Book of The Dead

Chapter B2C22 - Merciless

Chapter B2C22 - Merciless

There were more candles burning than the night before. When Tyron had gone to sleep, he’d estimated there to be close to twenty of the small flames alight in the back of his mind. When he awoke, that number had grown. By how much, was difficult to say, many of the candles flickered so close to each other that determining an exact number was impossible. Even so, he was certain it had grown.

That meant Monty had not yet given up on his twisted ambitions. He was recruiting. The thought of the chubby, plain-faced farmhand despoiling even more families filled Tyron’s chest with anger until he felt it would boil up his throat. Why weren’t the slayers and marshalls doing anything? Had they still not reached this area?

If that was the case, they were dragging their feet, moving well behind the timetable he’d expected from them. As a result, the people suffered.

His skeletons moved with silent precision as he actively directed them with his thoughts. The isolated farmhouse wasn’t much to look at, far less prosperous than the four farmsteads they’d assaulted in the past. This area was even more remote, the land less fertile and more difficult to work. Judging by the size of the building, it was unlikely more than four or five had lived there.

Smoke curled from the chimney, indicating a well tended fire burned inside. As close as he was, Tyron could hear muffled voices from within, punctuated occasional bursts of raucous laughter and banter.

Some part of him hated these men. The callous disregard for others, the brute, thuggish enforcement of their will against the helpless. They were everything his parents had taught him not to be.

The Necromancer fuelled that anger, funnelled his emotions in the kiln until it burned hot and righteous. He needed that fire to do what had to be done, to take the next step.

He was the aggressor this time, self-defence didn’t come into it.

It was incredible how much of a difference each Skill made. The combination of Minion Commander and Undead Control allowed him to direct the movements of his twenty skeletons like a conductor did his musicians. It was as if he were forming patterns in his mind, lines for the skeletons to move along. No longer did they crowd into each other, or even get their swords tangled in each other's ribs (which had happened a few times, much to his embarrassment). They moved equally distant from each other, and his mental commands shifted smoothly from one to the next.

This was most definitely something he needed to raise as high as possible. He hoped it still worked as well when he had a larger horde of undead. What would it feel like to direct an army of thousands like this? He could scarcely imagine the thrill of it.

Unwilling to expose himself, Tyron remained crouched by the wall, his eyes narrowed to the point of almost being closed as he subtly wove his magick. He peered through the eyes of his skeletons as they wrapped around the humble building, poised beside windows, hunkered down next to doors.

With their silent movement, and having been manipulated to remain out of sight, the undead crept into position unnoticed. Without even realising it, the bandits had been enveloped in a skeletal fist.

If he were to cast any of his more powerful support spells, the men inside were sure to hear him, so Tyron refrained, instead directing his minions to approach the front door.

So fine was his ability to command them, he could even direct a skeleton to step forward and grasp the door handle as he looked through its eyes. In one smooth motion, the skeleton pulled the door open with force and charged forward, followed closely by ten of its fellow servants.

Seen through the blurred view of a skeleton, the inside of the house was even more of a mess than it would have seemed under normal circumstances. It had been ransacked, the cupboards kicked in, food trampled underfoot, pieces of furniture scattered across the floor. The men who sat in a loose circle around a firepit in the centre of what had once been a humble dining area, passing a half-empty bottle between each other, weren’t much better. Dishevelled and unwashed, they appeared to have gone half wild, knotted hair and ripped clothing giving an animalistic cast to their appearance.

That rage boiled up in Tyron’s throat once more, threatening to choke him. He grimaced outside the building, his teeth clenched to hold it in as he directed his skeletons forward.

The bandits snatched up weapons as they scrambled to rise to their feet, but they were much too slow. With his new abilities, it was trivial for Tyron to order his servants forward efficiently, dividing the skeletons between the seven targets. Swords thrust forward or fell down in crude overhead chops, cutting into flesh. Fresh blood sprayed as the bandits cried out in pain, the splatter little more than a purple haze in the eyes of the skeletons.

Only a few managed to rise to their feet unharmed, but Tyron was ready for them, rotating skeletons from the wounded targets to overwhelm the others. One skeleton swung in a wide arc from right to left, forcing the former farmhand to block to the side, while another undead stepped forward with a stab directly to the chest.

In moments, the fight had gone out of them. Taken completely by surprise, they’d been overwhelmed in an instant. Two leapt out the windows, smashing through the wooden shutters only to land at the feet of waiting minions. Others surrendered, clutching at their wounds with one hand as they attempted to keep the life from seeping from their bodies, the other raised in the air, dropping their weapons to the floor.

So easy. Too easy. It shouldn’t be this simple to kill, yet here he was. Strange to think that a small group of normal people were simply no threat to him anymore. Their Skills and Stats were so much less useful in battle than his own. Even if these men had been prepared for his arrival, he still would have overwhelmed them by adding his own magick into the mix. Only Slayers or higher levelled marshalls could fight him now.

This was the progress he’d made after the suffering and effort he’d put in.

Despite the surge of pride he felt, he was all too aware of what even one Slayer at the same level as himself would do to him. A swordsman at level twenty would carve through his skeletons as if they weren’t even there, moving with preternatural speed and grace. In fact, such a fighter could probably ignore the undead altogether. Stronger and faster, they could home in on him and cut his head from his shoulders, and there was precious little Tyron would be able to do about it.

Something for him to consider in the future. Countermeasures had to exist, though he wasn’t sure what they might be. For now, he had seven human lives to deal with.

“Lie down on your bellies,” he shouted through the wall. “Keep your hands away from your weapons!”

He had to repeat himself twice to be heard over the begging and cursing. Soon each bandit lay helpless, a skeleton pressing a blade into their backs as the others collected the simple arms they’d gathered.

Hatchets, crude cudgels and various other farm implements. Only one had a proper weapon, a morningstar of basic make. It would be a good weapon for a future minion since the skeleton’s lack of coordination wouldn’t matter as much. Perhaps the bandit would be able to keep using it in the next phase of his existence.

Tyron pulled his thoughts away from that grim thought.

With the situation in hand, he stood and made his way around the building and in through the door. The bandits lay bleeding, cursing, one of them sobbing, with his skeletons stood over them. As he entered, they began swearing, threatening and begging in equal measure, voices filled with rage and despair.

They truly were a pathetic sight.

He realised then it had been a mistake to come inside. Seeing them for himself made it all the more difficult to do the next part. He worked to stoke the heat of his anger, hoping his outrage would help him do what needed to be done.

Yet the more he tried to feed the fire, the colder he became. All his emotions and doubts felt burned away, leaving nothing behind. His foot lashed out as he kicked one of the bandits in the leg.

“Get up,” he said. “I’ll talk to you outside.”

At his mental command, three more skeletons entered and watched the man as he came to his feet. Wary of any desperate attacks, Tyron kept his distance as the hollow-eyed, gaunt figure was marched from the small home with several blades poking him in the ribs.

“Easy there, ya fucking walking bones. I’d like to keep my ribs on tha’ inside, unlike yaselves.”

Not likely.

Once they were outside, Tyron sized up the bandit more carefully. He was clearly at the end of his tether. The pants he wore had been sturdy, workmans gear at one point, but now they were tattered. Torn in several places, frayed all over and with no sign of repair, his attire told a tale of a man on the edge.

Life must have been a little rough since they lost their little slice of paradise.

Likely this was why these seven had broken away from the main group. The situation was getting more desperate this far west. Marshals and Slayers still hadn’t arrived to restore order, there was little to no trade and supplies were growing thin.

Not for the first time, Tyron was grateful he didn’t have to feed his minions anything other than magick. Yor was also blessedly low maintenance. Though he worried often if people in nearby communities were vanishing into the night.

“I’m not sure if I recognise you,” Tyron said. “You didn’t happen to try and storm a farm recently? Left a good number of your friends behind, dead on the ground?”

The bandit eyed him warily.

“Aye, mage. I was there.”

“You don’t seem all that angry about seeing me again.”

The man shrugged.

“I figure we deserve it, after what we done. Monty was sayin’ we could live free after, but I wasn’ sure.”

“You feel bad for what you’ve done?” Tyron asked, a little surprised.

The bandit slumped forward, his eyes devoid of emotion.

“Doesn’ matter now. Jus’ kill me and be done, mage. I don’t got nothing to say.”

“There’s quite a bit you can tell me, the only real question is how much work I need to put in before I get my answers. You can talk to me while you’re alive, or we can carry on this conversation after you’re dead. Which would you rather?”

His captive’s face paled as he took in his words.

“Ya can’t do that. Ya can’t take my soul.”

“I’d rather not have to,” Tyron said honestly. “Tell me what I want to know about Monty, and you’ll get a clean death. Refuse, and I’ll be forced to compel your spirit to talk.”

It turns out that the idea of being interfered with after death was rather disturbing to most people. Even if the bandit was resigned to the fate of his remains being converted to an undead, he was far more opposed to the idea of Tyron binding his spirit in any way.

There wasn’t much to be learned about Monty and his gang. After being defeated by Tyron, they’d retreated in disarray, fighting amongst themselves, losing several members as their bickering escalated. Ultimately, Monty had retained his leadership and directed the rest to find new targets. These seven had broken away to try and find a more out of the way place where they could lay low and hopefully avoid the consequences of their actions.

Tyron didn’t bother asking what had happened to the families who had lived here, and his captive didn’t volunteer the information. There was no need to say it out loud.

When he was done, Tyron turned and walked away as his skeletons raised their blades at his mental command.

He could still hear the screaming, despite the distance he put between himself and the house. At least, mercifully, it didn’t last long.