B5 Chapter 72 – Higher Undead, Reborn

In many ways, Tyron was content. Here, in Foxbridge, there was no one to bother him with requests, demands or expectations. He was finally free of all the burdens that had clung to him for so long. Without distractions, without obligations, he was free to pour all of his energy and power into the magick that he loved.

And there was an absurd amount of power. Perhaps it was a good thing the rifts to the north and south were untended, as Foxbridge became the centre of a vortex sucking in arcane energy with a seemingly boundless appetite. As the demands of the horde and minion creation process grew, he was forced to send Master Willhem out with an escort to lay gathering arrays around the town, pulling in more power and directing it towards the market square.

Creating noctic bone, weaving the new threads, and the constant casts of Raise Greater Undead each required an absurd amount of power, making Tyron burn through magick as quickly as it could be gathered. Several times he was forced to rotate out his demi-liches to let their arcane marrow recharge, bringing in others to replace them.

When he had only just received his Class, Tyron couldn’t possibly imagine the torrent of power he now wielded, not only his own personal magick, but also that being pulled in by his undead mages as well.

All of that energy, all of that power, funnelled into the creation of undead. Hour by hour, his ranks continued to swell as he depleted the cemeteries of every village in the area, and visited several nearby mass graves his skeletons had found. Eventually, he had gone through every skeleton in the horde, converting them to ashflame skeletons and improving all of their weapons and armour as well. An exhaustive process, but well worth it.

Despite the herculean effort, Tyron was far from satisfied with his work. Confident he could improve not only the noctic bone, but his current weave significantly, everything he had accomplished would need to be redone once he had more time to experiment and further revise his designs. With the aid of Master Willhem, he was also confident that the enchantments placed on his undead could be further refined, allowing them to draw in and share their own magick more efficiently.

Despite not having refined these new techniques to his satisfaction, Tyron had no choice. With the number of available skeletons dwindling, he turned over the bulk of the work to his more capable undead mages and began to sketch out his rough ideas for what came next: the revenants and wights.

Of course, he would start with the revenants, better to make mistakes with the less crucial minions.

But who to work on first? There was really only one choice.

It had been some time since Tyron had paid any specific attention to Rufus. Once something of a friend, after everything that had transpired between them, turning him into a revenant and tormenting his soul had been… satisfying for Tyron.

After so much time had passed, he now felt nothing but indifference towards his would-be killer, and the person who had once been Rufus, son of the abusive blacksmith and boy who had dreamed of being a swordsman like Magnin Steelarm, was now gone. After years as an undead, little remained of the person Rufus had been. All that was left was a dull reflection of his former personality.

Summoned by Tyron, the revenant stood before him silently, unable to speak, a shell housing a degraded soul.

In truth, Rufus was one of Tyron’s weakest revenants. Not even a bronze ranked Slayer at the time of his death, he had little in the way of skills and experience in battle. It was to the extent that the Necromancer had never needed to replace the original weave he had used, since Rufus wasn’t limited by it in any way.

Without the wights’ ability to grow stronger and gain levels, it was questionable whether it was even worth keeping Rufus as a revenant at all. Arcane energy was a precious resource within the horde, and it would be more efficiently spent dismissing Rufus’ soul and using the bones to make a regular skeleton. Another revenant would do much better in his place.

Yet Tyron did not do that.

“Been a while, Rufus,” he said, largely to himself, as he stared at the revenant. His eyes held no emotion as he looked at his old companion. He merely weighed the possibilities, considering his options and trying to ascertain the best path forward.

Let me die, Rufus said. Please… let me die.

No passion, or anger, or even hope could be felt from Rufus’ soul, only utter despair. Tyron considered him.

“No… no I don’t think I will,” Tyron replied, still thinking.

How much do I need to suffer?

“Until I’m satisfied.”

When will that be?

“Be silent. I’m trying to think.”

Forced to obey the command, the revenant drew still and quiet, the soul within no longer stirring as Tyron pondered the problem.

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

It was possible for him to work on an undead without unmaking it first, and that was the method he would need to use with the more advanced undead. Unlike regular skeletons, creating revenants and wights wasn’t so simple he could stick them on the mass production line and hope for the best.

No, it would be much better to work on them without having to recreate them from scratch. That meant adjusting their bones and weaves one piece at a time. Tyron had over a hundred revenants at this point, so if he had to recreate them bone by bone and joint by joint, they would never be ready in time before the Golden Legion arrived.

Blood and bone… how was he supposed to get this done?