Chapter B2C52 - Desperate Fight
As many as thirty rift-kin rampaged down the mountain, right on the heel-bones of Tyron’s skeleton, directly into the faces of the slayers. Tyron had just enough time to see the expressions on their faces before he slipped away behind the trees.
Laurel, Rufus, and the archer he’d let go. So she’d come back for his head after all. Once again, Tyron could only lament what his mercy had bought him. He hadn’t been wrong, yet time and time again, doing the right thing didn’t yield any reward.
A moment later, he lost contact with the skeleton as it was presumably cut in half by an irate Rufus. A worthy sacrifice. The rift-kin descended on the slayers a moment later, buying him precious time.
“What now, kid?” Dove asked from his belt.
“I need to find out how many there are, look for opportunities, and move closer to the rift.”
“Good thinking.”
If he was smart, the kin would add just enough chaos to keep him alive. If he was stupid, then he’d die caught between raging monsters and slayers.
Once again, he turned up the slope and began to ascend. It was tempting to leave behind a few archers to take pot-shots at his once-friends, but he wanted to keep his forces together as much as possible. If another slayer emerged, a small group of skeletons would be annihilated in seconds.
The sound of battle rang out behind him and Tyron grinned. That should pin them down and tire them out some. Perhaps it would even drag a few more out into the light….
Once he’d gained another fifty metres, he pressed himself against a tree and checked on the fight through a ghost.
A whirling melee was revealed, the details hazy, but the frenetic energy clear to see. Crucially, he could see that his gambit had indeed pulled at least another two slayers out of cover to fight against the kin. He was up against at least five, but he couldn’t think that was all of them.
Coming back to himself, he pushed off the trunk and continued to move upward as he brought the rest of his ghosts towards him. Once they’d gotten close enough, he spread them out in his wake. With a little luck, they’d be able to spot anyone coming up the mountain behind him.
Wary of being caught out again, he tried to keep a number of his skeletons in front, hoping they’d spot another ambusher. To be fair, if another of his attackers decided to reveal themselves and not attack him, they’d be doing him a favour.
Despite his overwhelming fatigue, he made good time. His body must have become adjusted to being flooded with adrenaline. Any more excitement and it might become his natural state. Perhaps only his extreme constitution allowed him to endure it as well as he did.
Mouth set in determination, he kept his legs moving, forced the strength through his knees and climbed. Not for the first time, he thanked himself for the wisdom of taking his best set of boots with him when setting out from home.
“Keep your eyes open, kid. They could come at you from anywhere. Even up in the trees. And don’t think they’ll all be archers or swordsmen. Those are common classes, but aren’t all of them.”
Dove murmured his advice, trying to keep any noise down, and Tyron did the same as he replied.
“Luckily, they’ve all been low levelled, so far. The three we saw before were all newly awakened.”
“I have no fucking idea why they sent a bunch of children to hunt you down, but let’s just be grateful for it.”
“Well, they also sent Magnin and Beory….”
“That’s true. I’m guessing they don’t give a shit how many of these kids you kill, seeing as you’ll end up dead by your parents’ hands no matter what.”
“That’s a little grim to think about.”
“It is what it is. Look on the bright side, they’re feeding you prime materials. If you can win this fight, you’ll have some amazing revenants to work with.”
“That’s also grim to think about. You don’t care that I’m killing slayers?”
“These aren’t slayers,” and for the first time, disgust could be heard in the skeleton’s tone. “These are bounty hunters, kid. After the kin were cleared up, they should have fucked off back to the academies and gotten back to training, drinking and screwing. They came out here to do the Magisters’ bidding for a paycheck. Fuck ‘em.”
“I think at least one of them came just because he hates my guts.”
“Why, what the fuck did you do?”
Tyron thought for a moment.
“I was born a Steelarm and he wasn’t.”
“... I suppose that’s enough for some people. Stupid people.”
Townsfolk in Foxbridge had been far too scared of his parents to ever be negative towards him, and that was something he’d known well. Isolating himself in his uncle’s attic hadn’t been his first choice, but it turned out to be the one which gave him the most peace. How many others had harboured anger and hate inside, like Rufus had?
A pulse within his mind alerted Tyron that one of his ghosts had seen something. He crouched down and looked through its eyes for a moment. Three more, creeping up the slope behind him. It wasn’t possible to make out much detail, but all three were armed in some fashion.
“Three more are coming.”
“Fucking hell. What’s the plan?”
“Fight.”
“Alright then. Fuck ‘em up.”
There wasn’t much time before they would catch up with him, so he couldn’t plan anything elaborate. His undead responded to his thoughts, shifting positions to hide themselves or create better angles. If all three of these were newly awakened, he’d probably be alright. Probably.
Time pressed down on him. These three would need to be dealt with quickly, before Rufus and the others were finished with the rift-kin. Another layer of difficulty for him to press through.
Concealed behind an outcropping of stone, Tyron tried to steady his breath as he listened and waited. His breath steamed in the unnaturally chill air and his blood pounded in his ears. Around him, the undead stood silently at attention, awaiting his commands. His hands twitched, and he forced them to remain still, rather than start to cast anything.
Patience. Don’t give yourself away.
Conversations with Magnin and Beory almost always wound their way back to fighting, regardless of where they started. The two slayers were, unsurprisingly, full of incredible advice borne from their rather lofty level of expertise. His father in particular was keen to talk about mentality during a battle.
“Remember to take your time,” he’d told Tyron sagely. The young boy had asked his father about a book he’d wanted, and quickly found them discussing swordsmanship and combat. He didn’t really mind, the stories he heard from his parents had been his favourite thing in the world as a child.
“People always think the more skilled and higher levelled you get, the faster you move. That’s kind of true, but it’s also not. The real difference is that we take as much time as we’re allowed. When we have a lot of time to make a decision, we take it. If we don’t, we strike decisively. It’s not about rushing, or going slowly, it’s about taking the time that you have. Get it?”
Slow breath. In and out. Focus.
He heard the slayers coming, though they tried to move quietly. Not every class was suited to stealth, and at least two of these didn’t seem to be rangers, judging by the noise they made. Tyron focused, moved his hands and conjured two magick bolts that he held ready in his hands. After counting to three, he leapt from cover and held both hands forward at the same time his skeletons revealed themselves, archers letting fly with a volley directly into the faces of the three slayers.
Tyron barely had time to register the three faces before he released his spells, preparing his next cast the moment they were free. Empowered by his Mysteries, every word he spoke crackled with power, hanging in the air like static after lightning. His fingers nimbly flickered from one sigil to the next in perfect harmony with his voice as he gave shape to the magick inside him. He couldn’t afford to hold back, so he spent his energy freely, pouring it into the spell.
The three slayers responded to the sudden assault as if they’d been expecting it. One rolled to the side with unnatural speed, blade in hand, before she turned and rushed up the mountain toward him. Another held up a shield, letting the magick bolt and several arrows slam into it as he braced himself against the barrage. The third shocked Tyron by conjuring an arcane barrier that absorbed his spell, and for a moment, he feared a fully-fledged mage was present. Then he saw their face and realised this was another student, no older than he was.
A momentary flash of irrational anger almost caused Tyron to stumble in his spellwork, but he righted himself in time. For some reason, seeing a Mage student, here, hunting the bounty on his head in the middle of nowhere, when they could be advancing their craft in an academy, just as he had longed to do, left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Letting the shield fall, the mage brought his hands up and began to cast. Even in the midst of his own spell, Tyron found time to examine the sloppy finger control and too wide hand motions. There was no effort at all to conceal the sigils! Tyron knew what spell was coming long before the trainee opened his mouth, actually opened his mouth, and said the name of the spell aloud.
“Magick bolt!”
No shit.
The spell slammed into an upraised shield a moment before Tyron completed his own cast.
Shivering Curse.
Compared to when he had first learned it, the curse covered a much larger area, and filled it with a more gripping cold than before. Combined with the already biting conditions, the zone within the curse was torturously cold. Even the swordsman, who had been nimbly sprinting up the slope a moment before, stumbled as her muscles were frozen stiff.
Without hesitation, Tyron sent his revenants forward, backed by half of his remaining skeletons as he transitioned seamlessly into his next cast.
Before she could recover, the sword wielding slayer was beset by assailants and slashing rapidly to keep the undead at bay. More arrows were fired by the skeletal archers, forcing the shield-bearer, possibly some form of Defender class, to cover the mage as he had already begun to summon another magick bolt.
Tyron manipulated his minions like a puppeteer, utilising the strengths of his Necromancer abilities to swarm his opponents. Skeletons feinted forward and sideways, baiting reactions from all sides as others stabbed forward, seeking to cut flesh. A separate detachment approached the mage and defender, leaving the angle open for the archers to support, they sought to harry the pair and prevent the mage from casting anything to swing the battle.
Not that they could. A Mage of that level should be mostly working on control, not broadening their spell base.
Beory often lamented that her peers lacked a proper grasp of fundamentals, despite spending years on them in training. Most magick based slayers wouldn’t start to learn proper offensive spells until after level twenty, choosing to shore up their control and reserves of energy through prudent Skill and Feat choices that would pay dividends down the line.
His second spell neared completion and Tyron considered which target was a priority before he unleashed it. Decision made, he thrust a clawed hand forward, sending a wave of death magick slithering through the air toward the defender.
The defender tried to dodge, but wasn’t quick enough as the curse and treacherous footing proved too much. With the target held within the grip of the spell and unable to move for precious few seconds, Tyron unleashed his next surprise.
Slow moving, the ghosts shimmered through the cold air before they plunged into the struggling frame of the slayer with savage glee. The man stiffened, gasping for air, before even breathing became impossible. By the time Death’s Grasp dissipated, he was gone, and two opponents remained.
This content is taken from (f)reewe(b)novel.𝗰𝗼𝐦