need.

“You will die soon if you aren’t treated,” her eyes bored into his, capturing his attention. “Are you willing to die, young Necromancer? Or will you be born again?”

Tyron frowned. What did she mean? It was hard to concentrate. He was dimly aware of another voice speaking, someone he knew. Dove? He couldn’t make out the words, something about those eyes held him.

“I don’t understand,” he slurred.

The Vampire leaned forward.

“Give me permission, and I will change you into one of us. You will live. Changed, yes. But you will live.”

The young mage blinked slowly. He wanted to agree, something told him he should. Those eyes were like fire. What was Dove saying? He was louder now.

Maybe it didn’t matter.

Before he could speak, Tyron slumped to his left as the light faded. Darkness claimed him and he knew no more.