B5 Chapter 80 – Good and Evil

Leering skulls, purple light burning in their hollow sockets and black mist rising from their bones, the skeletons were a fearsome and unnerving sight. Elinon suppressed the urge to physically recoil from their grim visage, his discipline not allowing such a thing.

Blades smoking with dark magick and plates of armour formed of human bones, every skeleton was a unique horror, a twisting of all that was good and right in the world. Conviction, ever unwavering in the hearts of the Golden Legion, was only solidified as they beheld their foes up close for the first time. The Divines had been right to send them here in numbers. This was a clear and present evil that needed to be stamped out, for the sake of the people, the Empire, and the gods themselves.

Their cause was righteous.

For a brief moment, Elinon felt as if he beheld the world in slow motion. The lines drew closer to each other, the booming, reality-distorting voice fell away and even the roar of the sergeants nearby faded to nothing.

Unliving minions pulled their skeletal blades back as the front rank of soldiers braced their shields and lunged forwards.

With a booming impact, the lines smashed against each other, bone against steel, and the world returned to normal once more. Where a moment ago everything had felt still, now it was suddenly frenetic chaos. Men shouted and roared, metal screeched, magick flared to life and bones shattered. Everywhere Elinon looked, the battle had been engaged, disciplined ranks of soldiers clashing against the dead.

Shockingly, the skeletons had not been instantly cut down and the progress of the soldiers had slowed considerably. They still pressed forward, but the skeletons gave ground begrudgingly, somehow holding against the immensely powerful soldiers of the Golden Legion.

Before he could even comprehend the impossibility of such a thing, the Necromancer completed another spell and rolled directly into the next. Despite everything, Elinon couldn’t help but be in awe of the speed and precision of the casts. Despite the madness and heresy that had seized him, Tyron Steelarm was beyond gifted as a mage.

Freezing cold descended on the battlefield, the heat sucked away by a curse that covered a huge swathe of the battlefield.

Elinon and his mages, spread throughout the troops, reacted on instinct, trusting in their training. More magick was funneled into their staves, golden light thickening as it pushed back against the cold that threatened to penetrate and sap strength from the troops under its umbrella.

Despite the neutralising effect of the defensive magick, some of the cold still managed to bleed through, another shock to Elinon. Chill stabbed into his flesh and he could only imagine how debilitating the curse would have been had he been exposed to the full brunt of it. Working his fingers, he ensured his blood flowed and they wouldn’t stiffen up. He needed to be ready.

To the soldiers around him, their physical strength and toughness leagues and leagues higher than his own, he doubted they even noticed the cold.

From out of the darkness a spear of bone shot towards Elinon, and his free hand snapped out sigils at a blinding pace. Spear met shield and shattered on impact, showering the nearby soldiers with shards of bone that bounced harmlessly off their armour.

Still that sonorous voice boomed around them as the Necromancer continued to cast his spell, sending shockwaves rolling through the ambient magick in the air. Whoever had cast that spell, it wasn’t Tyron Steelarm.

“Shields!” the sergeants roared once more, sensing something in the darkness.

More projectiles of bone shot out of the miasma, crashing into shields and breaking against Elinon’s own barrier. It appeared they might be targeting the mages throughout the formation, as far more of the spells homed in on the Mage Captain than on the soldiers around him.

It didn’t matter, his focus wouldn’t waver, and the soldiers around him moved to cover his person, letting him lapse his own shield and preserve his magick. In return, he chanted a spell of his own, free hand forming sigils. Once it was ready, he thrust his palm forward, sending a bar of searing fire over the heads of the soldiers in front of him and into the closest ranks of skeletons.

Each undead reacted with shocking speed, raising their shields and taking a decisive step back, protecting themselves from his spell.

How were the undead so coordinated? It was almost as if they’d known his spell was coming. They shouldn’t be that intelligent… unless the Necromancer was controlling them all directly… but that would be impossible… wouldn’t it?

A moment later, Elinon found the answer. Stepping forward, the Golden Legion pressed on further, driving back the darkness and revealing an armoured undead unlike the others. Ghostly green features glared at the approaching soldiers while a black skull smouldered and smoked within, protected by thick plates of armour that glowed with enchantments.

A wight. This would be the undead commander of the skeletons before them, a soul enslaved to the Necromancer’s will. Elinon almost felt pity for the individual before them, but he couldn’t bring himself to sympathise fully. Surely, if this soul had sufficient faith, then The Five would have claimed them upon death. Clearly, then, only the unworthy could remain for the Necromancer to claim.

It would be regretful to extinguish the spirit of this former citizen of the Empire, but every speck of betrayal and heresy had to be stamped out utterly. No exceptions.

Again the magick boomed, and Elinon couldn’t help but flinch back as another spell was completed by their foe. This close to the epicenter, he simply couldn’t believe a single mage would be capable of such incredible power. At level seventy-nine, Elinon was as powerful as an individual in the Empire could be. Tyron Steelarm must only be a few levels higher, but it seemed unfathomable that those levels could create such a difference.

Every time the Necromancer cast a spell, reality itself quaked under the force of his will. Had they been anywhere else, Elinon might have thought he had stepped into the broken lands, such was the strength of the distortions he felt around him.

Ghostly shields flickered to life around the front ranks of skeletons as if they had been formed out of the spirits of the dead themselves. Covered in a magickal shield of its own, the wight strode forward, undead parting before it without looking as they responded to the silent commands of the trapped soul.

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Right in front of Elinon, the wight engaged the front rank of soldiers, great sweeps of its blade trailing wisps of Death Magick through the air with every stroke. Undaunted, the soldiers of the Golden Legion defended themselves, parrying and blocking before striking back hard. Every strike of their blades was strong enough to split rock and too fast to be seen, leaving nothing but a blurring afterimage in their wake. These were the Empire’s finest, with unparalleled swordsmanship and physical capabilities, no regular human could stand before them.

Yet, the wight responded with incredible speed and grace. Despite its lack of a shield, it parried and deflected the blows that rained down on it, catching several on the thick armour on its forearms.

Elinon frowned—those were imperial sword techniques, he could recognise them after his years of service. Such methods were only taught to noble children and members of the Golden Legion itself. A shiver ran down the Mage Captain’s spine as he considered that the tortured soul before them might belong to a fallen noble of the western province.

If so, who?

He shook his head, it didn’t matter! They were naught but a lost soul now, and needed to be vanquished.

For a single instant, the air froze around Elinon, and he froze along with it.