B5 Chapter 56 – Awaiting the Lords

A swift march across the dunes proved too difficult for Tyron to maintain, so he eventually relented and allowed his minions to carry him. Magick, he could easily supply, balance, not so much.

Dove shouted and harangued him the whole way, though Tyron largely tuned him out. Instead, he let his mind drift, trying to soak in whatever he could of his new magick. The hints and images he was able to tease out were so tantalising that they captured his imagination instantly, sucking in his attention as he began to slowly put the puzzle together. It would take time, a lot of time, before he was able to cast it with confidence. This spell was complex, with many intricate, interlocking parts and a titanic power requirement. The amount of precision and energy required to make it function was staggering, but the difficulty only drew him in more.

The harder it was to cast, the more effective it should be….

That logic didn’t always hold, some effects were simply more difficult to manifest using magick than others as a result of the strange confluences arcane energy held. Fire was excellent at destroying things, water was more difficult. It was possible to kill someone using life magick, but it wasn’t as straightforward as shooting them with a rock to the head.

He was so absorbed in this process, he didn’t realise they’d returned to the gate until he was placed back on his feet by his own undead. Blinking owlishly, he swayed for a moment before Filleta stepped up and grabbed him by the arm to stop him from falling over.

“Tyron! Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” he said.

“He’s a fucking idiot, is what he is,” Dove interjected.

“Fuck off,” she replied, making a shoeing motion with her hand.

Before the outraged Summoner could reply, he was seized by nearby skeletons and dragged away, kicking and protesting as he went. Ignoring him, the wight leaned closer, trying to support the Necromancer.

“Are you actually alright?” she asked him softly. “Can we help at all?”

Tyron forced out a laugh.

“I never expected to get sympathy from my own undead. You’re my slave, remember?”

“As if I could forget. I’m serious, you arsehole. You look like you’re about to keel over and die.”

“I’m not… that far gone,” he grunted.

With a few mental commands, he began to organise his horde. The gate was almost fully stocked with crystal and ready to be powered. He directed a few extra skeletons over to help expedite the process. The sooner it was ready, the safer he would feel.

It was eerie, being surrounded by darkness and dust, yet knowing that a horde sent by a faceless master of this place would descend on him soon. The air was as still and silent as always, hanging heavy overhead, pressing down with the sheer weight of Death Magick that suffused this place.

With a groan, he leaned down before lowering himself to the ground. It would take time for him to recover his strength from this endeavour. Without food or water, he would be in a difficult position when he returned. Weak and vulnerable.

Coming to the Realm of the Dead this soon may have been a mistake. He wasn’t strong enough to endure here, didn’t have the necessary knowledge or experience to understand its rules. Yet he would need to master them if he wanted to be strong enough to topple the Empire and kill The Five, he was sure of that.

Besides, it was too early for him to say this trip was a waste. After the upcoming confrontation, he would know.

“Do you know how long until they arrive?” Filetta asked him.

She was scanning the surroundings through the minions, he could tell from the strange light in her eyes. It was interesting to see them employ the abilities that came naturally to them in their new state. In the eyes of the Unseen, they had gained new races and new Classes, with all new inherent skills. Slowly, over time, the wights had grown more accustomed to their new selves, settling into their roles, relinquishing their emotions and humanity, bit by bit.

“I don’t. There will be two of them, two separate forces.”

“Two? How can you be so sure?”

“There’s the one that spotted the souls, and the one that Dove has summoned. That makes two.”

The former thief’s eyes flashed.

“That worm-fucker! He’s bringing them to us?!”

Tyron raised a hand, his eyes closed as he breathed evenly.

“He doesn’t have a choice,” he told her. “His contract binds him. If anything, I would say that he held off as long as he could.”

“It’s still a betrayal,” she hissed. “You should smash his soul to dust.”

“Why? I needed him to do what he did. If only one of the Death Lords comes to us, then we will have to run.”

“And two of them coming is somehow better?”

“If what Dove told us is true, then they hate each other much more than they want a few souls. They would much rather prevent their rivals from gaining the tiniest scrap than secure it for themselves. If they fight each other, then I have a chance to profit from the conflict.”

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“So you wanted to invite two armies, neither of which you can defeat, so that they could fight each other, and allow you to throw rocks at them from the side? That seems…”

“Insane? That’s what Dove said.”

“Unwise,” she said, changing her statement.

“Getting to level eighty is supposed to be hard.”