B5 Chapter 57 – Deep Waters

The moment the battle started, Tyron knew he was out of his depth. While he might be considered powerful in his home realm, with an army of undead at his command and a great talent for magick, in this place, he was nothing.

He raised his hands and began to cast, words of power thundering out of his mouth as he began to shape reality to his will. His ghostly opponent did the same.

Although the spirit wasn’t able to match his own fluency, or the force with which his words enforced themself onto the universe, it was certainly the most powerful and competent mage he had seen since his mother had died.

Judging by the sheer amount of magick behind the spell being crafted by his foe, the ghost was certainly a higher level than he was too.

The full might of Tyron’s horde leapt into action. His skeletons formed a solid defensive line, his mages and archers began to coordinate their fire. With no more need to hide, the wights and revenants raced to disperse themselves amongst the ranks, those capable of magick already forming barriers and countermeasures.

Thrusting his hands forward, Tyron unleashed his first spell, then turned and leapt directly onto his platform construct, which had scuttled up behind him. As soon as he found his balance, he snatched his staff from the waiting hand of a nearby skeleton and anchored it in the groove prepared for that purpose.

Grit and sand erupted into the air as a row of bone pillars burst out of the ground, a line two hundred metres long that covered the entire front of Tyron’s force. His hands flashed straight into the next spell, his word flowing from his tongue as he cast once more.

The Grand Undead Imperator ritual would have been much more difficult to cast if he hadn’t already engraved the ritual circle onto his platform. As it rose up to its full height, allowing him to see over the defensive wall he’d created, he was already deep into the spell.

Though he was fast, his opponent hadn’t wasted time either. The ghost raised a hand and Tyron felt its power surge.

A moment later, as though a dam had burst, a tide of grasping spirits erupted from in front of the ghost, a wave of screeching and screaming dead, barely visible to the naked eye. Like a wind of death, they crashed into his bone pillars, which immediately began to crumble, as if the magick that sustained them was being sucked away.

Without ceasing his hands or voice, he ordered his mages forward. As the pillars fell, no longer able to hold themselves up, his minions erected a barrier before the front rank of his skeletons. The ghostly tide washed against it, pressure built, then shattered as the barrier gave way.

The front two rows of his minions were engulfed before the spell abated, the skeletons crumbling to dust under the weight of the magick. If he hadn’t erected that wall of pillars, he would have lost five or six ranks, literally hundreds of skeletons, to a single spell.

What sort of magick was that?

His enemy was making their move, the powerful-looking creatures who had descended along with the ghost advancing together in a tight formation. He didn’t have long before the two sides clashed.

Throwing his hands down, power flooded into the ritual circle, bringing the spell to life. As power infused all of his horde, Tyron moved seamlessly to the next spell.

Though fatigue still clawed at him, dragging on his limbs and infecting his flesh, his mind felt sharp, the fog blown away by the real and present danger to his mission. He wouldn’t fall here. He couldn’t fail to achieve his vengeance.

He refused.

He knew his skeletons would be outclassed, so he pushed out two spells as quickly as he could.

Blessing of Bone to make them more agile.

Cursed Miasma to blanket the field of battle.

He didn’t know if the latter would have any effect on the strange homunculi and spirits of the foe, but it didn’t hurt to try. The Shivering Curse and Field of Death were unlikely to have any effect, so instead of more support magick, he moved directly to offence. His hands danced, flicking from one sigil to the next so quickly his digits blurred as he formed a mass of Bone Lances, preparing to rain them down from above.

The horde was fully engaged now. Death Bolts and other offensive spells flew towards the advancing enemy, along with hundreds of arrows, some of which stabbed deep into the greyed flesh of their targets, seemingly without effect.

At all times, Tyron kept watch, waiting for the next sign of the crowned ghost, but the spirit wasn’t showing himself, apparently content to wait.

With a flick of his wrist, he activated the spell and watched as dozens of Bone Lances materialised overhead, streaking toward his target in a flurry of spectral bone. Despite the power he packed into the spell, it seemed to have little effect.

The front rank of the enemy was formed of a dozen brutish, stitched beasts, no two made from the same components. Their deadened flesh was like wood. The lances thunked into them, some penetrating so deep they stuck, hanging in the air before they began to dissipate. The undead things made no sound, didn’t even seem to notice, though he was certain they were being damaged. Everything he knew about Necromancy said that any damage to their flesh would inhibit their ability to move and fight.

When they were close enough, he raised his hands and conjured more pillars. As the hulking undead reached out to smash them, he shattered them all, sending shards of bone to rend their bodies.

It didn’t slow them down.

Inexorable as a felled tree, they walked forward, picking up speed as they drew closer to the skeletal lines. Behind the front rank of brutes, the rest of the attacking undead stalked, more fleshformed creatures, with bone spikes protruding from their bodies and eerie, skull-like faces. In their hands or shoved into the ends of their limbs, they bore blades of perfect black with shimmering edges that rippled like flame.

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There was soul-work there, he was sure of it.

He did not want to feel what it was like for those blades to bite into his skin. Perhaps they would damage his soul as easily as they did his body. Should he call his revenants back?

The thought faded away as he began to cast another barrage of Bone Lances.

Just before he completed the spell, his opponent struck. Tyron sensed it before he saw it, a stream of spectral green energy that burned through the air, coming from his left. The crowned spirit had drifted away from the rest of his force, invisible to the eye, waiting to strike, confident that Tyron would not be able to hurt him back.

An assumption that was perfectly correct. Rather than defend himself, Tyron continued his cast as three demi-liches stepped forward, staves of black bone raised in their hands.

The barrier formed almost instantaneously, snapping to place and strengthening with each passing moment as the former magisters poured their power into it. Led by Grand Magister Tommat, they used the powers they had learned in life to defend the man who killed them.