Book of The Dead - Chapter B2C7 - Reap the Harvest

Chapter B2C7 – Reap the Harvest

Tyron pushed the fatigue away and worked through the night. He pushed his magick relentlessly, examining bones, checking them for leaks, repairing any damage he could and then trying to work out how the Bone Armour spell worked.

He hadn’t had much time to play with it, just like a few other things he had learned recently. The little he’d been able to understand of what he’d received was that he could use existing bones as a form of protection, but exactly how didn’t quite make sense to him. Was he able to bind them to himself, or to his skeletons? Imagining skeletons wearing bones on top of bones was a strange image.

Would he be able to fuse the bones together into plates of armour? Or perhaps he could attach them to his minions to absorb damage?

Out came his reliable aid, the notebook and quill, and he got to work transcribing his thoughts. Over time he was able to tease out fragments of knowledge he had and begin to piece together a more complete picture. It was absorbing work and he lost himself in the scratch of pen on paper as he wrote down sigils in certain combinations, crossed them out and started over again and again.

After going through this process multiple times he was able to make more rapid progress than in the past. The pieces might be different, but he’d had a lot of experience putting puzzles together lately, some of the strategies were sure to transfer. Every now and again he would take a break and work with the bones, emptying his mind and employing his magick before going back to the book to try again.

Halfway through the night he had a working model, though he laboured on it further, trying to understand it better before he attempted it. There was little chance he could work on improving or adjusting the spell with a single night’s work, but he would do everything he could to tease out as many wrinkles as he could.

“Practice makes perfect”, Beory told him. He’d found her playing flames across her fingers at the kitchen table during one of their stays. He’d been ten years old? Or eleven? She smiled as she watched the fire dance, guiding it with nothing but the force of her will. “It’s foolish to use magick in battle that you haven’t honed to the utmost degree. Even reaching the maximum level isn’t enough, you should be as familiar with it as you are with breathing. The same goes for swordsmanship. Your father practises every day, despite being the best. Why do you think that is?”

Like everything his mother had ever told him, it was good advice. Unfortunately his current circumstances made it all but impossible to follow that wisdom. If he had the time, he would gladly refine his techniques to a razor sharp point before putting himself in harm’s way, but he didn’t have that luxury. If this ability could help keep him alive, then he would use it, regardless of the risk.

In the hours before dawn, he began to doubt himself.

Should he be creating new minions right now? He had the bones available, he could stitch a few together at least, bringing his numbers back to an even ten, but he hesitated. He wanted to see the results of his current tests as his next round of skeletons. Ten complete sets of bones were currently separated and spread through the second floor, gradually building up a concentration of death magick within each other. Once they were ready, he had a feeling they would become the best servants he’d ever made. At the very least, he expected to learn something significant.

But if the thugs returned while he waited, what would he do? He didn’t have enough minions to fight off twenty or more men, even if they had been farmers and labourers before the break. Unable to contain his fears any longer, he pushed his notes aside and began to prepare two fresh skeletons.

Despite his fatigue, the work was familiar, and in a strange way, relaxing. Sense the bones, repair them, prepare them and then move onto the stitching. His hands danced through the air ceaselessly as he wove the intricate patterns necessary to allow his undead to move. Threads of magick connected to the tips of each finger bound and curled around each other as he worked. When the two skeletons were ready he performed the ritual, his focus in hand, the words rumbling from his mouth to change reality as he created a twisted mockery of life.

With the two minions ready, he felt somewhat assured and returned to his work. Ten skeletons was hardly better than eight in fighting the sort of numbers he feared would come, but with this many he may be able to drive them off once more. His support spells were becoming a force multiplier for his undead and he had a decent reservoir of spare energy now, even when maintaining ten skeletons.

Perhaps the bone armour would take up some of that…

A few hours after the sun had risen, he began his first trial of the spell. Arranged on the floor around him were a selection of dozens of bones, most of them the longer variety, shins, femurs, radius and ulna, though a decent number of smaller varieties were mixed in. He blinked his eyes a few times, trying to drive away the grainy feeling before he began to work the spell.

The energy began to flow from his body, into the air, and then to infuse the bones around him. He wasn’t trying to fill them, or bind them together, as he did when creating a minion; instead he was connecting them, to each other, but also to himself. Glowing with the distinct dark aura of death magick, the bones drifted through the air before they began to arrange themselves on Tyron’s body.

When the process was complete, the Necromancer inspected himself with a complicated expression on his face.

Suffused with magick, the bones added a layer of protection, he couldn’t deny that. They formed a strange sort of armour that covered his arms, chest, back and thighs. He wasn’t completely encased in it at least, there were gaps between that would certainly allow an arrow head through if the shooter were accurate enough. Were someone to try and cut him, though, they would need to cut at least one bone before they bit into his flesh.

The spell did what was advertised… it formed a layer of protection formed from bones… which was certainly useful. It was just…

“Do I really want to walk around covered in human bones?” Tyron muttered to himself.

To top it off, he probably looked ridiculous. Actually, should he even be worrying about that? Some of these bones belonged to the men the bandits had impaled, the men whose widows were still here on the farm! What in the name of the divines would they think if they saw him? He almost dismissed the spell on the spot, but decided against it, he at least wanted to get Dove’s opinion on it.

“You look like a fucking idiot.”

“Yes. I was worried about that,” Tyron slumped.

In truth, it shouldn’t matter if he looked stupid so long as the spell helped keep him alive. Even though he knew that…

“Hang on kid, don’t dismiss it just yet. Let me get a better look.”

The eyes of the skull glowed bright with the characteristic dark purple as Dove took a better look at him.

“Truth be told, you look stupid all the time, so I’m not sure the bones have much of an impact on that,” Dove said, “on the plus side, any help surviving is good. It’s not like you have a spare set of armour in your back pocket.”

“My father told me never to use armour I wasn’t trained for,” Tyron said hesitantly, “so I never bothered taking any.”

“Good advice,” Dove grunted, “and the weight can make it harder to cast spells. How are the bones weighing you down?”

“They’re surprisingly light, to be honest.” The Necromancer raised and lowered his arms experimentally. “But how much protection will I really get from this? Bones are nice and all, but I don’t expect them to stop a sword.”

“Don’t underestimate them. For starters, there’s magick involved, so they’ve likely been hardened by the spell. We may also be able to treat or prepare the bones before you use the spell. This is literally the first time you’ve used the technique, so don’t get too down on it.”

The Summoner made some good points and Tyron looked down at himself with new eyes, trying to imagine how effective this new spell could be with more investment.

“How much energy is it taking to maintain it?”

“A fair bit,” Tyron admitted, “not that I don’t have enough, but it feels inefficient.”

Above almost everything else, he had to be efficient with the magick he had available. He needed to have as many minions as possible, and he had to be able to support them to ensure they fought as well as possible. All of it took arcane energy and no matter how much he had, it never seemed like enough. Finding ways to waste less magick took up much of his time when tweaking his spells at the moment and likely would into the future.

“Again, don’t stress too much about that,” Dove advised him, “we can improve it over time, and again, a little protection is better than none. Can you use this on a skeleton as well?”

“Probably, but the cost is too prohibitive for the moment.”

“That might be another avenue to explore in the future. For now you should definitely spend a little time, if you have any to spare, developing this spell. All of this is for nothing if you die.”

Tyron nodded, then hesitated.

“Still… I don’t really feel comfortable wearing human bones… I know it’s useful, but…”

“Kid, it would be a worrying fucking sign if you were suddenly fine walking around with bits of dead people magickally attached to you. It’s creepy and disgusting. Would I do it? No, not in a million years. Not for all the boobs in all the realms. But you? You’re desperate. That tends to limit your choices. It’s not ideal, but I think you’ll have to get used to the idea. With a little luck any morons we run into might decide your love of corpses has driven you insane and flee the moment they catch a glimpse.”

“Unlikely…”

“Anything is possible.”

There came a knock at the door and the two froze for a moment.

“That’s… not their husbands is it?” Dove whispered.

“Yes it bloody is!” Tyron hissed.

“Oh… shit. That’s… I’m going to sleep.”

The light began to fade from the sockets of the skull.

“Dove, don’t you dare!”

“Some things I simply can’t bear to see. This is one of them, good luck.”

Tyron cursed under his breath as the glow faded to nothing. The knock came again and his mind raced to think of a way to avoid this scenario unfolding. Perhaps if he stayed quiet? But what if it was important? Could he afford to…

The decision was made for him when the door handle began to turn.

With no further recourse he leapt forward to grip it from the other side and brace the door with his foot.

“Ah- He- hello,” he stammered. “I… uh… don’t think you should come in right now. I’m… doing magick.”

It was so lame even he had to roll his eyes. Surely he could have come up with something better than that.

“Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt you…”

The voice on the other side of the door was soft and hesitant, one that he didn’t recognise. Someone he hadn’t spoken to, most likely. There was silence for a few moments as Tyron stood, braced against the door to prevent it opening.

“Yes?” he asked, “was there something?”

“Ah. Yes. Annette sent me. I-I was to tell you that one of the boys spotted people… from the south window.”

Her voice trembled with fear as she spoke and Tyron could practically feel her broken thoughts dart away from memories she didn’t want to touch.

“Go and lock your building,” he told her, trying to sound confident, “I’ll take a look and see if they want to talk. Nobody is going to hurt you.”

“Th-thank you.”

The presence stepped away on unsteady feet as Tyron slowly released his grip on the doorknob. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. It was too soon. The skeletons upstairs wouldn’t be ready for hours. He’d gambled they’d be ready in time, and it seemed as if he’d lost. He cursed himself.

Too greedy, you idiot. Always too greedy. Should have played it safe.

At least he’d listened to his instinct enough to raise another two minions. He considered waking Dove, but decided that he didn’t have the time. With a thought he summoned the skeletons to himself as he prepared to step outside. His sword belted to his waist and with a fully armed contingent of skeletons, Tyron opened the door on the outward facing side of the building. Hopefully the widows and children were busy boarding up and locking their building, but he’d rather not be seen by them if he could avoid it. There was no need to traumatise the kids any more than they had been.

He walked around the outside of the farm houses until he reached the southern side. It wasn’t difficult to spot the group approaching; in fact, they made no effort at all to conceal themselves. There were only five of them, which was a relief. If they meant to attack immediately, surely they would have brought everyone.

Or they’ve sent the others around the sides.

Despite being flattened and trampled by the rift-kin, the fields surrounding the farmhouses were filled with places to hide amongst the crops. There could be a thousand men out there and he wouldn’t know it. Tyron frowned and sent five of his minions into the courtyard. Not just to protect the others, but to watch his back. He didn’t want to get surrounded without a path of retreat.

He watched carefully as the five in the distance continued to walk along the road, only to blink repeatedly when they stopped a hundred metres from the buildings. He waited for them to approach further, but they didn’t move. Apparently they wanted him to come to them. He was willing to compromise, to a point. He walked out, his minions in front, until he had covered half the distance between them, then he stopped.

The two sides appraised each other for a time.

Tyron had made no attempt to hide what he was, the skeletons wore no hoods or cloaks, and he could see the unease on the faces of the men as they gazed on his undead. He also noticed they didn’t much like looking at him, either. For a moment he couldn’t realise why, then remembered he was still covered in literal human bones. Dove had been right.

In contrast, the five men before him didn’t seem all that impressive. Humble, dirty clothing covered their sun darkened, labourer frames. Of the four, only the one in front stood out. More confident than the others, he stood with one thumb hooked into the front of his overalls and a hat pulled low over his face.

“Are any of you named Monty, by any chance?” Tyron called out and broke the uneasy silence.

“Aye, that would be me,” the man in front smiled easily, “who might you be, lad?”

Tyron ignored the question, and the slight insult.

“Davon says hello,” he said.

Monty raised a brow.

“He’s alive?”

“No.”

The Necromancer tapped the bones protecting his chest.

“Though, in a way… I feel as if he’s still with me. Do you take my meaning?”

The man grinned before he leaned forward and spat on the ground.

“You’re a piece a work, aren’t ya lad? Walkin’ in front of us, disrespectin’ the remains of our friend.”

Tyron could sense his mistake as the bandit leader spoke. The fear remained in the eyes of the others, but there was anger there now as well.

“Not sure if that’s an insult or a compliment coming from a murdering rapist, Monty.”

“Ah, now that might be fair enough. S’true after all. I’ve broken the law of the land, all the boys ‘ave, and we’ll hang fer it should the marshals get hold of us.”

Blue eyes glittered like ice chips beneath the brim of the hat.

“But that’s something we ‘ave in common, lad. Somethin’ tells me the magick you done with the dead ain’t exactly smiled upon. Seems like we might be in a similar position right now, when it comes to witnesses.”

Tyron nodded slowly. He understood what the scum was driving at. The bandits couldn’t allow the women and children to survive, otherwise they’d be arrested and killed once order returned. They had always planned to kill them, and in their eyes, Tyron intended to do the same. After all, he couldn’t conceal his passage with all of these living witnesses, and what dark magick wielding mage would tolerate that?

The difference between Tyron and the bandits though, was that they could freely speak to the marshals and submit to a status ritual. Unless every single one of them had been stupid enough to accept an illegal sub-class, they would be able to get the law on their side, something he could never do. He grit his teeth. If he were even twenty metres closer, he’d likely take a shot with a magick bolt and try to take the man’s head clean off.

“What do you want, Monty? Speak plainly.” He affected a bored attitude.

The former farmhand spread his palms wide, an affable expression on his face.

“We’d be happy if you jus’ decided to walk away. Leave the womenfolk here and we’ll be makin’ sure they don’t have much to say to the law. In return, we’ll keep our mouths shut. No need to go spookin’ the marshals about the walkin’ dead.”

In other words, move along, let them re-establish their little slice of paradise and they’d kill everyone and promise not to rat him out. It was bullshit of course. They had no reason to keep their word, and would probably just ambush him on the road when he tried to leave anyway. Besides that, Tyron had decided he would stand for something, and this wasn’t it.

“Let me be clear,” he said, his voice cold, “if you want these farms back, if you want those women and children back, then you come and take them. Bring everyone you have, and die like the cowardly human filth that you are. I’ll be delighted to rip the bones from your flesh and send your souls howling into the abyss before I raise you to serve my purpose.”

He leaned forward and spat on the road in front of him before he turned on his heel and strode toward the farms.

“You sure’n that’s what you want?” Monty called at his back. “No need to be dyin’ now!”

He didn’t respond, there wasn’t anything to say. Hopefully they’d give him enough time to prepare his defences. If they waited until nightfall… maybe Yor would like to spend a little time with those gentlemen.