Book of The Dead

Chapter B4C72 - What Lies Within

Breaking through the door took too much time, and that was only the first step. Tyron worked as quickly as he could, one handed, draining the enchantments of their power, sensing the flow of power to avoid triggering any traps. All the while, his undead continued to hunt through the Red Tower and fortify the upper levels.

“They’re trying to find a way in,” Filetta reported to him.

Sweat dripped down Tyron’s forehead, but he didn’t notice, too focused on feeling out the tiny slivers of arcane energy on the other side of the door.

“Who is?” he replied softly.

“If I knew that, I’d tell you. There was only one before, but we haven’t seen them for a bit. Now there’s more of them. Gold Rank, we think. So far, they haven’t made it in, but it’s only a matter of time.”

“Keep them out as long as you can,” Tyron murmured, eyes still closed.

The fingers of his left hand continued to pulse in a steady rhythm, unfaltering as time ticked by, threads of magick pulled tight around his own heart. He straightened, pulled his head away from the door and nodded to himself.

Reaching forth with his free hand, he grasped the door handle and turned it, pushing it open in one smooth motion. Then he waited, head cocked to the side.

Nothing happened. No explosion, no crackling lightning, no flash of magick.

“So we’re in?” Filetta asked, sounding surprised. “Just like that?”

Tyron gave her an incredulous look, drew a spare pliance from his toolkit and tossed it down the corridor. Before it was more than a foot past the door, sizzling beams of red light from four separate points on the wall launched out and melted the implement to slag.

“Ah,” the wight said. “I guess I stand corrected.”

“Sadly, none of the Magisters I’ve been able to scrape for information knew anything about the defences in here. A completely separate grid from the rest of the structure.”

“We’ve killed every mage in this stupid tower,” Filetta stated. “Surely, one of them knows how to deactivate all of this.”

“They probably do,” Tyron agreed as he stepped into the doorway, careful not to extend any of his limbs too far forward. The four points on the wall from which the beams had emitted were seamlessly blended into the stonework. If he hadn’t seen them for himself, he never would have been able to pick out their locations. “It would take too long to get reliable information out of them. Doing it myself is probably the fastest and safest way.”

“Well, you better get to it,” she warned him. “Things are starting to heat up outside, and this army doesn’t fight nearly as well without you.”

Tyron grunted as he closed his eyes and began to extend his senses once more. Filetta watched him start to work, but as far as she could tell, all he was doing was slowly waving his hand in the air and frowning a lot. She turned and checked on his guards. There were two wights nearby, the former Soldier, Janus, and a mage whose name she didn’t remember.

“Do your job well, Janus. Something doesn’t feel right.”

“It’s not like I have a choice,” the undead grunted.

Oblivious to them, Tyron continued to work as quickly and safely as he could. He might not have known exactly what enchantments the Magisters had used in this section of the tower, but he did know the general patterns they favoured. Fortunately, they turned out to be as unimaginative and consistent as he had hoped.

For the next few hours, he continued to break them one by one, advancing steadily into the corridor while Filetta or Laurel came to report to him about various skirmishes happening around the tower. Apparently someone had broken in. Now they weren’t sure. Now there was a small group of slayers attacking the door.

By the time he reached the other end of the short corridor, it was clear he was running out of time.

The final enchantment faded to nothing, and Tyron breathed a short sigh of relief. There wasn’t any time to celebrate, so he quickly pushed the palm of his hand into the door and tried to sense beyond it. After coming so far, he didn’t want to be caught with his pants down at the last possible moment.

After a few seconds, he frowned. After a few more, he opened his eyes again, staring hard at the wooden grain of the door.

“Anti-magick field?” he muttered to himself.

He couldn’t sense anything from the other side, no wisp of power at all. Either the space was cleansed of every trace of arcane energy, which was unlikely given where they were, or there was a field destroying any magick that entered it.

The Necromancer stepped back and summoned his undead to his side.

“Something wrong?” Janus asked brusquely.

Tyron assessed the former Soldier. Becoming a wight hadn’t been something the man had welcomed with open arms, but Tyron had pushed him to it. A servant this capable mustn’t be wasted. Still, he hoped the protections he had woven into him would hold. Janus had no love for his new master.

“I’ve broken through the protections, but there’s an anti-magick field on the other side of the door. Lead your undead through first and I’ll follow behind.”

“You think there might be a trap?”

“At this point, I’d be shocked if there wasn’t one.”

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Janus paused for a moment.

“I’m no mage,” the wight said, “but won’t an anti-magick field destroy us? This… body… is only held together by your magick after all.”

Tyron shook his head.

“It will start to break you down, but the process will be slow. If you were elementals or astral beings, then it would be much worse. Your mundane components give you a measure of protection.”

“Our bones, you mean.”

There was no need for Janus to issue a verbal order. He simply brought up his shield, tightened his grip on his sword and took position in the centre of the corridor, the other undead forming up around him.

Moving as one, they advanced toward the door. When the Soldier reached it, he leaned back and crashed his bone-armoured foot into the wood, splintering it. Another kick, and it flew off its hinges, crashing backwards into the room beyond.

In fact, it wasn’t a room, but another corridor, this one circular, running around the central pillar of the tower, doors set into the far wall. There were rooms and offices here, where the most secretive and private work of the Magisters was done, but one of them would be the vault in which the curses were held.

Tyron turned his head for a moment as he felt the draw on his power increase. His minions were fighting at several points around the tower, heavy fighting, judging by the amount of energy being consumed. His wights were engaged, which meant high level opponents. Each moment that passed, the fighting was spreading higher up. At least one assailant was rocketing up the stairs. He had to move fast.

Move, he commanded his minions, and they moved, pushing forward into the central corridor, Tyron coming up behind them. He hesitated for a moment on the edge of the field, then issued more orders before finally stepping forward.

Fields like this were difficult to establish, and maintaining one would be a massive drain on resources. Clearly, the Magisters were keen on protecting this space, which made sense, but why were there no guards here? In a place like this, mundane defenders like Soldiers and Guards were ten times as effective. Had they been pulled out when he stormed the tower and died fighting below?

It was possible.

Tyron reached out a hand, and his attendant skeleton passed him his staff once again. He eyed the nearby doors. None of these would have the vault behind them; that was at the end of the corridor to his left.

It was uncomfortable being inside this damned field. He hoped it wasn’t too large.

“Let’s move quickly,” he told his wights, and they started to walk, heading toward the vault that would break the entire province over his knee.

The doors smashed open so quickly Tyron barely had a moment to blink before the Soldiers were charging. One moment they were alone in the corridor, the next it was filled with shouting and the sound of ringing steel.

He whirled around, snarling as more men emerged from the rooms behind him. There were dozens of them!

His skeletons reacted with the cold and implacable bearing that was their nature. Without fear, shock or surprise, they raised their shields and gripped their blades, forming a defensive wall that absorbed the charge, wobbled, but didn’t break.

There were a number of revenants present, along with his two wights, but against a team of soldiers, it wouldn’t be enough to hold for long. Reinforcements were already coming; he could sense his undead storming through the building, no longer at the doors, stairways or windows as they rushed to their master's aid.

Tyron gripped his staff tighter as he glared hatefully. He would have to break this anti-magick field. Without it, he could empower his minions, and the living would quickly fall before them. It would burn through a huge chunk of power, but what choice did he have? He couldn’t afford to die here. He refused!

“Tyron Steelarm!”

A voice filled with unfathomable venom barked his name, and Tyron turned to see a vaguely familiar man in ornate armour striding towards him. More than his bearing, more than the arrogance in his face, the armour told the tale of who this was: a noble. Who else could afford to wear something so heavily enchanted, so elaborately made?

“Do I know you?” Tyron asked as he brought his staff up, then sharply down.

The moment it touched the ground, he began to channel his power through it. This wasn’t a spell, except in the crudest possible sense. Anti-magick fields were, oddly enough, made of magick themselves. Just like any other spell, they could be drained of their power, though it was difficult to do so. To destroy this field, he would have to flood it with double the amount of arcane energy that had been used to make it. If multiple mages had poured their power into it, he may run out of power before he got anywhere close to dispelling it.

The noble’s twisted expression didn’t change as he continued to stride forward, swinging his blade from left to right, his eyes fixated on the Necromancer.

“You know my family,” the man spat. “You know my brother.”

The family resemblance clicked into place.

“Jorlin?” Tyron stated, outwardly calm as he summoned up more of his power and funnelled it through the staff. “Yes, I see the resemblance. I recognise that flesh. I butchered enough of it, after all.”

If it were possible, the armoured noble’s face twisted even further, turning a deep red with the force of his rage. He opened his mouth to curse or roar something, but another voice cut him off before he could utter a syllable.

“He’s trying to break the field,” a woman said, emerging from a nearby room behind the noble. “There’s a massive amount of power being destroyed right now.”

Dressed in purple robes, with the hood pulled low over her eyes and the gold-stitched emblem of their order in plain view, Tyron knew exactly what this woman was.n/ô/vel/b//in dot c//om

“Is the field holding?” the noble demanded.

“Of course,” she smirked, staring at Tyron. “I can hold it easily.”

He doubted that very much. Thankfully, the noble looked convinced, turning back to Tyron with an ugly smile on his face.

“Nostas Jorlin,” Tyron said, as if he’d just remembered the name. “Head of the House.”

Notas froze for a moment, and Tyron seized the chance to continue speaking as he continued to squeeze out every drop of power he could muster.

“I believe your brother was… Herath? Yes, Herath Jorlin. I remember him well.”

“You will die a slow, agonising death for what you did to my family,” Nostas grated. “I could kill you with a word, but I won’t. You don’t get to go that easy. I’ll have your skin turned into a lampshade and hang it from the ceiling over your cell. You will spend a thousand days begging for death; only then will I have your tongue cut out.”

The noble’s whole frame trembled with the force of his rage. Tyron watched him coldly. All around him, his skeletons were being pressed, and he’d been forced to retreat against the wall as his minions fought on his behalf.

“You may not have that much time,” Tyron called. “Herath is on his way, after all. If you take too long, we will see a touching family reunion here in the tower.”

“Don’t let him bait you,” warned the female mage-hunter. “He won’t be able to hold out for long.”

Tyron gritted his teeth as, unfortunately, it seemed like she might be speaking honestly. He had an ocean of power at his command, but unless it was double what she had, it wouldn’t be enough.

He began to burn his vitality again, converting it to magick as he forced all of the energy out of his staff and into the field.

The anti-mage twitched.

“He has too much power,” she warned. “I won’t be able to hold for much longer. Get him!”

“My pleasure,” Nostas growled.

At that moment, another figure came hurtling through the corridor, bellowing in rage, and all hell broke loose.