Book of The Dead

“How long until you reach gold rank, Dove?”

The onyx skeletal construct stepped back, drawing his cloak tight about himself.

“That’s a personal fucking question to throw out there, asking a man to measure his level.”

“Spare me your theatrics, Dove. For once.”

“No, the theatrics are too important to me.”

“Fine, go ahead then.”

Dove looked down at the Necromancer seated on the ground before him, nibbling on semi-mouldy bread, cheese and sausage with Filetta sat next to him. Resigned to his fate, Tyron looked like an apprentice preparing to sit through a lecture from his master that he wasn’t particularly planning to listen to.

He crossed his arms.

“Well now I don’t feel like it,” he declared.

“Good,” Tyron said around a mouthful of cheese. “So, your level?”“I only need a few more levels. I’ll get there after we finish here no doubt.”

“That’ll be your first time reaching gold, right?”

“Alright,” Dove said defensively, “no need to rub it in, Mr Platinum over here. Yes, I died before I reached Gold. Thanks for reminding me.”

“Didn’t you die before you reached silver?” Filetta asked innocently.

“No, and fuck you,” Dove said. “I was an honourable Slayer, servant of the people. I fought rift-kin until my fingers bled.”

“You fought something until your fingers bled.”

“Hey! I had enough wealth to pay for whores. Another honourable, public facing profession.”

Tyron sighed as the two continued to bicker, then took another slice of cheese, laid it atop a slice of sausage, and took an appreciative bite. The cheese must have been aged, it had a rich flavour that paired well with the cured meat and spices of the sausage. He almost felt sorry for the merchant whose abandoned wagon Filetta had pilfered. This was quality stuff and probably cost more than a little.

Overhead, the storm of souls continued to swirl, a veritable whirlwind of shrieking and howling undead. In some ways, it was deafening, but the souls technically didn’t make sound, so it was still possible to hold a conversation even here in the heart of it.

Looking up, Tyron continued to chew on his meal before taking a mouthful of clear river water from his mug. It had been half a day since he’d cast the ritual and he’d nearly recovered all of his strength. As expected, the city defenders hadn’t been willing to sally out of the gate and fight him, preferring to wait for what they saw as a certain victory.

Over time, the wailing spirits were absorbing the dense Death Magick he’d provided, soaking it in and gradually transforming into wild spectres. The real trick of the ritual had been ensuring that the ghosts took in the power evenly so they would complete the process at the same time, rather than trickling out in dribs and drabs.

Simple ghosts were amongst the weakest of all undead and would probably fall apart if someone swung a broom through them, so long as it had even the slightest magick attached to it. In small numbers, the defenders would sweep them away with little effort, swatting the ghosts out of the sky before they had a chance to go over the walls.

Hundreds of thousands of ghosts released on the city at the same time? That was a different story.

At Tyron’s side, Filetta watched him as he gazed up at the maelstrom of spirits overhead. She reached out to touch his arm.

“Are you worried about the people in the city?” she asked him.

Tyron blinked as he looked toward her. The people in the city? He realised a moment later what she meant.

“The innocent will pay alongside the guilty,” he acknowledged. “I won’t be able to control the ghosts at all. They will strike whoever they can reach, that’s a fact.”

“Who cares,” Dove shrugged. “This is one person—and his handsome former teacher—against an entire Empire. We don’t exactly have the luxury of doing things the nice way.”

“I’d rather not hurt innocent people if I didn’t have to,” Tyron sighed, then his eyes hardened. “But I will to get my vengeance. I don’t care how many I have to cut through before I reach the Nobles.”

Ultimately, the act of bringing down the Empire, were he to succeed, would kill millions whether he wanted them to die or not. As far as he was aware, the Empire was the final stronghold of humanity in the realm, countless people depended on the structures and stability it provided to survive. If those were removed, there would be a calamity across every province.

Would that stop him from removing it? No. That didn’t mean he was unaware of the consequences.

“Have you given much thought to what comes after?” Filetta asked him softly. “If you succeed… when you succeed, what’s going to happen afterwards? What will you do with the world we live on?”

Even Dove looked taken aback by the question.

“Shit, does he even get a say? I kind of assumed the Old Gods would deal with that, or maybe we get taken over by the blood suckers and they turn the place into a blood farm. A sexy blood farm.”

“Dove, you don’t have any blood.”

“A man can dream.”

Tyron chuckled a little to himself. In truth, he hadn’t thought of it. If he achieved his vengeance in totality, it would be a miracle. If he managed to survive it, or even retain control over his soul, it would be doubly so. Success was all he cared about.

“I don’t believe the Old Gods want control, not like the Divines, at any rate. So long as they believe the realm will persist and not fall prey to magick, then they will allow nature to take its course. That’s the only reason they’ve stirred themselves at last. As for the Scarlet Court…”

He took another bite of sausage as he considered.

“They might want to control us, turn the world into a breeding ground for cattle. From the little I’ve seen of their realm…” he shook his head, “their appetite for blood is insatiable. They need it to survive, it’s their food and wine, but also to fuel their powers. When it comes to Blood Magick, they can never have enough.”

He took another bite and chewed while the others waited, listening carefully and not bickering for a change.

What would he do if he survived the fall of the Empire and the death of its gods? Take a vacation, maybe? There was a lot of magick he would love to spend some time looking at, things other than Necromancy, which he never had time to experiment with.

Ultimately, it didn’t matter.

“I’ll cross that bridge if… when I get to it,” he corrected himself, largely for Filetta’s sake. “For now, I need all of my attention and focus to be here and now, otherwise I won’t have a chance to succeed.”

He looked up.

“Another twelve hours until the ghosts are ready. After that it’ll be time to fight.”

“Looking forward to it,” Dove declared. “I feel an urge to perform some summoning.”

Tyron finished his meal and brushed off his hands on the armour plating over his legs. Before he stood, he picked up his helmet and placed it back on his head, not wanting to give the assassins any easy shots at his head. With the Mantle of the Imperator on his shoulders, he was never truly unprotected, but having some reinforced bone plating over his head still brought a great level of comfort.

“Time to up the bombardment of the city,” he said, shaking out his hands. With Filetta keeping him fed and watered, he was feeling in fairly good condition, even if he hadn’t been sleeping much. “I’ll put down a few ritual circles and operate them myself. Put the pressure on before we strike tomorrow.”

—

Within the city, Artur Greyhame’s jaw clenched as he watched the storm of souls continue to swirl in the distance.

“Still annoyed at the Duke?” Leras asked him as they strode down Spire Way, the main artery that ran from the palace all the way to the front gate of the city. Beside them, the bejewelled spires that adorned the minor palaces of the Noble Houses rose high overhead, casting shade that protected them from the beating sun.

At least in this part of the city, at this time of day, there was still sun to be seen. In the mornings it was entirely concealed behind the dark cloud of the Necromancer’s miasma.

“I’m not annoyed at the Duke,” the General growled, “I’m pissed off at the Duke. There’s a difference.”

Leras stumbled a little but quickly caught himself.

“I’m still not used to your… unusual method of address towards the nobility,” he said. “I could be put to death for speaking that way.”

“So could I, but it hasn’t happened yet,” Artur grunted. “If we’d attacked when I said we should, then this thing could have been over by now.”

“The Dutchess disagreed with you too,” Leras pointed out.

“Yes, but it’s a lot easier to curse out the Duke than the Dutchess.”

“That’s a fact,” Leras agreed softly.

Despite her irreproachable class, the woman was intimidating to be around.

The two men hesitated as they felt a rippling disruption roll through the air around them.

“Fuck,” the General growled. “He’s casting again.”

Without as much as a glance, they took off running, forcing the guards around them to do the same. The people of Mirasmas they ran past turned anxiously to look towards the wall, able to feel the Necromancer’s power just as well as they themselves.

As if the constant screaming of the skulls, or the towering maelstrom of undead souls wasn’t enough for them to deal with.

It was amazing just how quickly the spirits of the people had been brought low by the siege. Artur had fought in cities where the defiant and enduring spirit of the citizens had endured through great hardship for months. In only a matter of days, fear had taken hold of the streets of Mirasmas, and it didn’t look like it would be shaken off any time soon.

The two men ran all the way to the walls, running up the steps as Soldiers leapt out of the way while saluting the General.

“What’s the report?” Artur barked once he reached the top, leaping to the parapet so he could look out over the battlements.

His second in command on the wall, Captain Rork, saluted.

“No fucking idea, General,” he replied sharply. “No changes as far as we can tell as of yet.”

“Damn it, Rork! Get me a Mage who knows what they’re fucking talking about!”

“Magister Silas is right behind you, General!”

“I can barely make out the words being said,” the Magister said, shrugging. “We will have to wait and see what happens. In the meantime, we best prepare our defenses.”

As it turned out, they didn’t have to wait long to discover just what the Necromaner was up to.

Amongst the endless barrage of dark skulls, another bloomed. Rising from amidst the darkness that covered the undead horde came a fearsome cloud of darkness twice the size of the others. It screamed into the air, billowing and trailing sickly black and purple smoke behind it before arcing high overhead and falling toward the city. It was deafening, the unholy wailing enough to rattle the windows of the closest buildings.

Already, defensive spells were rising to counter it, but this version of the spell was much harder to dissipate, requiring the concentrated efforts of multiple towers to break it apart.

Only for another skull to bloom in the distance.

“Well… this is going to be fun,” the General muttered.