. One thing at a time.
While he had time to kill, he thought he may as well put his skills to good use. As packs of kin continued to approach the camp, he used his magick to decimate them before they even reached the wall. A slight smile on his lips, he kept his hands in constant motion, flicking out one sigil to the next while he spoke the words of power, letting them slam into the air and cause the world around him to ripple.
Death’s Fists flew out, snaking through the air as coiled black smoke until they reached their target and clutched around them, squeezing and crushing. Lances of bone were conjured from thin air and sent rocketing outwards, two, three, five at a time. Once the monsters entered Tyron's range and came under that barrage, there was little they could do. Some monsters were able to endure several spells, others could endure a dozen, but what did it matter? He could keep casting all day if he wanted to.
Several monsters approached with thick, crystalline shards covering their backs, proving to be effective armour against his magick. No matter; he just needed to change tack.
Changing the pattern of his hands and the spoken words, he cast a new spell. Pillars of bone began to rise out of the earth before the kin, who simply charged through them. With another spell, the bone formations shattered, causing chaos amongst the monsters and shredding their soft flesh.
One particularly stubborn monster kept going, despite its injuries. Tyron frowned, wondering if his spells were still too weak. With another series of gestures, he conjured a spear of bone, as thick as a man’s leg and several metres long. Piercing upwards from the ground, it skewered the kin straight through, punching through its soft underbelly and breaking the shards of crystal on its back.
Methodically, he continued to attack every monster that approached, but no longer felt compelled to destroy them all himself. It wouldn’t do to draw out too much magick before they set off for the rift. Idly, he thumbed some mage candy into his mouth, letting the power flow into his body. Using the stuff had become more of a habit here in the wasteland where it was so readily available. Sadly, his tolerance didn’t go up with his constitution, otherwise he really could eat it like a confectionary.
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By the time he came down from the wall, the students were up, already looking frustrated at whatever Dove was saying to them. Not bothering to listen in, Tyron simply spoke over the skeleton.
“Rude,” Dove muttered, swinging his snake over his shoulder.
“Yes, thank you, Master Steelarm,” Richard said, gratitude plain on his face.
“How did it go yesterday on the wall?” Tyron asked.
His students’ expression soured somewhat.
“It went well, but I lost several more minions, as did the others. The kin are larger and more aggressive than we expected.”
“I’ll make sure to replace all of your losses,” Tyron assured them.
“That’s… unexpectedly generous,” Georg blinked.
Tyron scowled at him and Georg held up his hands defensively.
“There’s not an unlimited supply of remains, is all. I know you need them more than we do.”
“Keep going, you might convince me to change my mind.”
Georg clamped his mouth shut while Richard and Briss glared at him.
It was important that his students keep growing and developing their knowledge and abilities. Tyron wasn’t so arrogant as to think he didn’t need more perspectives than his own to succeed at Necromancy. Investing in them was also investing in himself. Besides, they weren’t able to handle that many undead anyway; refilling their hordes was a drop in the bucket.
“Once we leave, we’ll push straight toward the rift and wait until the Slayers arrive. Is there anyone here who’s never seen the broken lands for themselves?”
Several of the younger apprentices raised their hands, looking ashamed.
“Warn them in advance,” he instructed his own pupils. “I don’t want anyone falling over themselves or passing out when we get there. Considering how thick the magick is, I suspect it’ll be something of an experience.”