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B5 Chapter 57 - Deep Waters
🕑 Added 2025-08-31 00:06:07 +0000 UTCThe moment the battle started, Tyron knew he was out of his depth. While he might be considered powerful in his home realm, with an army of undead at his command and a great talent for magick, in this place, he was nothing.
He raised his hands and began to cast, words of power thundering out of his mouth as he began to shape reality to his will. His ghostly opponent did the same.
Although the spirit wasn’t able to match his own fluency, or the force with which his words enforced themself onto the universe, it was certainly the most powerful and competent mage he had seen since his mother had died.
Judging by the sheer amount of magick behind the spell being crafted by his foe, the ghost was certainly a higher level than he was too.
The full might of Tyron’s horde leapt into action. His skeletons formed a solid defensive line, his mages and archers began to coordinate their fire. With no more need to hide, the wights and revenants raced to disperse themselves amongst the ranks, those capable of magick already forming barriers and countermeasures.
Thrusting his hands forward, Tyron unleashed his first spell, then turned and leapt directly onto his platform construct, which had scuttled up behind him. As soon as he found his balance, he snatched his staff from the waiting hand of a nearby skeleton and anchored it in the groove prepared for that purpose.
Grit and sand erupted into the air as a row of bone pillars burst out of the ground, a line two hundred metres long that covered the entire front of Tyron’s force. His hands flashed straight into the next spell, his word flowing from his tongue asand he cast once more.
The Grand Undead Imperator ritual would have been much more difficult to cast if he hadn’t already engraved the ritual circle onto his platform. As it rose up to its full height, allowing him to see over the defensive wall he’d created, he was already deep into the spell.
Though he was fast, his opponent hadn't wasted time either. The ghost raised a hand and Tyron felt its power surge.
A moment later, as though a dam had burst, a tide of grasping spirits erupted from in front of the ghost, a wave of screeching and screaming dead, barely visible to the naked eye. Like a wind of death, they crashed into his bone pillars, which immediately began to crumble, as if the magick that sustained them was being sucked away.
Without ceasing his hands or voice, he ordered his mages forward. As the pillars fell, no longer able to hold themselves up, his minions erected a barrier before the front rank of his skeletons. The ghostly tide washed against it, pressure built, then shattered as the barrier gave way.
The front two rows of his minions were engulfed before the spell abated, the skeletons crumbling to dust under the weight of the magick. If he hadn’t erected that wall of pillars, he would have lost five or six ranks, literally hundreds of skeletons, to a single spell.
What sort of magick was that?
His enemy was making their move, the powerful- looking creatures who had descended along with the ghost were advancing together in a tight formation. He didn’t have long before the two sides clashed.
Throwing his hands down, power flooded into the ritual circle, bringing the spell to life. As power infused all of his horde, Tyron moved seamlessly to the next spell.
Though fatigue still clawed at him, dragging on his limbs and infecting his flesh, his mind felt sharp, the fog blown away by the real and present danger to his mission. He wouldn’t fall here. He couldn’t fail to achieve his vengeance.
He refused.
He knew his skeletons would be outclassed, so he pushed out two spells as quickly as he could.
Blessing of Bone to make them more agile.
Cursed Miasma to blanket the field of battle.
He didn’t know if the latter would have any effect on the strange homunculi and spirits of the foe, but it didn’t hurt to try. The Shivering Curse and Field of Death were unlikely to have any effect, so instead of more support magick he moved directly to offence. His hands danced, flicking from one sigil to the next so quickly his digits blurred as he formed a mass of bone lances, preparing to rain them down from above.
The horde was fully engaged now. Death Bolts and other offensive spells flew towards the advancing enemy, along with hundreds of arrows, some of which stabbed deep into the greyed flesh of their targets, seemingly without effect.
At all times, Tyron kept watch, waiting for the next sign of the crowned ghost, but the spirit wasn’t showing himself, apparently content to wait.
With a flick of his wrist, he activated the spell and watched as dozens of bone lances materialised overhead, streaking toward his target in a flurry of spectral bone. Despite the power he packed into the spell, it seemed to have little effect.
The front rank of the enemy was formed of a dozen of brutish, stitched beasts, no two made from the same components. Their deadened flesh was like wood. The lances thunked into them, some penetrating so deep they stuck, hanging in the air before they began to dissipate. The undead things made no sound, didn’t even seem to notice, though he was certain they were being damaged. Everything he knew about Necromancy said that any damage to their flesh would inhibit their ability to move and fight.
When they were close enough, he raised his hands and conjured more pillars. As the hulking undead reached out to smash them, he shattered them all, shending shards of bone to rend their bodies.
It didn’t slow them down.
Inexorable as a felled tree, they walked forward, picking up speed as they drew closer to the skeletal lines. Behind the front rank of brutes, the rest of the attacking undead stalked, more fleshformed creatures, with bone spikes protruding from their bodies and eerie, skull-like faces. In their hands or shoved into the ends of their limbs they bore blades of perfect black with shimmering edges that rippled like flame.
There was soul-work there, he was sure of it.
He did not want to feel what it was like for those blades to bite into his skin. Perhaps they would damage his soul as easily as they did his body. Should he call his revenants back?
The thought faded away as he began to cast another barrage of Bone Lances.
Just before he completed the spell, his opponent struck. Tyron sensed it before he saw it, a stream of spectral green energy that burned through the air, coming from his left. The crowned spirit had drifted away from the rest of his force, invisible to the eye, waiting to strike, confident that Tyron would not be able to hurt him back.
An assumption that was perfectly correct. Rather than defend himself, Tyron continued his cast as three demi-lich stepped forward, staves of black bone raised in their hands.
The barrier formed almost instantaneously, snapping to place and strengthening with each passing moment as the former magisters poured their power into it. Led by Grand Magister Tommat, they used the powers they had learned in life to defend the man who killed them.
Spell and barrier clashed with a shower of green sparks that flared dozens of metres into the air, a blinding, soundless conflagration that stabbed into Tyron’s eyes and sent pains echoing in his spirit. Soul Magick, he was sure of it.
He finished his cast, the lances once again raining down against the frontline of creatures, who endured the strikes as they had before. The reserve of energy held within his demi-lich servants drained away rapidly as they emptied the arcane marrow within their hollow bones, reinforcing the barrier.
When the light finally faded. The barrier had held, but it was much closer than he had anticipated. Brows raised, he turned toward the vengeful ghost in the distance, who radiated malice and fury so thick it hung around him as mist.
“I’d love to know that spell,” Tyron murmured to himself.
He didn’t have time to deal with the spirit. A moment later, the front lines clashed.
Tyron winced as his skeletons were forced to give way immediately.
Against the sheer mass of the charging brutes, his much smaller minions had no chance of holding the line, so the wights commanding them had wisely chosen to back up. Spells and arrows peppered the attackers, who clearly didn’t feel any pain. Skeletons with shields and spears stepped forward, bolstered by revenants and wights, to try and stop the implacable advance of the stitched beasts, but it was only when Tyron’s skeletal giants joined the fray that they were finally able to stop them in their tracks.
With their massive bone-swords, the giants hacked into their opponents, the blades biting into the homunculi like an axe into hardwood.
Tyron’s hands continued to dance as he worked on more spells. A bone spear spiked upward out of the ground, piercing one of the more agile creatures bringing up the rear, yet even this didn’t seem to deal fatal damage.
Just how durable were these things?
He knew his minions were outmatched, but he hadn’t expected the difference to be so vast. Tyron’s skeletons were as strong as he knew how to make them, but they were not that hard to kill. They relied on their sturdy shields, being light on their feet and the hardness of their modified skeletons to survive, yet compared to these creatures of dead flesh they were flimsy.
Gritting his teeth, the Necromancer commanded his cavalry to charge.
Already in position on the flank, the skeletal horsemen advanced in unison, the riders working in silent partnership with their mounts. He hadn’t wanted to commit them this early, hoping to hold them back until it was absolutely necessary. Each one of them represented a significant investment of resources and he hated to lose them, but it seemed as if he didn’t have a choice.
It was early in the fight and already Tyron could tell his undead would be overrun if he didn’t commit everything he had.
He conjured pillars to disrupt the enemy formation, spears stabbed upward out of the ground, lances rained down from above. He sent Death’s Fist after Death’s Fist out, the hands grasping hold of the foes and squeezing them, holding them in place for his minions to strike, his hands never stopped moving as he poured out his magick to try and preserve as much of his horde as he could.
The cavalry charged home, slamming into the right side of the enemy formation. Heavily armed and armoured, they had the mass and power to damage their opponents and at first they made solid inroads, cutting into the enemy and pushing them aside. Yet soon they were bogged down, unable to continue driving forwards.
Aware they would soon be surrounded, their wight leader acted swiftly, cutting their way free and pulling back, preparing for another charge.
Senses sharp, Tyron felt the ghost reappear, another spell prepared.
The ghostly tide erupted once more and the Necromancer grimaced. Hands straining, he double cast, tongue tripping over itself as he worked overtime to ensure he prevented devastating damage to his horde.
Another wall formed of pillars burst out of the ground, followed by a second right behind, yet he wasn’t done. Tyron continued, pushing himself to the limit as his fingers flashed through one sigil to the next.
A third wall, then a fourth.
He was investing so much more power than his opponent, but he didn’t have a choice, if he allowed that spell to wash over his undead, he would lose a third of his minions in one fell swoop.
As he’d hoped, the mass of pillars defrayed the attack, sapping it of its strength as it ate through the walls one by one. When the wave of wailing spirits finally dissipated, only the fourth wall remained, barely.
Confident he had a moment of time, Tyron began to draw out the power hidden in his shadow, gathering it into a giant mass before he allowed it to burst outward and sweep over his minions, who greedily sucked it in, strengthening themselves.
Working quickly, he opened the Ossuary vent and allowed the magick within to pour out, letting it be drawn in and replenish what his shadow had lost.
After a moment, he realised he needn’t have bothered. The death magick here was so rich, there was effectively an unlimited supply.
For the next few minutes, Tyron held on as best he could. Allowing the fight to reach a standstill, he committed every drop of power his minions had within them as the gate behind them continued to power up. It wouldn’t be long now until it activated, all he had to do was last long enough and then make his escape.
As he furiously worked to cast magick and preserve his undead, he kept an eye on the darkness above at all times.
He could tell the crowned ghost was as well. His opponent was distracted, wary, spending just as much time guarding against something that wasn’t there as he did attacking Tyron and his minions.
After hundreds of skeletons had fallen, smashed under the might of the homunculi, finally, finally there was a sign.
A light bloomed above, and Tyron felt the tightness in his chest grow that little bit stronger.
Visibly furious, the ghost reacted instantly, pulling back his minions and allowing the front lines to separate. A reprieve of sorts for both sides. Tyron took a moment to shake out his hands and stretch the digits one by one. His mouth felt like it had gone numb, but he had no water to refresh himself with.
A second sphere of power began to descend and Tyron desperately hoped this wouldn’t turn out to be the greatest mistake of his life.
Comments
Suastes Jiménez Miguel Angel
Let's just hope that Tyron is right and the Lords of Death hate each other more than they would hate a living human being in their realm.
CentaureHeart
It would be cool, but I think at this point it's much more likely that the mechanics behing Mysteries is discovery. At least it feels that way to me. It's not a system Achievement that rewards the characters with a bonus. It's not acknowledgement but incentive to discover more. At least that's my point of view, otherwise I think Tyron should have received a Mystery for his inhuman lack of sleep already.
Nathan Patrick
Kind of hoping that whenever Tyron gets out of the Realm of the Dead, he gets a Mystery for his travels. Outside of using rifts he has been to...(I have accidentally posted this twice at this point, my apologies) His home realm, the void, the scarlet realm, the dark forest, and now the realm of death? The Unseen better acknowledge all his flyer miles!!!
Greyg
He was jealous of that soul spell too needing multiple casts of bone walls just to weaken it
Kris Piskorski
Awesome battle, it's nice to see a proper wizard duel by proxy at this level
