Book 6: Chapter 47: Spells Rise and Fall

There were only ever three different looks in Tyron’s eyes, Filetta had found. Most of the time—the vast majority—he was staring through whatever he was looking at, not really paying attention. Of course, he was perfectly capable of keeping track of events and conversations with only a fraction of his focus, but for the most part, he was thinking of something else. As to what that might be, there was really only one possible contender.

Magick. The man thought about magick almost all the time.

At the speed his mind worked, it was difficult to imagine how he managed to never get bored. It seemed as if the myriad aspects of magick were an inexhaustible sink for his mental energies. No matter how much time he spent, there was always something new for him to work on.

Very rarely. Very rarely, there were times when he would actually focus on the person in front of him and look at them directly. Filetta could still remember what that had felt like, when she was still able to feel. All of that boundless energy and will, focused solely on her. In truth, she had enjoyed more of Tyron’s focus and attention than most people, especially during their more intimate moments.

However, even now, after her death, he still looked at her the same way, giving her all of his attention. He probably didn’t even realise he was doing it. Perhaps it was foolish, but she treasured those moments, they were one of the few things that still let her feel like she was real.

As for the third look, it was the one he wore now, and it was frightening.

Everything that he normally kept buried, held close to his chest as if the fire of it was the only thing keeping him warm, was now openly on display. Rage, pain, hunger and wild, undiminished grief, still as raw as it was the day his family died. He probably didn’t know his lips were pulled back from his teeth in a snarl as he stared at the distant walls of the city, that his hands clenched and unclenched as he thought of the Noble families huddled within.

All around them, the undead horde stood silent and to attention while a battle of spells raged overhead.

Screaming Skulls bloomed, trailing dark clouds as they shot high into the air and arced down toward the city. They were ignited before they got close as defensive magick, fired from the walls and towers around the city to disperse the spells.

In turn, the city fired back, bolts of arcane fire, crackling globes of energy and blasts of lightning arcing high or shooting directly towards the horde. Each was intercepted in their own way, Tyron’s undead mages working tirelessly to deflect and blunt the offensive magick.

Overhead, the three Grave Moons hung in the sky beneath the roiling clouds of darkness produced by the constructs. Concentrated Death Magick rained down on the undead, supplying a near-limitless amount of energy to fuel their efforts.

This had been going on for hours at this point, and it looked exactly the same now as it had when it had begun. She reached out, hesitated, then tapped Tyron on the arm.

He turned to her, and for an instant she had to resist the urge to step away from him as the full force of his madness was directed at her. An instant later, his look softened and he was looking at her, only at her.

“What’s wrong?” he asked when she didn’t speak immediately.

“Oh. I was wondering… I wanted to ask if we gain anything from this,” she gestured towards the walls and the endless exchange of spells overhead. “From the looks of things, both sides could do this for weeks, and we only have a few days.”

“I’m sure they could,” Tyron grunted, turning away from her and back to the wall. “We certainly could. The Grave Moons are doing their job nicely and so far they haven’t done anything to try and disrupt them. They are pushing back against the miasma cloud, though.”

Filetta blinked, something she could sort of do as a wight. She had eyelids of spirit flesh, but they were translucent, which made the exercise a matter of habit rather than function.

“They are,” she looked up. “It seems… to be cloudy?”

It was doing what clouds did, at any rate. It was dark in the middle of the day, since so little light was getting through.

“They’re preventing it from making it over the city, it’s stopping just above the city walls.”

He pointed.

“You can see the miasma isn’t actually touching the walls either. They’re holding it back somehow, I haven’t figured out by what mechanism yet.”

“Is it important?”

He narrowed his eyes.

“It could be. Going back to your initial question, what’s the point of all this, it’s the feeling-out stage.”

“I remember when we were at the feeling out stage. It felt good.”

“Be quiet,” he groaned.

“I will.”

“Good. I’m testing their defenses against offensive magick, they’re testing mine. It’s not the sort of thing we can resolve in a short span of time, but we’re helped by the fact our army is undead. The barrage won’t stop, day or night, which helps accelerate the timetable. You’re right, though, we won’t get a satisfactory answer in time. Even if I held an overwhelming advantage, which I don’t, they’d be able to hold out against my magick for weeks.”

“So why do it at all?”

“Because they expect us to do it. Because it drains their resources, even a little. Because it puts strain on their mages and troops. Because it frightens the people and adds pressure to the Nobles to act.”

She gave him an odd look.

“Because they expect us to do it? Since when did you care about what they expected?”

“Since I became invested in keeping my surprise tactics to myself. Not acting as they expect us to is only going to put their guard up. I don’t expect them to be taken unawares, they seem thoroughly prepared, but every little advantage helps.”

“So you have some unexpected twists you intend to throw their way? Well, colour me intrigued.”

“I won’t give any details, but yes. There are a few things I’ve prepared, but I have to be careful. Reveal too much at the wrong moment and everything could come falling down.”

“You won’t tell me?” she asked, genuinely surprised. “Who’s going to overhear us in the middle of the undead army? If you’re that worried, you could just tell me through the conduit.”

“I’m worried that they may capture you and extract the information directly from your soul,” Tyron said directly, looking at her once more. “I’ve no doubt they can see you talking to me, the miasma isn’t enough to protect us from the eyes of a platinum rank. They know you’re often nearby and that I communicate with you more than most. If they get a chance, they’ll take you, and probably send your soul straight to the Divines.”

Filetta shivered.

“So you’re saying I should stick close to you?”

“It would be a good idea, in my opinion.”

“I will.”

He nodded and turned back to the city, satisfied that her questions had been answered. Once again, his face was transformed. No longer focused on her, he didn’t drift back into the magick, but was instead suffused by his suppressed anger and grief once more. If—when—they won the battle, he would slake his thirst for vengeance on the blood of the nobility, drinking deep of their sorrow.

But it wouldn’t last forever.

No matter how many of them were killed, he wouldn’t be satisfied so long as a single one lived and the gods remained secure in their heaven. This was a grudge that would only end with his victory, or his death.

Filetta felt a shiver run down her spine.

In truth, death wouldn’t be enough to stop him.

—

Within the War Room, Duke Mirasmas watched the projection displayed on the enchanted crystal disc set into the centre of the table. It showed the vast horde of undead arrayed against his walls and the endless streams of magick rising into the sky. He could hear them faintly from where he sat, dismal, ethereal screams that seemed to find his ear no matter how he tried to block them out.

“Fear as a weapon,” he muttered to himself.

“Exactly,” General Artur replied from beside him, watching the same projection. “I assure you, if it’s unnerving here, it’s absolutely horrifying on the walls. I’ve already seen men and women with cloth rammed into their ears while on duty. Doesn’t help much, but if they have to listen to that screeching for days on end, then it’s going to do a number on their morale.”

“Reduce shift length and increase troop rotation,” the Duke ordered. “We shouldn’t overlook any details and create an opening for the bastard to exploit. As long as we hold out long enough, we’ll win this fight.”

Artur smiled to himself and nodded. He’d already done as the Duke had told him, but it didn’t hurt to let him think the order had come from him, especially when it was a good idea.

“Of course, Lord Duke.”

Aristan Mirasmas flicked his eyes to his General, but didn’t speak, instead returning his focus to the disc and the projection upon it. Relayed directly from the wall, it was as close to real-time as it was possible to be, so the Arcanists told him.

“Is it really possible that our enemy is only a single person?” he said, staring at the scene. “It hardly seems possible that a single man would be capable of such a feat as this.”

“The Necromancer Class was outlawed for a reason, Husband,” the Duchess said from where she sat at his right hand. She too was focused upon the image displayed on the disc, but the Duke felt certain that she wasn’t looking for the same things he was. “The fall of Granin wasn’t so long ago that we could possibly forget it. That was achieved by one mad Necromancer. If we aren’t careful, the same fate could befall us here.”

“As you say, Duchess,” the Duke said respectfully. “It just seems… unlikely that one person, regardless of their Class, could inflict such ruin on the Empire.”

“Perhaps his Mother and Father could have, if they weren’t bound tightly by the chains of the Magisters,” Artur mused. “Their blood runs in his veins, no doubt about it. He hasn’t started casting spells himself yet. You’ll know exactly what I mean when he does.”

The Duchess turned to him, one elegant brow raised.

“It must be quite something, for you to say so,” she noted.

Artur nodded grimly.

“Oh, it’s something alright. I’ve never felt magick like that before. Not once.”

“Interesting,” she murmured, looking back to the disc.

“Whatever he tries, we’ve made sufficient preparations. Once the Golden Legion arrives, we can sally out the gate and put an end to him. It’s only a matter of time.”

They all felt it at the same time. A ripple that seemed to flow through reality itself, followed by a queasy impact in their gut.

“He’s started,” Artur said.

“What?” the Duke exclaimed. “He’s kilometres away!”

“As I said. It’s quite something.”

Again, they were struck by that disorienting sensation, and again. All three leaned closer to the disc, wondering what they might see.

What greeted their eyes was nothing short of a storm of spirits.

“I’m going to the walls,” Artur said, rising from the table and sprinting out of the room.

Duke and Duchess remained, seated beside each other, neither realising that they had clasped hands together under the table as they watched the terrible magick unfold.