Book of The Dead

Chapter B5: Undead Endurance

Power was a storm and Tyron lived at the centre of it. Arcane energy ran through him at a ferocious pace. Like water being forced through a narrow opening, he could feel the pressure of it, so intense that, were he unawakened, it may well have shattered his bones.

Without a pause or momentary beat of rest, Words of Power rolled from his tongue and gave shape to his magick while his hands flickered out multiple sigils every second. As relentless, and as fast as he was, the demands of the battle were higher still.

All along the line, level seventy-nine Soldiers unleashed their full capabilities. Their swords swept out in long arcs, blades of pure energy cutting ten metres away from the edge of the material blade. Shields were coated in golden light, rebuffing the weapons of his skeletons, and even the skeleton giants found their blades bouncing off, having never touched steel.

They moved faster, hit harder, burning through their energy at a faster pace than before, pushing hard against the front ranks of skeletons.

Mages all along the front had also lifted their game. Less of their energy was being spent on defense;

instead they poured it into offensive magick. Beams of radiant light, pillars of fire, sizzling lances of yellow energy that crackled with power. Despite the best efforts of the skeletal mages and demi-liches, they weren’t able to keep up with the furious barrage, couldn’t contest against mages so much more capable than themselves.

Even the reserves had been committed, widening the front line and forcing Tyron to spread his undead thinner to cover more ground.

In the frenzy of battle, it was difficult for him to maintain the necessary focus as his mind was assailed with thousands of stimuli every second. Conduits blazed with power, connecting him to each and every one of his minions, feeding information back and forth. Commands from his wights, thoughts and impressions from his revenants, all rang in his ears like a room full of people shouting to get his attention.

With so much chaos, it was almost impossible to keep track of it all. Skeletons were falling at a rapid pace, no matter how much he worked to try and slow the relentless advance of the Golden Legion. At the same time, he saw their powerful lunge forward for what it truly was: desperation.

They were dying, each and every one of them. Tyron had made sure of that.With every passing second, the curse that infected them grew that little bit stronger, spread that little bit faster. It drained their strength, weakened them, sapping their vitality, and as a result of his feats and spells, their weakness became Tyron’s strength.Vitality flowed into him at a ferocious pace, and he burned every drop of it for more magick or to heal his minions, often both at the same time.

As long as he was able to delay the battle long enough, he would win. A little more time, and the first of the Soldiers he’d killed would return to the field. Even now they were being raised in the Ossuary behind him. Another twenty minutes, and they would be ready.

“I think it’s time I step in and make my presence felt,” Dove declared loudly from beside Tyron’s platform.

If he weren’t having to constantly keep casting, the Necromancer might have had something to say at that. The battle had been going for hours at this point, and now Dove felt it was time to contribute?

Although he might have said it was about time, on reflection, he couldn’t fault the timing. This was the most important period in the battle, and despite their impressive display of power, the Soldiers they were fighting had never been weaker than they were right now. If he was going to throw his summons into the fighting, now would be the moment they were the most effective.

Of course, it wouldn’t be Dove if he didn’t take some time to add his own theatrical flair.

After stretching, pretending to crack his back and throwing his snake over his shoulder, he was finally ready. Raising his bony hands, the Undead Summoner began to cast his spells. Occupied with a thousand other things, Tyron wasn’t able to pay much attention as he managed the battle, raised new undead and cast a constant stream of spells.

Cycle-charging the skeletal horsemen was helping to hold the centre, but the flanks were slowly collapsing, moment by moment. More than a few of Tyron’s revenants had already fallen on the front, but if things didn’t stabilise soon, he might have to commit more of his wights to the thick of the battle. So far, only a few had stepped forward. Losing any of those he relied on to micro-manage the horde in the thick of the fighting would require that he divert more of his own attention away from casting. To this point, the risk hadn’t been worth it, but now....

Catching a glimpse of something out of his eye, Tyron turned his head slightly, then almost recoiled instinctively.

Standing proudly next to his summon, Dove stood, hands on his hips, as the Soul Eater rose to its full height. Tyron forced himself to take a brief pause between casts to shout down to his former mentor.

“Are you in control of that thing?” he demanded warily.

Long, pointed nose tilting one way, then the next, the Soul Eater opened its maw, drooling at the banquet of food laid out before it.

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“Absolutely!” Dove declared. “That is to say, sort of! Go forth and feast, creature of the dead realm!”

Not needing to be told twice, the Soul Eater bounded away, powerful and lithe, an eerie, high-pitched whine emitting from its throat.

“I’ll send it around the sides. If it manages to feed a few times, it’ll get stronger,” the skeleton said with satisfaction.

“When did you manage to contract with one of those... things?”

“We all had our own projects in the Realm of the Dead,” Dove said airily. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Tyron was all too happy to get back to his work while Dove summoned two Bone Hounds and sent them after the Soul Eater.

“I’ll go after them. I have some spells I can use to buff them, and maintaining control from up close is much easier.”

Given what he was doing, Tyron could only nod. Chortling to himself, Dove ran off, looping around to the right flank of the battlefield.

Atop his platform, Tyron gritted his teeth and committed his wights forward. They had to hold the line.

***

“We’re... we’re winning... right?” Merigold stammered.

She had read reports detailing the results of dozens of battles, hundreds of engagements by the Golden Legion as they swept through the Western Province. Despite all of this reading, she was far from an expert on warfare. To her eyes, it looked as though the Soldiers were pushing forward, moving deeper into Foxbridge. If they kept going, it wouldn’t be long before they reached the town centre and unveiled the Necromancer himself.

Her heart continued to hammer in her chest, as it had done since before the battle had commenced. Desperately, with every fibre of her being, she wanted this battle to be over. For the undead to be gone and for the Soldiers to lay down their arms.

They were dying. She wasn’t able to see from where she stood, but she knew they were dying. Dozens, hundreds, maybe more. She had no way to know the exact numbers, but she felt every imagined death like a knife in her chest.

“It’s not easy to say,” Honoured Stennis said evenly.

As always, there was no inflection, no emotion, in his face or tone. As he had since the fighting started, he sat impassively atop his horse, observing silently.

“You make it sound like there’s a real chance we could lose,” Merigold said, shocked.

Rather than reply, he simply glanced toward her, then away again. That look told her everything she needed to know.

“There is?” she gasped, her hand leaping to cover her mouth. “What? Why? What’s happening down there?”

Each question came out quicker than the last as Merigold felt her heart leap up into her throat. In all of her forecasts and calculations, she had never imagined that the Golden Legion, five thousand strong, could actually lose.

Why hadn’t she pushed for ten thousand? For twenty? Despite the hurricane of complaints and outrage from the Administration of War, she would have found a way through. Eventually.“I can’t be certain what is happening,” Stennis said. “What I can say is that the offensive is losing momentum.”

It was? Merigold craned her neck, trying to see, but she couldn’t make heads or tails of what was happening.

“If something doesn’t change soon, then the fighting is going to grind to a stalemate. If that happens, the Necromancer will have the upper hand.”

This was more than Stennis had said during the entire battle. For some reason, now he had chosen to share his observations. A fact that only made Merigold more anxious. If he was speaking up now... then was there a reason for that? Were things even worse than he was letting on?

Despite her hope that Honoured Stennis would continue to share, he once again had returned to his taciturn ways. Which left Merigold to stew, growing increasingly anxious as she bobbed about in her saddle, hoping to see something change, something that would indicate things were going well.

After five minutes of this, she couldn’t take it anymore. A mess of nerves and fear, she spurred her horse forward, forcing Honoured Stennis to follow by her side. He offered no comment, which she hoped meant he didn’t disapprove. Yet, she couldn’t stand to sit in silence anymore. Despite not wanting to get in anyone’s way, she was desperate to learn what was happening, and there was only one person who could tell her.

General Crow did not look pleased to see her. Rather the opposite, truth be told. Yet she screwed her courage tight and pushed forward regardless, dismounting once she was close enough.

“We are rather busy, Lady Herimar,” General Crow stated coldly. “I trust this is important.”

His tone made her want to shrink back, apologise and return to her position at the rear of the formation. Yet, she couldn’t. She couldn’t. She had to know.

“General Crow,” she said, trying to muster all of the dignity she possessed. “Can I hear your assessment of the state of the battle? Briefly?”

He stared at her, hard, before grunting.

“The Necromancer is holding out far longer than we expected, we are suffering more casualties than expected and we have reason to believe our losses will soon return to the battlefield under the control of the enemy. Also, all of us, including possibly you two, have been inflicted with a curse that is sapping the life from our flesh and growing stronger with every passing moment.”

Merigold stared at the man, not quite able to process what she had heard, whereas Stennis merely nodded.

“That explains things,” he said, seemingly to himself.

“Do you have a plan to turn things around?” Merigold demanded, feeling her voice rising in pitch and volume, despite herself. “Are you going to win this battle?”

“Of course,” Crow snapped. “We are regrouping for our final offensive as we speak. One more push and we will break the heart of the Necromancer’s formation and bring the bastard down.

“Once he’s in custody, we can get the troops cured. Our Healers and Priests are already working on it. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

Spinning back towards the battle, General Crow dismissed her presence. In a few seconds, his officers had crowded around him once more, rapid and insistent discussions resuming once more.

Having gotten all she was going to get, Merigold stepped back, clasping her hands together.

Everything was going to be fine. It had to be.