Book of The Dead

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.”

“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.”

His wounds burned with pain, but he grit his teeth and pushed through it. If he fell down now, what would happen to his minions? They’d lose quickly without his support. So he limped and cursed his way across the courtyard and back to where the brawl continued on the other side.

“Kid, you’re leaking a bit more than a person ought,” Dove remarked from his waist.

“No shit,” Tyron coughed. “Thanks for the insight.”

“You should get yourself bandaged. Do it yourself or let one of the widows take care of it. If you bleed out, you aren’t helping anyone,” the skull's voice was uncharacteristically urgent.

The young mage hesitated for a second, and in that moment he felt another skeleton go down.

“There’s no time,” he grunted as he picked up the pace. “Now shut up, I need to cast.”

He had two minions left from the flank defenders and he sent them ahead to join the fray. In total, he was down to just eleven skeletons. His time away from this side had cost him dearly, the bandits able to push his creations back and pick them off.

When he made it to the back ranks, his minions had been forced to give ground to the point they were standing in the courtyard proper. A little further and the bandits would be able to squeeze around them. It would be over if that happened, since Tyron would be trapped in a quickly diminishing circle of undead.

His thoughts felt sluggish, his tongue thick in his mouth. Complicated casting might be out of the question, given the condition he was in. Best to keep it simple.

Being careful not to be an easy target, he picked out a bandit at random and began to cast Fear again. The rebellious farmhands were tiring, but they could sense victory was close. Between the buildings, they were much safer from the archers. If one of the women were to lean out the window to shoot, they made themselves vulnerable to thrown hatchets and knives, which had kept them away so far. All they had to do now was tear apart a few more undead and they would pour into the courtyard.

It was that confidence that Tyron attacked. Like a dagger to the brain, his spell completed and stabbed terror directly into the mind of his hapless victim. Too weak to resist the debilitating effects of the spell, the man began to shake, his eyes staring sightlessly at terrors that were not there.

Which is when a skeleton, directed by Tyron, stabbed him right in the gut.

As he fell down, clutching at his stomach, the Necromancer had already picked out a new target. As he raised his hands and began to cast, he realised with horror just how low his reserves of magick had become.

At some point, he’d lost the crystal in his mouth. Perhaps when he’d been knocked down? It didn’t matter. With shaking hands, he fumbled another from his pouch and between his teeth.

Rather than absorb its energy slowly, he immediately bit down on it, releasing the contained magick within.

“Push, lads! Almos’ there!”

Monty’s voice rose over the din again and Tyron grimaced. Of course that foul person was still alive. He’d been hoping to find the man dead when he came back, but no such luck. He tried to spot him in the crowd, hoping to brain the bandit leader with a magick bolt, or even better, pump him full of terror. Unfortunately, Monty was smart enough to stay covered by his goons.

Weakened as he was, the excess magick flowing from the shattered crystal in his mouth set Tyron’s body shaking. As soon as the energy entered his body, it was pulled out again, fed to the minions in order to keep them moving. In another few minutes, he’d be completely dry and his skeletons would drop on the spot, unable to sustain themselves.

Isn’t there anything I can do? He thought desperately.

He’d done everything he could to strengthen his minions, but even so, they remained clumsy, slow and fragile. Did he really have to rely on them?

One hand pressed into his side to help stem the bleeding, Tyron pushed forward until he stood directly behind the front line of skeletons. Only a few still had shields, the rest stood exposed, stabbing relentlessly, swords gripped tight in their bony fingers.

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.