Chapter B4C65 - Battle of the Dead

Chapter B4C65 - Battle of the Dead

Power thrummed within Tyron. Every fibre of his being was awash with it. His personal reservoir of magick boomed like an ocean, crashing against the confines of his soul with the fury of a hurricane.

And he could sense all of it. Almost like he had been granted a sixth sense, Perceive Magick gave him... an extra sensory organ tuned only to the ebb and flow of arcane energy. When he raised his hands and began to form sigils, he could feel the power move with a clarity he had never experienced before, sense it flow and change as he enforced his will, shaping it into something new.

He was so enraptured with this sensation he found it difficult to focus on the unfolding battle in front of him.

Wights, revenants and his strongest skeletons, backed by the massive Bone Giants he had constructed, assaulted the now-open gates. Disciplined ranks of highly trained, high-level Soldiers, Archers and Mages held the line, refusing to give ground to his undead army.

That simply wouldn’t do.

Once again, Tyron raised his hands and began to bend reality to his will. Magick flowed like a river as he spoke the words of power, using every ounce of skill and potency he could muster. He poured all of it into the spell he was crafting.

From his feet, a grey mist began to spread. It spread rapidly, blossoming outwards into a circle with him at the centre. The mist wasn’t real, but a construct formed of magick, and he had to constantly supply more energy to maintain it, but once it reached the defensive line, its effects became known.

Men cried out in pain and anger as the mist, no more than a few centimetres high, began to drift around their feet. As they did so, the small pockets of the mist that touched them became tinged with red light, and began to drift towards Tyron, rather than away from him.

When these small patches of mist reached him, they flowed into his flesh, and he felt the invigorating energy they contained merge with his own.

The Field of Death. A spell he hadn’t employed much, but had taken the time to study. It would steal away the life force of the living and bring it to him, so long as it was active.

With a sharp breath, he began to enact another of his new abilities. Placing a hand on his chest, he sensed his own life, the vitality that infused his body, and began to burn it. With a constitution as absurdly robust as his own, Tyron’s life force was a roaring flame, a great bonfire that would sustain him through inhuman levels of punishment and deprivation, but he had another use for it now.

As he sacrificed his own life, it changed form, turning into magick and flowing into the raging reservoir within him.

In a detached manner, he examined the torrent of magick within him. All around, his minions were drawing on his power. The mages of the tower continued to rain down magick upon him, but Tyron was protected by the dozens of skeletal mages he had created for the specific purpose of shielding him. At the front, his Bone Giants, wights, revenants and basic minions fought vigorously, draining yet more power. The Field of Death, the ever-flowing mist that gushed outwards from around his feet, also drew on his power.

Yet now he counteracted that loss, providing new energy, pouring in more and more magick as he consumed his own vitality to supply it.

When a third of his life force had been burned away, he stopped and took stock.

The mist continued to bring him small packets of healing, which suffused him and replenished his energy, but the Field of Death wasn’t paying for itself. The spell took all the life it stole and turned it into magick, but he was still running at a loss. Yet he felt that was likely due to the Skills being new and relatively low-levelled. When he grasped them better, they would cost less to cast and the ratio of life-to-magick would improve, allowing him to gain more from them.

For now, it was fine. The drain on his power was more than manageable. His minions continued to generate their own energy using the intricately crafted web of conduits that bound them together. In fact, with all of his minions finally gathered together in one place, Tyron was able to witness just how much death-aligned energy they were able to create between them.

Bone Lances and Death’s Fists began to flow, one after another as he employed the dual casting technique, words tripping from his tongue so rapidly they were almost indistinguishable from one another. Many of his spells were deflected or blocked, but many others weren’t. Every time he caused damage, a little bit of life energy would meld with his own, gradually healing him and replenishing his reserves.

Tyron’s skeletons outnumbered the defenders by ten to one or more, but the weight of those numbers didn’t matter so long as they had to fight into the relatively narrow gateway. The Soldiers and Magisters clearly realised the same, since they seemed determined to hold the passage, no matter the sacrifice. Despite pushing hard, his undead hadn’t been able to dislodge the enemy, and the battle had stalled. It was becoming a waiting game. He would eventually be able to grind down the defenders. With his superior numbers and unrelenting undead, it was only a matter of time. It didn’t matter if every Soldier took down five skeletons before succumbing, there would still be a horde standing at the end.

Yet could Tyron afford to wait that long? He was under no illusions that the entirety of the forces in Kenmor were present within the Red Tower, far from it. Eventually, the ghosts he had created to act as a distraction would be dealt with and the Duke would collapse on him like an iron fist. In fact, if Tyron didn’t breach the tower, the Duke wouldn’t even have to. The Gold-ranked Slayers would be driven to do the job for him, and he had no chance of standing against them.

Decisively, Tyron turned towards the arch of bone that stood behind him, striding up to the great door and pulling it open once more.

“You’re needed,” he called inside, before stepping back to allow space.

The sound of shuffling, then heavy footsteps, the dull grind of bone on bone as something within approached the door.

“I didn’t think you wanted us to come out this early,” an eerie, surreal voice stated.

“I didn’t,” Tyron replied, flatly, “but needs must.”

From within, a wight emerged, glowing spirit flesh bound to their still visible skeleton within, yet this one was different from the others. Clad head to foot in layers of dense, black bone armour, this undead was the most heavily armoured of his servants by far. Such a weight of armour would make a minion ungainly under normal circumstances, but for this particular wight, it wouldn’t matter so much.

As his undead emerged, so too did the reins in their hand, followed by the ghastly, skeletal form of an undead horse. The form of the equine burned with purple light, indicating the soul of the animal still existed, moulded into the frame. It too was bound in heavy bone plating, a powerful array bound into its ribcage feeding power to the entire form.

Once the mount was clear of the door, the wight reached up and climbed into the saddle, then silently directed the skeletal horse to move, making way for those that came behind.

There were ten altogether. Not an overwhelming number, but each had taken a lot of time to put together, and a considerable amount of resources. Only the first was a wight, but the rest were all revenants. Tyron had hoped to use them as a surprise for later conflicts, but he needed them now.

As his fellow undead mounted up behind him, the wight took in the sight of the unfolding battle and the grand tower rising before them.

“Magisters,” he stated flatly. “You already have me killing nobles.”

“Yours was always a life of service, Captain Janus,” Tyron replied, his tone cold, “you have merely swapped one master for another. What you defended in life, I will have you destroy in death.”

“Do I have a choice?” the wight said, eerie tone filled with bitterness.

“You already made your choice. You didn’t want to fade out of existence, so now, you serve.”