Book of The Dead

Tyron made good time through the sewers, pushing himself hard. As he ran, he combed through the new knowledge the Unseen had placed in his mind, trying to tease out all the details of his new spells and abilities he could in order to make use of them sooner rather than later.

Of course, it would be more ideal if he had a few days in his study to work through magickal theory and develop careful, controlled tests to work out what would work and what wouldn’t, but now wasn’t the time for that. If he truly was a genius, this was the moment where he would have to prove it. Throwing together spellforms on the fly based on half-realised, implanted knowledge was the stuff of madmen or the truly stupid in his mother’s opinion, but now that he was here, what choice did he have?

Around him, he had his most powerful servants: Filleta and two other wights, along with a selection of his best revenants. Around them, a guard of over a hundred skeletons were gathered in a tight formation in front and behind. It made the sewer almost impossibly crowded, but since they were all running in the same direction, it didn’t matter that much.

Of course, as expected, their journey wasn’t without interruptions. The Necromancer didn’t even see the first confrontation; it was over before he even realised what had happened. A shout, a brief scuffle followed by screaming, his front-most skeletons drawing on his power as they fought, then it was over.

As they kept moving forward, he stepped over the corpse just in time to avoid tripping. All he gained was a glimpse of the body, but it was enough to furnish him with the details. A face, twisted in horror, bearded with a broad moustache, plain work clothes, a guttering lamp dropped nearby. Most likely a sewer worker forced into the network by the Marshals or Magisters. No doubt he had a tracking spell on him, which meant they now had a rough idea where Tyron was.

Not ideal, but nothing unexpected.

There was nothing to do but push forward. No doubt, the city above was in complete chaos by now. Moving through the streets would become more and more difficult as people fled the horrors he had created. Eventually, the Duke would create some form of perimeter and gain control of the situation, but by then, Tyron hoped to have reached the Red Tower and finished his work.

They continued to run.

Only ten minutes later, the second clash occurred. This time, it wasn't over quickly; there was shouting, the sound of steel ringing. Tyron could hear the combatants calling to each other.

“They’re just skeletons!”

“Give ground if you have to! We don’t have to win!”

These were Soldiers, Marshals or perhaps even militia pressed into service. It was almost impossible to see what was happening in the darkness of the tunnel, not to mention the cramped conditions. Of course, that wasn’t a full impediment for Tyron. A few gestures, a few words was all it took for him to see through the eyes of his minions.

Using the vision of his foremost skeletons, he was able to decipher what was happening through the swirl of the melee. There were ten of them, fairly basically equipped, trying to match blades with his skeletons as they gave ground, slowing his progress.

Withdrawing his vision, Tyron gave the command to his skeletons to push forward. For foes of this calibre, he didn’t need to personally intervene; the skeletons would be enough on their own.

Following his command, the skeletons pressed forward, heedless of their own wellbeing. Silent and efficient, they fought like the unfeeling, unthinking magickal beings they were. Suddenly pressured, the men weren’t able to prevent themselves from getting swarmed, and the inevitable end came soon after.

Less than a minute later, Tyron stepped over their bodies as well, taking no pleasure in the death of these regular citizens. The Houses would happily throw a million people in his way if they could, and if he had to cut them down to spill divine blood, then that was exactly what he was going to do.

In anticipation of further interceptions, he sent several revenants and Filetta to the front to help manage the fighting there. As much as possible, he wanted to spend his time combing through his new abilities, but it seemed circumstances conspired against him.

There weren’t many four-way intersections in the sewer, as they generally weren’t conducive to the flow rate, at least, so he gathered, but they did exist. One tunnel crossed another in such a place where there was a clear slope, letting all the refuse flow out of the junction in one direction.

Tyron and his retinue formed a column around a hundred metres long, but such intersections were twenty metres wide at their largest. The bulk of his retinue was in the tunnel ahead or the tunnel behind when the Soldiers decided to spring their trap. Ɍ

Illusions dropped on Tyron’s left and right, revealing armed bands of Soldiers backed by mages, spells primed and ready, staves pointed in his direction.

He directed his minions at the speed of thought, thick shields of bone raised to cover him in an instant. Even without his mental command, the heavily armed and armoured wight on his left stepped forward to cover the Necromancer’s body with his own.

Leon had proven to be a loyal servant in his new life as a wight, despite some initial… friction between the two of them. Tyron noted the action of his servant even as his hands rose and he began to speak.

Words of power thrummed within the tunnel, reality itself bending and stretching as Tyron bent it to his will. Power flowed like a river even as spells flew into his minions. Careless of their own survival, his skeletons threw themselves on fireballs and lances of arcane power, uncaring that their shields erupted in flames or their bones flew apart. Nearly a dozen skeletons were obliterated by the initial barrage, but it didn’t matter.

Flickering magick poured into his minions and they moved faster, charging lightly through the tunnels to bring their swords of bone down on the waiting Soldiers, who held their ground solidly, unafraid. Behind the wall of steel, the mages prepared their next wave of spells.

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None of them were prepared when hands began to emerge from the sewage tunnels behind them, grasping hold of the pathway and pulling the rest of their skeletal frames out of the waters. By the time the second wave of spells was prepared, several of the mages had noticed, calling out in fear as they realised they had been flanked unawares.

Spells intended for Tyron were instead fired in panic toward the minions closing in on them from behind. Tyron waited, preserving his energy as more and more skeletons emerged from the sewer and threw themselves into the fight, hacking and slashing.

When his wights made it to the front of the battle, they clashed blades with the Soldiers who, now completely surrounded by the undead within the narrow confines of the tunnel, fought grimly, knowing they wouldn’t make it out alive.

Soon, this battle was also wrapped up, yet this time the pile of corpses was not left behind. Skeletons gathered up the remains as Tyron quickly scooped up the newly released souls. Ahead and behind, more and more skeletons emerged from the sewer as he resumed his run.

Several groups trying to converge on his position were set upon by the newly emerged undead, Tyron able to direct the conflicts remotely as the sewers around him became filled with more and more skeletons and revenants.

All the while, he drew closer to the Red Tower.

~~~

“What in the name of the Goddess is it?” Duke Raugrave Kenmor ground out as he stared at the pillar of darkness now finally starting to disperse.

“It isn’t much more than an area filled with concentrated magick. Death Magick, to be specific. There are a few other principles bound up in the spell, but that’s all I can get from this sort of distance.”

Tyron bloody Steelarm. The prick had really gone and done it. What was with that family? The gods had dealt with Magnin and Beory, and those two were a fucking mountain compared to the molehill of their son, yet the entire capital had been thrown into chaos by the latter while the former had gone quietly to their deaths like good cattle should.

The Archmage Bysol lowered his hands, the glowing sphere of magick he had conjured to analyse the pillar fading as he did so.

“The amount of magick required to produce something on that scale is… absurd,” he muttered. “Whoever is responsible would have had to have been stockpiling that energy for months… probably years. The expertise to conceal concentrated magick of that level of potency is also… extremely rare.”

“I don’t care about how it was done,” the Duke said coldly, “I only care about what it’s done to my city.”

The Archmage nodded and brought his hands up again, muttering a quick spell. A glowing sigil appeared in the air, and Brysol spoke into it briefly, listening carefully to a response that Raugrave couldn’t hear.

“Our mages who reached the base of the pillar are reporting sightings of undead. Spirits are roaming through the streets, and zombies have been sighted emerging from the ground and sewers.”

“Zombies?” Raugrave barked. “Where in the hells have the corpses come from?”

“If I were to guess, the Necromancer prepared some of them in advance, but also, if I’m not mistaken, that pillar is close to where the recent… disposal sites are concentrated. Any unburned corpses would have sucked in that Death Magick and risen of their own accord.”

The Duke sucked in a deep, calming breath. Things were certainly not going his way, but it was fine. He was the Duke, in command of the entire Western Province. All the cards were in his hands. What was most important was that he squash this Necromancer like the insect that he was as quickly as possible. With a little luck, he could contain this disaster before things got too out of hand and word spread back to the Emperor.

If the Divine Court believed him incapable of handling the crisis, then it was truly over.

“Send word to the Noble Houses. I want all of them to assemble in the Castle along with their best Soldiers,” he ordered. “Then I want the Gold Slayers to get off their backsides and confront the undead scourge. If there aren't enough of them, turn out the Slayer Academies as well. The students can deal with a few zombies and ghosts.”

With the Nobles safely secured in the Castle, he could prevent any further loss of Divine Blood, which would help mitigate the damage in the eyes of the Emperor.

If the Slayers could deal with the undead, which they should, seeing as how the undead were basically monsters, then that should free up enough resources to deal with the Necromancer problem.

Beside him, Archmage Bysol was busy conjuring more sigils, spreading the Duke’s orders as he said them.

“Have the Marshals establish a perimeter around the pillars. We don’t know if these zombies are able to spread the curse or not, so we can’t afford anyone to escape and infect the rest of the city. Instruct them to kill on sight, and have the militia mobilised to assist. The Magisters and my personal troops will be tasked with hunting down the Necromancer and taking off his head.”

The Archmage frowned as he relayed the orders. Only when the sigil had been dismissed did he dare to question the Duke.

“We have no evidence that the zombies are capable of spreading their affliction. In fact, natural-born zombies are almost never capable of it. If we can catch and study one, my Mages would be able to determine the truth of the matter in minutes. Is it really necessary to issue a kill order so soon?”

“Any risk of it spreading is too high,” the Duke responded callously.

If thousands of citizens were killed, that was fine, the Divine Court wouldn’t care. If hundreds of thousands died, that may be a different matter.

From atop the Castle, the city of Kenmor spread like a blanket of structures and lights. The Duke was attuned to the state of the city through his unique Class, granted to him upon his ascension to his current Rank. There was a poison in the veins of Kenmor, one that he hadn’t been able to sense before, a sickness that had lain hidden for far too long. Along with the rising tide of terror within the walls, it was enough to set his teeth on edge.

He turned away from the view and stormed back into his personal quarters where his personal army of servants awaited his commands.

“Prepare my armour and sword,” he demanded. “I will go into the city personally. Inform my retinue.”

Archmage Bysol strode in after him, robes brushing along the lusciously carpeted floor as he walked.

“That may not be wise, my Duke,” the old man cautioned. “You are a formidable combatant, but your power lies in your Divine Title. There are others more suited to battle who can go in your stead.”

Raugrave turned and glared at the Archmage.

“You want me to sit on my hands in the castle while the city falls apart? Do you know what will happen if the damage isn’t contained?”

Bysol grimaced. He knew the Duke wasn’t talking about the cost in life, but rather the threat to his own position.

“There isn’t much point avoiding death at the hands of the Emperor if you are killed in the chaos of the city, my Lord,” he tried one more time.

“Be silent, Bysol,” the Duke ordered, fire in his eyes. “Death at the hands of the Emperor is certain; dying in the city is unlikely at worst. I will go down there and take command personally. If I lay eyes on Tyron Steelarm, I will order him to rip out his own throat.”

He pointed a finger at the Archmage.

“And you are coming with me. Prepare yourself. We leave as soon as I’m ready.”

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