B5 Chapter 12 – Students Before the Master

It had been some time since Richard had been able to go out into the field. With Master Steelarm away, he’d spent more and more of his energy teaching, leading classes, giving demonstrations, working with the Bone Shapers, the Corpse Handlers, helping to raise the overall level of Necromancy amongst their growing community. Georg and Briss had done the same, but not to the extent he had. The end result was that his growth had somewhat stagnated, but his knowledge and expertise had broadened.

Now, out in the wastelands outside the city, he had an opportunity to flex his muscles, so to speak, and receive feedback from his teacher directly. He refused to waste this chance.

The three students had moved their hordes to the front of the column, fanned out in a loose arc, with the zombies in the middle. Compared to the vast army behind them, it was a rather pathetic sight. Richard couldn’t help turning around every now and again to see the enormous undead legion of his teacher and grimace. Despite coming a long way, moving into the bronze ranks as Slayers would consider them, he still couldn’t imagine having enough power to maintain so many undead.

Don’t worry about it, Richard, he admonished himself, focus on the things you can control.

He had a hundred skeletons under his control at the moment, the connection between him and the undead a constant presence in his mind. So far, he had concentrated his efforts on the quality of his undead, following in Tyron’s footsteps. How many sleepless nights had he spent labouring over joints, trying to perfect the weave, or on the intricacies of conduit magick? Too many to count.

“Whoever gets the most should win something!” Briss shouted from her position in the centre of her undead.

“Gets the most what?” Georg wondered aloud.

“Rift-kin!” Briss replied as if it were obvious.

“Who’s going to keep count?” Richard demanded, rolling his eyes. “This is pointless.”

“Don’t be such a stick in the mud, Richard,” Briss called. “It’ll be fun.”

“We aren’t here for fun,” he grumbled to himself, sensitive to the fact that he very much sounded like a stick in the mud.

“I don’t think we’ll have the time,” Georg called. “It’s surprising we haven’t seen any kin yet, but so–”

As if summoned by his words, the crystal and sand a dozen metres in front of Richard’s frontmost skeletons erupted, spraying into the air as several monstrous forms shook themselves loose. Reacting quickly, Richard raised his hands and began to cast while also ordering his skeletons to close ranks. Focusing hard, he spoke the words of power while attempting to micro-manage his troops to receive the charge. It was still incredibly difficult to split his focus like this, but he gritted his teeth and persevered, forcing his hands to complete the precise motions necessary to cast his spell.

Three spiked, crystal-coated lizards emerged from the sand and rushed forward, snarling wildly. Richard braced his frontline, the skeletons linking shields and widening their stances. It helped, but not much. Dependent on his magick to fuel their strength, there was only so much they could do to hold against the monsters.

Richard didn’t panic as the first row of undead went down. He was a Necromancer; he counted on numbers to win the day. Before the three lizards could even begin tearing into the skeletons they had knocked over, more undead were stabbing down, trying to skewer them with blackened bone-swords.

Straining his mind, Richard puppeteered his undead while he finished the cast, not wanting to rely on their weak artificial minds. Stifling a grunt of effort, he snapped out the final words and sigils, completing the Death Blades cast and causing black smoke to begin rising from the weapons of his skeletons.

While only the size of hounds, the kin were strong, and they deflected several strikes with the purple and blue crystal growths sticking out of their backs. As the monsters tried to savage the skeletons they’d pinned, Richard focused and directed his undead to strike at their sides, stabbing or swinging their blades upwards from below.

Despite their savagery, these were lesser kin, so with a dozen skeletons piling onto each, they weren’t able to resist for long. When the final monster had breathed its last and collapsed into the sand, Richard manipulated his undead to shift the corpses, freeing the skeletons who had been pinned beneath.

Hurriedly, he ordered them back to his side so he could inspect the damage. Several bones were cracked, which led to fairly extensive damage to the weave in those areas. These minions wouldn’t be able to perform at anything like their best. It was frustrating. Three weaker kin against a horde of a hundred skeletons, and already he was down several minions. Unlike his teacher, Richard lacked the means to repair the damage quickly. To fix them, he would have to work through the damage, piece by piece. A time-consuming process, time he couldn’t afford in the wasteland.

He ordered the damaged minions to the back of his formation and brought healthy ones forward to replace them. He had to be more alert, more reactive. Once he had settled his minions, he widened his focus, looking to see what Georg and Briss were up to. Georg was currently engaged in a fight, his zombies falling onto a beast and trying to tear it apart with their crude weapons or bare hands.

It was an ugly sight, causing Ricahrd to wince. Zombies possessed much of the brain matter, muscles and tendons that a living person had, but all of it was constantly rotting. Unlike a skeleton, who’s ‘tissues’ were formed of magick, zombies were in a state of constant degradation. As it turned out, it didn’t take long before a rotting corpse began to lose motor function. Which meant, in the end, zombies were ungainly and uncoordinated, only getting worse over time. No clean swings of a sword, none of the speed or grace possessed by Master Steelarm’s undead, just vicious, wild swings using crude weapons that were closer to butcher’s cleavers than proper blades.

Ignore that. Focus on your own horde. Don’t get caught off guard again.

Determined to have a better showing next time, Richard took a pull from his canteen, letting the water refresh his mouth. After that, he performed simple hand exercises to keep his joints loose and warm while he vocalised, keeping his voice ready. Once the fighting was done, the column began to advance again, Richard even more keenly aware of his teacher’s gaze on his back.

Despite the regular and repeated patrols of the Slayers through this area, sweeping the wasteland clean of kin over and over again, there were still hundreds of them roaming wild. Some would burrow into the blackened, granular sand, while others ran in packs, seeking out prey to devour with the vicious ferocity of their kind.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

It didn’t take long until they were engaged again. When the fighting was done, they dusted themselves off and began moving once more. This cycle repeated over and over again, the kin throwing themselves into the undead, battering the minions even as they were brought down. After two hours, Richard had dozens of damaged skeletons, with nine broken beyond repair. Still, his horde limped forward, still in the fight.

Georg had suffered the most damage, but his minions were the easiest to repair, whereas Briss had taken the least. Her fights seemed to last longer though, which Richard found confusing. If they were fighting longer, then wouldn’t they take more damage? He would have to ask her what she’d been working on; clearly it was effective.

He turned back to catch the gaze of Tyron, who only flipped a hand, urging him to continue onward, so he did.

After another four hours, the damage was much, much worse. The closer they got to the rift, the larger and more common the kin became. The downtime between fights was almost nothing, giving the three students little time to recover. As a consequence, they weren’t moving much any longer, locked in place and unable to advance.

Richard’s horde had suffered greatly, less than twenty of his skeletons had no damage whatsoever, and those had been the ones tasked with protecting him. A full quarter of his undead were lost completely, while the rest had suffered serious damage.

Drained of magick, his throat raw and hands aching, Richard was at his limit. He’d resorted to crunching on mage candy hours ago, but he knew any more would push his body into a dangerous state. He’d gained a lot of experience, likely a decent number of levels, and most importantly, found out just how much he could tolerate. Once there was a break in the fighting, he raised his hand and turned around, pulling his horde close around him.

Briss and Georg were already standing next to Master Steelarm, watching him. The big farmhand clapped appreciatively while Briss waved at him. Even his teacher gave an approving nod and Richard felt himself flush red, from embarrassment or pride, he couldn’t tell.

He brought his undead back, keeping them tightly grouped as Tyron’s army began to flow around him, moving to the front and forming disciplined ranks.

“Well done Richard,” Master Steelarm said. “You were able to last the longest. You fought well out there.”

With his throat so raw and his tongue practically numb, Richard didn’t trust himself to say much. Instead, he nodded and said: “Thank you, Master.”

“Now,” Tyron said, folding his arms across his chest, “I suppose you’ll be wanting feedback.”

All three students nodded eagerly.