B5 Chapter 19- The Hole in the World

Magick poured out of the rift so powerfully, Tyron felt he was wading through water. He could see it, could feel it. The hairs on his arm were raised, he could feel tiny shocks rippling over his skin, points of flashing heat. It was too much energy, even for his body, as absurdly resilient and soaked in power as it was.

From atop the platform, he turned and shouted to the students.

“Move back!” he yelled. “Stay at the very rear of the column!”

It had been a mistake to bring the new apprentices this close. With skeletons to protect them, they would likely be safe enough since the horde and Slayers would be blocking the rift itself.

He could see the students moving further back and instructed some of his less combat-focused undead to keep watch on them. Then he turned, raised his hands, and began to speak.

The Imperator ritual was the key component of his current Class, a spell that empowered all of his minions, allowing them to draw magick through the ritual itself. In a place like this, the spell would suck in an absurd amount of power to feed to the undead. He cast the spell, his voice thundering into the air, cracking the space around him further as his will worked upon a pocket of reality already weakened to the point of breaking.

He used the staff his mother had gifted him to anchor the ritual. Finely crafted with rare components, it was capable of handling the torrent of power that would flow through it and into the permanent ritual circle carved into the platform.

Words of power rolled from his tongue and he spoke each word clean and controlled, with precision and power that resonated throughout his being. It was a shame magick brought such horrors, when it was also capable of such wonders.

He snapped out the final sigil and thrust his hands downward. The circle beneath his feet blazed with magick, a deep purple flame that licked around his ankles, then spread. His minions lit up, a few at a time, as if a candle ignited within each of them. The flame spread quickly, until he was surrounded by it, a sea of skeletons connected to the ritual, and to him.

Forward.

Unspoken orders rippled through the entire undead horde, and they obeyed his commands. His wights took the reins, extending their minds to control the skeletons around them and lead them onward. His mages and demi-lich specialists prepared spells of their own, defensive magick to cover Tyron atop the platform and offensive spells to inflict harm at a distance.

With the army on the move and the ritual in effect, Tyron continued to cast his spells. Death Blades needed to be maintained at all times, along with the Blessing of Bone. Deadlier weapons and faster minions were the baseline of what he needed to provide in this place for his army to succeed.

The rift-kin never stopped coming. Some of them were huge, as big as houses, with massive tails that could sweep through half a dozen ranks of skeletons at a time, if he let them. Lances of bone pierced them. Pillars rose up to block their way, then shattered into deadly shards. Arrows whistled through the air, Death Bolts, Death’s Fists, a barrage of spells that flew alongside his own. Revenants stalked along the front lines, ready to pounce on any monster that drew close enough, and many did.

An ear-splitting roar shattered the air, and a colossal monster loomed out of the dark. Four-legged, with a thick, bulky body that moved far more quickly than it should. Ossified rock pierced out of its flesh in shards at each of its joints and down the sides of its head, which snapped at the horde with teeth the length of a man’s arm.

Tyron’s hands never stopped moving as his words continued to crack the sky. Blood poured out of the beast, flying through the air towards him and forming a spherical shield around him. Overhead, dozens of Bone Lances flickered into existence before rocketing forward to stab deep into the beast’s flesh. The front ranks of skeletons spread out, moving to surround the creature without letting themselves get stomped while his revenants rushed forward, blades dancing in their hands.

The monster roared again, its unfathomable anger enough to deafen most people in an instant. Raising up on its hind legs, it staggered once, twice, then came down again like an avalanche.

The ground quaked and Tyron’s spider-legged platform lurched dangerously as he was mid-cast. He controlled it, lowering it down while continuing to shape the magick and let it flow. Hundreds of skeletons had been unable to keep their feet, knocked down while the wights relinquished control in order to keep themselves upright. The monster pounced, crushing several beneath its clawed feet.

Tyron focused, then unleashed his spell.

A bone spike a metre wide and a dozen tall stabbed upward out of the ground, plunging into the kin and sinking deep. Black ichor flowed like a river, gushing out of the wound and covering the ground, but it wasn’t enough. Twisting its body, the monster snapped the spectral bone like a twig, roaring once more.

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Back on their feet, his skeletons advanced, using their spears to harass and annoy the beast, darting forward to strike before retreating, aiming at its legs and flanks. Cut a thousands times, the monster eventually collapsed, the ground shaking once more as it fell. The horde stepped around it and continued on their way.

Every patch of ground beneath the platform was soaked in blood by the time Tyron’s walker passed over it. Kin always congregated around the rifts, as if they held some instinct to protect them, or help tear them wider. They seemed endless, and indeed, they were. An entire world lay on the other side of the rift, birthing maddened creatures driven insane by their unnatural existence. They would never stop coming so long as the rift was large enough to allow them through.