Book of The Dead - Chapter B3C35 - The Legion Grows

Do you think I deserve this?

Laurel’s voice echoed from the spectre that hovered in the centre of the obscuring cloud of mist created by the Commune with Spirits spell. Ghostly eyes filled with rage glared at him, baleful and red. Tyron folded his arms across his chest.

“You went after a Necromancer in the hopes of getting some coin, Laurel. You knew what might happen.”

You have no reason to keep me. Set me free.

Freedom had always been the deepest of Laurel’s desires. She didn’t want to be controlled, she didn’t want to be bound or limited by the circumstances of her birth or place a limit on her own potential. In many ways, she’d been like his parents, manically devoted to living an unbound life. He couldn’t keep a smile from twisting his lips.

“Freedom? You won’t get freedom for a long time, friend. You’ll serve instead.”

The spectre screamed, like a wind of death blown straight from a crypt.

You want me to apologise? You want me to beg?

Tyron only shook his head.

“Do you think I care about what you did anymore? The only reason we are speaking at all is because I felt like I owed it to you, given the time we spent together. I’m not sure if you can see it in your present state, but look there, your vessel is ready and waiting. The next time we speak, you’ll be there, inside your skeleton, bound to serve until I die.”

I will kill you.

“No… you won’t.”

~~~

The creation of a revenant was something that Tyron had learned without the aid of the Unseen, but after all his research and strides forward, he felt that he understood the process so much better now. Of course, that could just be his new mystery whispering in his ear. Any Necromancy he performed since earning Essence of Death had felt that little bit more natural, as if death was revealing itself to him.

The process involved binding the spirit to the bones, something he had intuited. A spirit was a manifestation of magick, and magick could be moulded into any shape when enough will was applied. To create a revenant, he had to pour their spirit into the skeleton like molten iron, fusing the ghost and the threads laced inside the bones together. Only then would the ghost have control over the remains.

Was it strictly necessary to use the skeleton and spirit of the same person to achieve this result? Possibly not, but Tyron believed it was certainly much easier, and likely produced a better undead. After all, who was more familiar with Laurel’s frame than Laurel herself?

The first time he’d done this, Tyron had struggled mightily to control the process, but now, it was simple. He exerted his will and enacted the ritual, layering the two spells atop each other as he Raised the Dead and summoned the ghost simultaneously. Laurel’s spirit wailed as he bound it to her bones, but he didn’t so much as blink.

Finally, he bound her mind in shackles of iron, using what he had learned to correct his mistakes from the past. There would be no rebellious fits from this revenant. She would obey unconditionally and never be able to turn her rage against him.

When it was finished, light bloomed within the skeleton, inside the hollow sockets of the skull, and a brighter fire within the rib cage, the telltale sign of a revenant. It was there that the spirit was most concentrated.

He bid his latest minion rise.

“You look good, Laurel. One of my finest creations, I must say.”

Wordless rage boiled through the connection he shared with the undead, but it was confused and aimless. Magickally prevented from directing her emotions towards him, they floundered aimlessly, thrashing for something, anything, to strike at. He handed her the bow he had prepared. Made from reinforced bones and enchanted to produce greater speed from the projectiles it launched, it was an excellent piece of work.

“This is the best bow you’ve ever gotten your hands on. Hopefully, it’ll serve you well.”

Wordlessly, he ordered her to collect the quiver of arrows, which the revenant silently slung over her armour. She drew an arrow, knocked it to the bow, and drew back. A shimmering thread of purple light ignited as the hand came back, stretching until the string rested next to Laurel’s bony cheek. She released, and the arrow whistled through the air for the barest fraction of a second before it shattered against the stone wall.

The ease at which the skeleton had moved pleased him greatly. The main advantages of a revenant was that it carried over at least some of the Skills the spirit had possessed in life. Laurel had been a gifted archer from a young age. It was a shame she’d never made it to her first Class advancement….

“You’ll do,” he said.

~~~

It was too hard to keep the smile off his face as light swirled from the rock on the ground, so he didn’t bother. The mist formed and within, the shadowy form of Rufus’ spirit.

Let me die! He raged.

“No chance. I’ve got a use for you. It’s about time someone did.”

The ghost thrashed and howled, twisting around itself as it tried to break free of the spell that bound it in place. The anger that burned in Rufus was so bright Tyron could almost feel it like heat on his face. It warmed him.

“Do you have any idea how long it’s taken me to fuse your stupid face back together? I didn’t find all of your teeth, though, sorry about that. I’ve substituted some for you. You’re welcome.”

Did Rufus even know how he’d died? Tyron had never told him before.

“I’m curious if you remember much of your death,” he pondered. “That was the one and only swordsmanship lesson Magnin had ever taught you. A valuable experience, to be sure.”

It wasn’t you, Rufus rasped, taunting. I had you. I HAD YOU.

“And look at you now,” Tyron clapped his hands sarcastically. “You’ve continued your winning streak in life.”

Suddenly, it didn’t seem interesting any more. Why was he here, taunting a dead man? Rufus wasn’t just defeated, he was bound and broken, about to be enslaved. There was no benefit to it.

“Speak to you again soon, Rufus,” he waved his hands and ended the spell, sending the spirit back into the rock.

When the Ritual was complete, Rufus was entombed within his own skeleton, his will shackled just as tightly as Laurel’s. He ordered his new revenant to walk up and down the study, keenly inspecting its gait to ensure the repairs had worked properly. Thankfully, everything seemed to be in order.

Ignoring the rage and despair that thundered inside the undead, he handed a finely crafted longsword, the best Tyron had made, enchanted with a fairly basic form of hardening that would hopefully prevent the weapon from chipping, or worse, breaking. His Bone Forged arms were yet to be truly tested in the heat of battle, regardless of what he’d done to them on his own, and part of him still didn’t trust they would be durable enough to survive.

“Give it a swing, Rufus,” he ordered aloud. “Let’s see how you move.”

His latest revenant slashed the air, unable to even contemplate refusing his commands, and Tyron was pleased to see the articulation of the wrists and elbows. His father had always emphasised how important wrists were for swordsmanship, though Tyron himself had never really understood it. Nevertheless, the range of motion was pleasing and his latest revenant appeared sufficiently deadly.

“A shame you didn’t get more levels,” he told his minion. “Eventually, you’ll be replaced with better slayers, but I’m happy enough with this for now. Welcome to your new existence, Rufus.”

The spirit within the revenant was apoplectic with rage, but had no outlet for it. Externally, the undead stood as still and silent as any normal skeleton, though it looked much more impressive with its custom-made armour and brightly burning spirit fire. If not for the connection that allowed him to sense the emotions of the soul trapped inside, Tyron would have no idea how Rufus felt about his captivity. Ultimately, it didn’t matter. To achieve his revenge, he needed powerful undead servants, and that meant revenants would inevitably be part of his retinue. Far better if he tested his techniques on the weak souls he had available, unranked slayers like Laurel and Rufus, than later, on actually competent people.

Similar to Laurel, he dismissed Rufus and turned his attention to his next project. He didn’t know the name of the slayer who had borne the shield in their conflict, though he could summon the spirit to find out. Tyron opted not to. Although this person had tried to hunt him down for profit, there was no real grudge between them, and he felt that taunting the souls of deceased foes may prove to be a slippery slope. Already, he found it difficult not to talk to his minions, despite repeatedly telling himself not to. Next, he’d be conjuring up the spirit of every slayer and marshal he killed to throw rocks at them.

A waste of time.

So he didn’t bother. Instead, he focused on each step of the process in creating his latest revenant. He had four archetypes of skeletons at the moment. Sword and board, sword only, spears, bow and arrow. Rufus would act as the revenant leader of the longsword wielders, he had Laurel for the archers, and now this nameless slayer for the more defensive of his minions.

To emphasise his role, Tyron had taken great care in preparing this particular skeleton and its armour. The skeleton itself had almost doubled in weight due to the reinforcement he’d done, which didn’t mean a lot in the greater scheme of things, skeletons were exceptionally light, but the final result was much tougher than before. For the armour, he’d done similar, reinforcing the bone before compressing and moulding it to the proper shape. This revenant would be the most heavily armoured by far as well, with bone plating covering its entire chest, along with thick, overlapping plates down the spine. Even the knee and ankle joints were protected, a touch which had taken far more time than he’d expected.

When the ritual was complete, the revenant rose and he once again put it through its paces, watching with keen interest as the skeleton swiped its weapon through the air, or braced its shield while he threw bones at it. He was satisfied with the result.

Now came the more interesting challenge. His ascension to a new Class had brought with it a number of surprises, but foremost amongst these was his capacity to engrave spells upon the minds of his minions. It may be possible for him to create skeletons capable of launching death bolts or similar, but for now, he wanted to test this newfound ability on a mind more conducive to spellcasting. He intended to inscribe two spells upon his revenant: Death Bolt, and Death Grasp, along with a much more elaborate enchanting array to gather the power necessary to fuel the magicks.

What he’d been able to glean from the hazy thoughts and impressions granted by the Unseen had been dutifully recorded and expanded upon in his notebook, and he referred to them now as he began to prepare the ritual. Raise Dead was already a difficult spell, at least comparatively, but by this time, Tyron knew it like the back of his hand. Modifying it, even to this extent, wasn’t difficult for him, and he moved through the casting with confidence.

Words of power echoed through the chamber as he wove sigils with his hands, forging a new, unique form of undead.

When it was done, the revenant rose, hate and terror emanating from it in equal measure.

Tyron pointed to one wall.

“Cast Death Bolt,” he commanded.

The soul bound within the revenant had certainly known how to form a normal bolt, every mage did to some extent, but a Death Bolt? Absolutely not. Nevertheless, the revenant extended its skeleton hands, forming the arcane sigils with dextrous fingers of bone, and a mass of dark energy shot forth to smash against the stone wall.

“Wonderful,” Tyron breathed.