B5 Chapter 70 – What Remains

For as long as he could remember, the Grinters had owned and farmed the land to the south of town. In truth, they had been there not only longer than he’d been alive, but longer than his mother and father had. Of all the families who had been a major part of the Foxbridge community, perhaps only the mayors had deeper roots in the area.

Their farmstead, home to over twenty members of the extended family and dozens of their workers. Charles Grinter had been slightly younger than Tyron, Elsbeth, Rufus and Laurel and he could recall seeing the freckle-faced, red-headed boy in town learning his letters and preparing for the Awakening ceremony many times.

A few of the buildings were still left standing, but even those showed scorch marks or had a few holes blasted in the walls or ceiling. Some sort of long-range Fire Magick had been used to bombard the place, setting fire to the thatched roof and then the contents. Anyone who had survived the fire had then been killed by the soldiers who had gone building by building. It wasn’t hard to see that some of the damage was caused by an individual with superhuman strength just smashing the wall and walking through the gap.

Tyron noted the damage to the outlying buildings and continued on to the town without comment.

With Dove chewing over some tricky spell theory, the air was relatively quiet around the column. The wights and demi-liches, less human with every passing day, tended to their own thoughts and projects and managed the undead in silence as the horde drew closer and closer to the wide river that split the town in half.

One of the largest towns this far west, Foxbridge had been home to over twenty thousand people, more if you included the outer farming communities. Although he hadn’t loved the town of his upbringing, it had been home to Tyron, and he’d known many of the locals. Worthy and Meg had run a popular inn, with good food and drink that brought in regular trade, and he’d listened to them trade stories and jokes with his uncle most of his young life.

Foxbridge had been burned and destroyed, just as the Grinter farmstead had been. Firebombed from a distance, many buildings showed signs of scorching and ash, but the prosperous areas, with tiled roofs and walls of brick or stone, clearly hadn’t burned as well. Perhaps the survivors had even huddled in those buildings, hoping to survive the inferno.

As they drew closer, it was clear the scale of the massacre that had taken place. Tyron didn’t feel any strong emotion surge in his chest, he merely noted, with ice-cold logic, the meticulous and precise nature of the Golden Legion’s work. In his mind’s eye, he could almost see them, golden armour reflecting the glowing embers around them, striding through the town, building by building, and killing everyone they found.

Magnin and Beory had built one of the largest houses in town, made from dense stone and enchanted; it had been extremely expensive by Foxbridge standards, but cost a pittance compared to their wealth. When Tyron, sat atop his construct, lay his eyes on what was left of it, the flicker of rage simmering in his chest flared into a great conflagration.

Of all the buildings in this area of town, it was the only one to have been completely destroyed. Not a single brick stood atop another, and every square inch of dirt had been dug up.

Fire burning in his eyes, Tyron stared at the ruins of his childhood home, not even thinking, just letting the rage run free within him.

It wasn’t far to the inn, but he didn’t go to see. In the back of his mind, he knew they had done the same thing there, had thoroughly dismantled every piece of the Steelarm family they could lay their hands on. Even so, he didn’t want to see it. As long as he didn’t see it for himself, he wouldn’t have to know what it looked like, and wouldn’t have to recall it whenever he saw his uncle’s face.

He turned away from his family home, leading the horde to the bridge after which the town had been named.

Although the streets were deserted and the air perfectly still, Tyron knew he was far from alone in this place. Through the eyes of his minions, he knew that they were surrounded by the wailing spirits of his dead neighbours. They clung to him, crowding around the only living person for hundreds of kilometres, screaming in silence, twisted by bitterness and hatred. He swore he could almost feel the chill as they huddled around him, a vortex of death and misery with him in the centre.

It was on the northern side of Foxbridge that the mass grave had been dug. They hadn’t even bothered to cover it. Just an open pit, dug shockingly deep, into which they had piled the bodies, or what was left of them, and then lit the fire.

Whatever they’d used, most likely a form of concentrated Fire Magick, it had done an admirable job. Looking down at the remains, he could see the flesh and clothing had burned completely away, leaving only charred chunks of crumbling skeleton behind. All of the men, women and children of Foxbridge who hadn’t fled were here. Those who had run were probably also dead, having run north into the woods or further west, hoping to hide in the foothills.

Looking down at what remained of those he’d grown up around, Tyron could only shake his head.

They tried to paint him as a villain?

Those gods who would corrupt and destroy their own world in order to preserve their own miserable lives?

The Empire that would massacre millions to punish and weed out a few thousand?

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Growing up, he’d thought that becoming a Slayer and fighting in the rifts would be his life’s work, couldn’t have imagined a task more important or noble. He’d wanted to be a hero, just like Magnin and Beory.

How impossibly foolish such thoughts seemed to him now.

Tyron slid from the side of the construct and landed on his feet before striding to the edge of the pit. With a mental command, he sent several hundred skeletons, along with wights and revenants for leadership, racing off to the north. Many of the local farmers had raised cattle or horses, and those herds shouldn’t have gone too far. He would need living creatures to draw strength from and fuel his magick. If they found kin, that would be even better.

He raised his hands, still staring down into the pit. He could burn his own life essence to heal bones, and there were a lot of bones down there, all of which had suffered severe damage.

This was going to hurt.

~~~

“I’m not sure that was wise.”

“What’s done is done.”

Filetta looked as though she wanted to say more, but held her complaints, for a change. Tyron remained seated, not trusting himself to stand just yet. He’d used the livestock his skeletons had brought back to heal himself, but needed many more to bring himself back to full strength. For now, his horde had scattered around Foxbridge, looking for more cattle and horses to bring him. If nothing else, he would have plenty of material to expand the ranks of skeletal horsemen soon.