Chapter 418 Book 6: Chapter 51: The Siege Turns

Tens of thousands of ghosts still rampaged through the city, causing chaos, terror and mayhem everywhere they went. Taking advantage of the chaos, Tyron’s horde marched forward. All three Grave Moons overhead slowly drifted towards the walls, accompanied by the rising columns of miasma as the constructs maintaining them moved along with the undead.

In the centre of the horde, Tyron stood atop his floating platform, hands raised as he channeled his power, enacting the rituals necessary to bring his horde to full power.

From kilometres away, several arrows were launched, punching easily through the magickal shields that had been raised to protect him. Before he even realised they had been fired, it was over, the deafening roar of the strikes arriving well after the arrows themselves.

The Necromancer blinked, checking to see if his mantle had intervened to protect him, but found that it hadn’t. To his left, he saw the mangled remains of one of his revenants and the enormous, two-handed shield that Master Willhem had been producing.

These might work, the old master had told him, but then again, I’ve never made something to try and defend against a platinum ranked attack.

It looked as though it had been effective enough. A skeleton gathered up the arrows and Tyron had it pass him one. It was heavy, larger than a regular arrow and made of a metal alloy that he didn’t recognise. What’s more, it was heavily enchanted. He knew enough to recognise that it was designed to destroy magick it came into contact with, which explained why it had dealt with his shields so well.

Master Willhem had decided that making a tower shield out of noctic bone as thick as possible, then layering it with enchantments of hardening, was the best bet for intercepting one of these arrows, and it turned out he’d been right. He passed the arrow back to one of his skeletons as the ranks closed around him again, each minion armed with one of the massive shields.

Once again, Tyron raised his hands and spoke the Words of Power, the warping effect of his will rippling outward through reality with every gesture and phrase.

The Grand Imperator ritual was fully powered now, engraved on the platform beneath his feet. Power thundered through it, dispersing outwards across the horde and filling his minions with strength. He used the bulk of his time casting Spirit Shields over and over again, using his supply of magick to defend his undead and protect them from the damage being levelled at them from the walls.

Archers and Mages on the battlements fired freely down into the skeletons while his minions raised their shields and defensive spells to weather the storm. Some fire was returned, but most of it ineffective. The walls of Mirasmas were far superior to those of Kallas, with enchantments and construction that protected the defenders from all but the most deadly of strikes.

Around Tyron, the Mantle of the Imperator swirled as a hail of spells and arrows flew in his direction. He’d stepped within range and now the Soldiers on the city walls wanted to try and bring him down. Tyron welcomed it. If any of the projectiles made it through his defenders, he was far better equipped to survive than his minions. As far as he was concerned, they could target him all they liked.

However, if he was close enough to be struck, then he was close enough to strike.

Once he finished his cast of Spirit Shields, he immediately moved into another spell, forcing out his vast reserves of arcane energy and giving it shape and purpose. Bone Lances began to form in the air around him. A few at first, but then more and more as he continued to cast until there were hundreds hanging over his head.

When he completed his spell, they were unleashed, streaking through the air before they slammed into the protective magick over the walls. Yet that wasn’t enough, as the bone shattered, sending vicious shards tearing through the gaps in the crennellations.

Heads peaked out into the gaps again a moment later, ready to fire back at him, but Tyron was already casting again, dozens of new lances already formed overhead.

With each passing second, he was brought closer to the main gate and the intimidating towers looming on either side. It was where the heaviest and most withering fire should have come at the horde, but there was none.

Yor’s Mistress was able to deliver what she promised.

Soon, the front ranks of his skeletons would pass through the gate and enter the city. Once that happened, the situation inside the walls would continue to deteriorate at a rapid pace.

Amidst all the chaos, deafening noise and flying spells, Tyron smiled. He could almost smell the fear leaking off the Nobles waiting inside the city. He was coming for them, and there was nowhere they could hide.

—

“Well now, aren’t you just delicious,” the vampire said, suggestively wiping the blood from her lips with one finger.

Her other hand sported savage claws that had been formed from the blood of Artur’s troops, which she had conjured out of their still-warm bodies with little more than a gesture.

Clutching at his side, the Duke’s favoured General brandished his sword at the creature, keeping the shining blade between them. Every second, he felt the pressure she placed against his mind, a foreign influence that demanded he submit to her domination. He resisted.

“Why don’t you come for another taste?” he growled. “That way I can cut you a little more.”

The inside of the guard tower was a charnel house of splattered blood and carved up remains. A veteran of many battlefields, even Artur felt his stomach turn at the sheer visceral brutality of the violence that had been committed here. Guts and gore lay everywhere, not a single body hadn’t been ripped open to some extent. It spoke to the inhumanity of the thing in front of him.

“Sadly, I don’t have the time to play with you any further,” the vampire purred with mock regret. “This has been delightful, but the time for me to make my exit has arrived.”

Judging by the pounding of feet upon the blood-slick stone, she wasn’t the only one of her kind to have made their escape. Soldiers were coming and they weren’t far away. If he could keep her here a little longer…

Pain throbbed in his side where she had slashed him and Artur grimaced. It was unlikely he’d survive much longer if he were to try and fight on. Judging by the look on her face, she was well aware of it.

“Good boy,” she taunted him before she turned and lightly vaulted out through the closest arrowslit.

Artur blinked. There was no way she could fit through that. He staggered closer, but the vampire was gone, vanished into the darkness that now pooled against the base of the city walls. That wasn’t all, the first ranks of skeletons were marching through the gate right beneath his feet.

Troops crashed into the room, their blades drawn and armour rattling with every step.

“General Greyhame! Are you well?”

“Get your arses down to the gate!” he roared, hand pressed into the cut in his side. “The undead are strolling into the city as we speak!”

“We must get you to safety, General! There’s no time!”

Lord Sathin entered behind them, his face pale as he surveyed the dead.

“The Duke has ordered that you be secured at all costs,” he explained.

“What about the fucking gate?” Artur roared. “How about we secure that?!”

He cursed and struggled but was powerless to resist as he was seized by his own men and dragged out of the tower and onto the adjoining section of wall.

“The reserves have been committed to the gate, and the Duke is coming himself to rally the houses and lead from the front,” Leras Sathin went on as they clattered down the nearest stairs to reach the street level. General Greyhame craned his neck to look out over the battlements in the brief window that he had and wasn’t pleased with what he saw.

A sea of darkness and undead, the Necromancer right in the heart of all of it, washing up against the walls of Mirasmas. From what he could see, they weren’t even bothering to raise that many siege ladders, knowing that the gate would be open ahead of time.

“Landed the first blow, you fucking prick,” the General swore, “but this isn’t over by a long shot.”

“What was that, General?” the closest Soldier asked.

“Never mind! Let’s get clear of the wall.”

Already some troops had arrived to try and hold the area inside the gate, but they would be swept away by the incoming masses of undead. Soon this area would be flooded with skeletons and they would surge along the walls and into the surrounding streets. Thankfully, half of the residents had already fled as a result of the ghosts who still tore through the city.

General Greyhame’s mind whirled as the next stage of the battle unfolded in his mind while he was unceremoniously carried away from the danger.

It would take hours for the horde to push through the gate and into the city, as it wasn’t wide enough to accommodate such an enormous force. If the reserves were able to assert some control and bottle the undead into the gate, they could keep stalling for time. The next hour would be critical. Some amount of the Necromancer’s forces would get into the city, the only question was how much.

Could they be contained? Could they be pushed out? Both would be difficult, but far from impossible. The weight of numbers meant nothing if the fighting was restricted to just a few city streets.

The more he considered it, the more he thought it would be possible. So long as Duke Mirasmas didn’t do something stupid, then it should be possible to reach a stalemate. A brutal, bloody stalemate, but the butcher’s bill would have to be paid at this point.

With a little luck, they could lock up the Necromancer and prevent him from getting much of his army into the city at all. Then, when the Golden Legion arrived, they could smash the bastard to pieces against the walls.

Then, a realisation struck him and his blood ran cold.

“FUCK!” he bellowed, eyes wild.

“What’s wrong?” Leras gasped, ripping his sword free and searching for the danger.

“He’s not trying to seize the city, damn it!” the General cried, shoving away the men who had been dragging him to safety.

“He’s not?” Lord Sathin asked. “He’s doing a poor job of it, then.”

“The Necromancer doesn’t want to take the city, not yet,” he corrected himself, desperate to explain. “He wants to bottle us inside the walls! He can hold these streets with a fraction of his horde and turn the rest on the Golden Legion when they arrive!”

There were two more gates on the northern side of the city. If those fell, then the closest exit would be through the river gate to the west. To move a significant number of troops out the gate, then around the city to the north would take hours, enough time for the battle to be finished by the time they arrived.

“Get me to the Duke,” he ordered, still pale from the pain. “NOW!”