Chapter B2C27 - Over the Bridge

Chapter B2C27 - Over the Bridge

“Come on.”

“I’m trying to work.”

“There’s no fucking way you don’t agree.”

“I’d really like to not be part of this conversation.”

“You don’t have a choice. I refuse to speak of anything else until this is done. You can either answer my question, or punt my soul into the great beyond, and I think we both know you still aren’t ready to do the second. So. Watching Yor suck the soul out of that fat fuck has got to be the hottest damn thing I’ve seen in my life and afterlife. Tell me you agree.”

Tyron rolled his head back and looked at the sky, as if hoping a way to escape this discussion might strike him like a bolt from above. He might even accept a lightning strike at this point.

Despite being bloody up to his elbows from carving through human remains, thinking back to the... disturbing sight of Yor feeding was enough to make him queasy.

“Look, if you’re going to force me to state an opinion, then I will. Rather than ‘arousing’, I would describe the experience as ‘disturbing’ and ‘horrific’. Dove, she ate his soul.”

“So fucking sexy,” the skull breathed..

“I knew you were a little disturbed when you were alive, but I didn’t realise you were this twisted,” Tyron observed, then grunted as he pulled a femur free from the meat of the leg with a wet pop.

He placed the bone to one side before picking up his cleaver. Shins were next.

“Do you think being trapped in a skull is warping you in some way? Or were you always this bad?”

“Honestly, I think being dead has slanted my views a little bit. It’s not like I have balls, or emotions, or a dick, or feelings anymore, so even I wouldn’t describe it as a physical arousal. It’s something deeper than that, more meaningful.”

“I don’t get it, the souls I recruited...”

The skull laughed.

“... to become ghosts are basically pissed off a hundred percent of the time. The only thing they like is murder, and even then, they only enjoy it in a pissed-off sort of way. How come you’re basically the same as you were when you were alive, with the possible exception of being even more of a pervert?”

“I’m just a far superior soul,” Dove said, sounding smug. “Comparing me with some chumps who pushed a wheelbarrow for a living? You’re being ridiculous.”

Tyron paused for a moment as he looked at his friend and mentor.

“Is that really a thing? You have a stronger soul based on your Class and levels?”

“I have no idea. Sounds like something a Necromancer should figure out. Souls and bones and shit, that’s your trade, not mine.”

The young mage grunted and brought down his cleaver heavily. Was there a difference between souls? Some qualitative distinction that allowed some to keep their personalities more or less intact, even beyond the grave?

Is resurrection possible?

A shiver ran down his spine. The thought was tantalising, and he couldn’t ignore it once it had wormed its way into his head. If a soul were sufficiently powerful, say a top-grade slayer, would they be strong enough that they retained their thoughts and memory perfectly after death?

A similar process must be used to create a Lich, he realised. A powerful mage capturing their own soul and then animating their remains with it.

There’s no way it’s that simple. If it were, it would be way more common. If I can realise this after a few months, then surely every mage in the empire has been able to realise the same thing. Where’s the catch?

“I really don’t understand why you find this so twisted, though,” Dove was saying. “Yor is smoking hot, that’s obvious, and the idea of ripping the soul out of a piece of shit like Monty, causing him unspeakable suffering in the process, is a pure justice boner on top of an already delectable cake. What’s not to love?”

“I think half the reason you want to have this conversation is because it’s nighttime and you know that she’s probably listening in. You just want to make her uncomfortable. I don’t understand why you’re so keen to sexualise a vampire, who by her own admission, is incapable of physically engaging in the act.”

“Which act?”

“Shut up.”

Time for the feet. Extracting all the bones from the dense sinews in there was a complete pain. If he could find a way to dissolve flesh without having to spend a feat or spell choice on it, he’d be a happy Necromancer. Even if he only used it for feet and hands, the process of extracting bones would be twice as quick.

“How can you say I’m the one sexualising her? She literally flesh-formed her own body to be an irresistible honeypot. I’m merely describing the reality that she created! A sexy fucking reality!”

“I think the reason it's weird,” Tyron said as he got to work after checking the edges on his thinner knives, “is because the trap is only supposed to work on people who don’t know it’s a trap. In your case, it seems to have heightened your interest, not lessened it. That’s weird. By extension, you are weird. I’m trying hard not to judge you, in some ways I find the obsession fascinating. I’m pretty sure the only reason she hasn’t ripped out your soul and eaten it is because she thinks that might be what you want.”

“I dream about it every day,” Dove sighed.

“That’s what I’m talking about, that right there.”

For the next while, Dove remained blessedly quiet as Tyron continued to work. When he finally finished with the feet, he took a step back from the impromptu butchering table he’d set up in the centre of the village and had his skeletons collect the flesh to take to the midden. Another pair of skeletons then took the bones and he absently directed them to lay them out in the correct pattern, adding another full set to the others he had already completed drying around the fire pit.

So much work to do and only one night to get it done.

His fingers ached already, and he was barely halfway through the bandit corpses. The bones wouldn’t even be the end of it, he still had the spirits to deal with. He wouldn’t turn them all into ghosts, but that didn’t mean he would let them go to waste either. He had a few ideas he wanted to test.

It was a shame he didn’t have Monty’s soul, but he’d received a worse fate than anything Tyron could concoct. He was still being digested in the guts of a vampire, and from what he gathered, it wasn’t an overly pleasant experience. He wanted to ask Yor more about it, but seeing the animalistic gleam to her eyes, he’d decided now would be a... dangerous... time to talk.

“Bring over the next three,” he ordered out loud and mentally at the same time.

“Don’t talk to the minions. You asked me to remind you.”

“... Right.”

So easy to forget. Don’t talk to the minions, idiot.

In some ways, it felt more natural to speak to them out loud, even if it served no purpose. Taking any strides toward humanising his undead was a mistake.

If I didn’t have Dove around, I might have already gone mad. It’s not healthy being surrounded by undead slaves all the time. I need people to talk to as well.

Which reminded him of his ‘prisoner’. He stepped to one side and washed his hands in the bucket he’d fished up from the well. Before walking a few doors down to a small building being watched by four skeletons and knocking.

“Caelum? You in there?”

He waited for a moment, but no reply came.

“If you don’t answer me, I’m going to go in there....”

“Don’t come in!”

“So you are there.”

“I don’t want to talk to you, monster!”

Purple eyes swarmed in the dark, blades flashing and the figure was gone, sliding backwards and away from the minions before stopping ten metres away.

“Ohhhh shit. Not good. NOT good!” Dove chattered.

“Shut up, Dove,” Tyron ground out, not taking his eyes from his opponent.

The fight to this point had taken mere seconds and already, he’d nearly had his heart cored like an apple and been forced into a fifty-fifty with his life on the line.

Slayer.

This was a Slayer. One of the villagers must have stumbled into a scout doing the rounds and they’d come running to kill the evil Necromancer. At least, he hoped it was a scout. If there was more than one, he was dead already.

The swordsman, or some variant, watched carefully as the skeletons gathered themselves, but didn’t wait long before making his move. He adjusted his grip on the blade, leaned to the side, then flickered and vanished.

Or at least it looked that way.

Two skeletons died before Tyron realised where the Slayer had gone, cursing as he turned.

Magick you idiot, you have to use magick.

He was a poor fighter at best, he had to use the strengths of his class to fight back. He raised his hands and began to chant, flashing through the sigils at record pace as he desperately sought to level the playing field.

From nowhere, knives flashed from the shadows, aimed straight for his head. Two shield skeletons stepped forward to catch them, leaving Tyron free to complete his cast.

Death Blades.

The moment he finished, he moved straight to the next.

I have to slow him down. I can barely keep up with my eyes, my skeletons could swing for a year and might never hit him.

With a defensive group of undead and more arriving, he had to get his support spells out now. If he lost more skeletons before they came into effect, there may be no point in having cast them at all.

Quicker than ever, the words rolled from his tongue, each enunciated perfectly, the timing and rhythm flawless. Unwilling to allow him to work his magick, the swordsman went on the attack.

Directing his minions at the same time as working complicated spells was taxing for Tyron and he almost fumbled his words as he tried to react. Steel flashed in a glittering arc and another two minions were lost. The swordsman rushed through and the skeletons swung at shadows and dust, too slow to respond.

Another charge, another glittering slash, another minion crumbling to the ground.

This isn’t good!

He finished the spell with a roar, his hands snapping down as his magick poured into the ground beneath his feet.

Shivering Curse.

Perhaps it was counterintuitive to cast it on himself, but the undead weren’t affected and now it was impossible for the swordsman to attack without being within the radius.

Hands free, Tyron quickly snapped together a pair of magick bolts and held them at the ready. The swordsman sized him up for a moment and Tyron did the same.

He was young, perhaps not even level twenty yet. If he was, then he wasn’t far past it.

Thank anyone who’ll listen for that. If he was level thirty, I’d be less one head.

“No chance of a conversation?” he said quietly.

The swordsman shifted then shook his head slightly.

As expected.

“Come on then.”

Weapon-based Classes, especially light weapons such as the sword, were highly mobile killing machines. The fight between them was never going to last long.

I can’t keep him off me, not for long. All I need to win is to hold him still for one second. One second and I win.

Tyron grit his teeth. This was going to suck.

He spread his minions slightly and had them lower their weapons, ready to stab. That should make it a little harder for the Slayer to run in, or risk being impaled on the magick infused blades.

Apparently, it didn’t matter. The swordsman flashed left and right, carving through two more skeletons in an instant before dashing through the formation and out the other side.

Two magick bolts flew through the air before thudding into the ground as the Slayer twisted out of the way. A skeleton stepped forward and thrust, only to receive a sword through the skull for its trouble.

Two more bolts formed and he fired them right away. The swordsman was constantly on the move, and the formation adjusted moment to moment as more skeletons were picked off.

Damn.

A wide swing with an axe, and suddenly there was an imbalance in the line, right in front of the Necromancer.

Like a hawk swooping on exposed prey, the Slayer darted in. Tyron felt the shadow of death reach out toward him as that sword closed in, knowing there was nothing he could do to stop it. He brought his arms up to cover his heart.

Pain exploded in his gut and the sword stabbed clean through, sliding between the gaps between the bone armour and out his back.

Quick as a snake, Tyron’s hands flashed down to grip the Slayer’s forearms.

“S-sorry about this,” he gurgled, blood already dripping from his lips.

The Slayer tried to yank the sword free, but he held on, then the ghosts were there.

Bone-piercing cold surrounded them as three spirits drifted into the swordsman. The man stiffened, then wrestled as he realised something was wrong, but Tryon held on.

Thunk, thunk thunk!

Muscles frozen, the Slayer couldn’t react as the skeletons closed in. The three closest plunged their weapons into his flesh, the Death Magick coating sizzling against his skin.

They stabbed over and over again as the ghosts locked up his body with their penetrating cold. Soon, the light faded from his eyes and he slumped to the ground. Tyron stood over the corpse, blade punctured straight through him and bleeding all over the ground.

“Ow.”

He spat a mouthful of blood on the ground next to him.

“This is going to be real bad.”