Chapter B4C66 - Break
Tyron allowed his wights to coordinate the charge as he moved away from the arch before de-summoning it. The wide road before the tower gate would soon be filled with his enemies, and if they got inside the ossuary, who knew what they might do?
The arch faded from existence, taking the door with it, and Tyron turned to stride back toward the battle. Archers continued to exchange fire overhead, arrows forged from bone or wood seeking out the vulnerable and unaware. Few managed to land a meaningful shot, but it added to the general chaos, which gave Tyron a greater advantage. Unlike the living beings they were fighting, the skeletons didn’t feel fear and had no instincts of self-preservation. When arrows shattered on the cobblestones around their feet, they didn’t flinch, second-guess or waver in their resolve.
The same wasn’t true for the other side.
Once the fear took hold, he knew he would have won, his undead would trample the wavering spirits of the living beneath their heels. All he needed was to shock his opponents into giving him an opening.
Once more he raised his hands and began to fling spells into the melee, waiting for the right moment to strike.
The frontline of the battle was chaos, shields crashing on shields, blades rising and falling, the press of bodies so dense it was difficult to tell one form from another. The humans roared battle cries, shouted crisp, disciplined orders and fought with controlled fury, holding the line against the unending tide of grinning skeletons who came at them time and time again. The undead were silent, unfeeling and untiring. Skeletons up and down the lines continued to fight with cracked skulls that leaked magick or missing arms.
And they were strong. When their opponents expected them to be light and weak, they dug in and pushed back with strength that belied their light frames.
Then there were the wights and revenants. Human spirits, severed from mortality, they fought like demons, unfeeling and unrelenting, they stalked up and down the line, crashing to the front whenever they saw an opening, fighting with a calculated, disciplined style that the regular skeletons lacked. Whenever the undead line buckled, they were there, enchanted bone armour granting them incredible resilience as they battered back the Soldiers and stabilised the fight.
When he judged the time was right, Tyron moved closer to the front and prepared to cast. Field of Death was still providing him small bursts of vital energy, though it wasn’t enough to defeat his enemies. The damage caused was slight, and their opponents appeared to have enough divine healing to offset the damage it caused. Yet Tyron maintained it. The healing was meaningful enough, and it was yet another thing that his enemy had to contend with.