B5 Chapter 58 – The Three Way Battle

When the magick descended, the sphere dissipated to reveal a more sizable undead horde within. Rather than stitched abominations, these were horrific, bat-like ghouls of varying sizes. With distended, fanged maws, smoking black claws and red eyes, Tyron almost felt they were some form of inferior vampire, flesh shaped creatures with a whiff of blood magick about them.

He was proven correct soon after as the largest individual, a hulking brute easily eight feet tall, ripped into its own flesh, coating its claws in fresh blood. A second later, it chanted a spell, shaping the blood into blades that extended its reach significantly. Without bothering to make any attempt at parley, the undead creature shrieked and pointed, its horde of beasts surging forward, hunched forms skittering across the dunes like a tide of rats.

Tyron watched carefully, keen to see who they attacked. If they went for his horde, he would need to leave immediately. If they attacked the crowned ghost, that would be ideal, giving him time to regroup and try to harvest some experience.

The charge of the pale-skinned creatures was fearsome to behold. Swift as a skeleton, they kept low, claws out, fangs gleaming in the darkness.

Tyron did not get his wish. At first he thought they were going to charge against the homonculi and his pulse quickened, but at the last second they swerved, crashing into both armies at the same time. Of course they did.

“Holy fucking shit! Tyron, we need to get the fuck out of here!” Dove cried.

He was being carried back towards the gate by a team of skeletons passing by the Necromancer’s left. Thrashing as hard as he could to get free, Dove still somehow managed to roll his pelvis from side to side, sending the snake whipping through the air in huge arcs.

“Why?” Tyron called, eyes focused on the battle.

“Those fuckers are from Malasin! They’re going to take me and do unspeakable things to me! Not the good kind! We have to get out of here!”

“I’m not leaving after you went through all the trouble of bringing them here. We keep fighting.”

“It’s not like I wanted to! In point of fact, I very much didn’t fucking want to! In case you don’t remember, that prick scares the piss out of me, which should worry you because I don’t have a functioning bladder!”

“Maybe if you yell and scream less, they won’t notice you.”

Raising his hands, Tyron once again cast the Blessing of Bone. His minions were slowing down, and they certainly couldn’t afford to do that right now.

The crowned ghost had pulled back his smaller horde, giving the skeleton front line a reprieve from trying to bring down those hulking monstrosities, but it didn’t last long. When the ghouls charged in, it became readily apparent how agile and ferocious they were. Leaping and twisting through the air, they slashed out with their claws, leaving huge grooves in the bone shields wielded by the skeletons.

Slow to respond, the skeletons struggled to keep up, and his wights were forced to take control directly, helping to command the minions before they were overwhelmed. As the Blessing of Bone took hold, the movements of the skeletons became faster, but they didn’t get more coordinated or skillful.

To try and stem the bleeding, he continued to cast, his hands aching as he flashed through a barrage of sigils. Once again the rain of Bone Lances fell from above, and he managed to spike a few of the ghouls, but the bulk of the projectiles were dodged.

That spatial awareness, the quick reflexes!

It wasn’t right to have minion envy in the middle of a battle, but Tyron couldn’t help but wish his own skeletons were able to perform on that sort of level. Did these ghouls still have a flesh brain inside their heads, or were they operated by a construct, as his own were?

If his skeletons could dodge and move like that…

No, he couldn’t afford to get distracted. The battlelines continued to shift as the crowned ghost reappeared, preparing another spell. Tyron braced himself, but held back at the last moment. The wave of spirits was unleashed again, but not at his own horde this time. However, even as the spell raced towards the ghouls, the homonculi moved to reengage his skeletons.

Trying to have it both ways…

Tyron prepared more spells, raising up spears of bone from the ground, forming pillars, shattering the spectral bone, but he kept an eye on the largest ghoul. How would it counteract this magick that had given him so much trouble?

In answer to his question, it screeched, and in response all of the ghouls slashed at their own arms. At first he was confused, but a second later the cuts began to release a red mist that flowed through the air towards the onrushing tide of hungry spirits.

An offering of blood from the horde powered the spell, but it was the chief ghoul that shaped it, weaving the blood into a tornado of whirling, red death. With a flex of will, the undead mage split the magick, sending dozens of smaller whirlwinds outwards in an arc.

A second later, the spells clashed, creating a storm of flashing magick that warped the air and crackled audibly.

Tyron blinked. That was a heck of a lot of power. For a moment he was tempted to try and bring out the siege spell he’d learned, but quickly dismissed the idea. He was far more likely to kill himself than anyone else if he tried something like that.

No, he would fight as best he could with what he had.

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Tyron’s own archers and mages were hard at work, flinging arrows and spells at every target they thought they could hurt, but he had to keep his strongest demi-liches in reserve. If either of the other mages tried to attack him directly, he would need their support to survive. As exposed as he was atop his platform, he made an easy target, after all.

For the next few minutes, the battle settled into a three way grind. Both mages were attacking him, and several times it looked as though his lines would become overwhelmed, but every time that happened, the two undead commanders would fiercely hammer their rival. If one of them looked as though they were going to defeat Tyron, the other would attack, refusing to allow their enemy to seize the prize.

The attrition on Tyron’s skeletal horde was significant. His bone giants had suffered terribly against the stitched behemoths, and he’d lost two already, while the rest were severely damaged. His skeletons, with the support of the revenants and wights, were doing as well as they could, but many were falling, too damaged to be repaired.

He could try and sacrifice his own life energy to heal them, but he was worried about how little of it he actually had left in him. Considering how he was feeling, he might just die before any significant repairs were done.

It wouldn’t be long now until they had to leave. The gate was fully powered, he could leave at any time, yet deep down, he didn’t want to.

He might be losing a dozen skeletons for every opponent brought down, but how well would the Unseen reward him for these efforts?

In the back of his mind, he couldn’t rid himself of the image of a golden boot crushing his skull against the ground.