Book of The Dead

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?

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

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.” Tʜe source of this ᴄontent ɪs novel⟡fire.net

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.

Many of the remains had been burned beyond saving, but they’d drained his power nonetheless, as the spell wasn’t selective. There were thousands of skeletons in that pit, but Tyron would be lucky if he managed to recover half of them. To make matters worse, the skeletons were all intermingled, rather than neatly separated. Right now, he had all of his demi-liches picking through the pit, trying to piece skeletons together.

The graveyard would be a more profitable site for materials, but it could be visited later.

Despite the newfound fatigue he felt, Tyron burned to be up and moving from this chair. There was so much to be done his head spun just thinking about it. Even if it weren’t for the urgency of the tasks at hand, the new magick he was experimenting with teased and taunted at his thoughts constantly. After working on multiple avenues of discovery at once, sitting still inside his own head felt almost uncomfortably dull.

“Are you sure the Golden Legion will come through this town?” Filetta asked, not for the first time. “The mountain range stretches for thousands of kilometres north to south, and they could cross anywhere, according to you.”

She tsked, an oddly human sound coming from a creature without a physical tongue.

“Life was so much simpler living as a thief. If a fight was too dangerous, we just avoided it.”

Tyron blinked. Before he could open his mouth, Filetta cut him off.

“Mistakes were made,” she snapped. “Must you always point it out?”

When she put it like that… he probably didn’t have to.

“Following the river west makes the most sense. I know the Golden Legion doesn't need roads to move quickly, but the only well-maintained road runs alongside the river and straight into Foxbridge. But that might not be enough. I’ve already sent my ghosts to spread out and cover as wide an area as possible. If they pass within a hundred kilometres of here, I’ll know.”

He shrugged.

“But even that might not be enough. I have a few other ways of making sure they are drawn here. If we advertise our position, there’s no reason for the Golden Legion to avoid us. They are coming to kill me, after all.”

And the rest of the survivors. That much went without saying.

The Necromancer sighed and took a long drink from the cup he had fashioned for himself. Made of bone, obviously, it was needlessly macabre, but he didn’t have the skills to make one from a more suitable material. Water drawn directly from the Fox river hadn’t tasted this fresh in his memory, but then it was filled with… questionable things once it passed through the town. With nobody living here anymore, the river was as pure as it was in the mountains from whence it came.

“Alright, I’m feeling well enough,” he said and pushed himself to his feet.

Filetta was by his side in an instant.

“Are you sure? You look awful.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“You know what I mean.”

“You’re being awfully protective of the person who–”

“Really? Again?” she glared at him.

Tyron held up his hands.

“Alright, alright. I’m well enough to start working. There’s a lot to be done.”

Right now most of his demi-liches were putting skeletons together, which meant he had to do the bulk of the work himself. That was fine. He needed all the materials he could get his hands on. The ashflame skeletons were performing beyond his expectations, but he needed to outnumber the Golden Legion by three to one at minimum. Ideally, he would like to outnumber them by ten to one or better, but he just didn’t have the time.

In the former market square, close to the docks, Tyron raised the entrance to the Ossuary. In the middle of the skeletal arch, the door swung open to begin flooding the square with Death Magick. From within, more of his minions emerged. Commanding them mentally, he had them begin to clear the square. He would need space to work, and there was so much to do!

For starters, he had the skeletons begin to lay out the bones they had collected on the way, taking them from the carts, arranging them on the ground while others cleared room. As soon as he had more of his demi-liches available, he would turn this place into a skeleton foundry, upgrading his remaining minions and producing new ones as quickly as possible.

He’d continued his work while travelling, and he had many ideas on how to improve the weave he’d been using. He’d been theorycrafting some interesting concepts of utilising the two separate types of thread he could now produce, a combined weave that would utilise the power and strength of the new, whilst retaining the flexibility of the old. If he was right, this technique could help mitigate some of the limitations the new thread was placing on his designs.

And the bones! The bones were so durable, with dense magick formed into an inner structure to support it, but he was sure he could push it even further. I would take careful experimentation, but he felt confident he could push this new method harder, make something even better. Perhaps other forms of magick could be included into the design? No… better to keep his tests simple to begin with.

Mind already racing, Tyron began to ponder the dozen different mysteries he needed to unravel, even as he conducted his horde. Preparations would be swift indeed.