Chapter 8 — Spell Backlash
A bony, sinewy hand clamped tightly around Charles's throat before he could even react.
He managed only a strangled cry before the skeletal fingers dug deep into his flesh, crushing his windpipe.
He clawed desperately at the creature's arm — its cold, unyielding bones biting into his palms — but it was like trying to pry apart iron. His legs kicked wildly, boots scraping the stone floor, but nothing worked. The grip only tightened.
The creature's hand sank deeper into his neck, leaving five dark, purple gouges in his skin.
Then its face — a white skull smeared with drying blood — jerked close to his, jaw gaping in a silent, feral snarl.
It was absurdly strong.
Charles weighed little more than a feather to it.
With grotesque ease, the skeletal monster lifted him off the ground, holding him there — thrashing, gasping, his feet kicking helplessly in the air.
Then — clang!
Another figure swung into view.
A second skeleton — the first one Charles had successfully raised — appeared from the side, wielding an iron hammer it must have scavenged somewhere. It brought the weapon down in a brutal arc, smashing it into the blood-streaked skull of the attacker.
The impact rang through the dungeon like a bell, making the walls tremble.
The red-stained skeleton's head snapped sideways under the blow, its grip loosening for just an instant.
That was enough.
Charles twisted sharply, planted his boot against the creature's pelvis, and kicked off with all his strength. The bone fingers tore free from his neck as he fell backward, coughing and gasping, landing hard against the cold stone.
The red skeleton hissed — a soundless expression of rage — and lurched toward him.
But before it could reach, Skeleton One intercepted, grappling it with a violent crash.
The two undead slammed into each other, bone grinding against bone.
Charles staggered to his feet, clutching at his bruised neck, every breath a knife.
He looked around, spotted a fallen longsword near the wall, and snatched it up, ready to help.
But before he could take a step, the blood-soaked skeleton kicked Skeleton One aside with terrifying force. Then, without warning, it turned and sprinted for the stairs.
Its movement was animalistic — frantic and fast.
Within seconds, it vanished into the shadows above.
At that exact moment, Ned appeared at the top of the stairway, limping and pale but armed. The sight of that red-stained horror lunging toward him froze him mid-step.
He hesitated — but only for a moment.
The monster leapt.
Ned swung.
Steel met bone with a ringing crack. His strike hit true, smashing into the side of the creature's skull. The sheer force of it flung the skeleton backward into the wall. The bones clattered apart, rebounded, and tumbled down the stairs.
It twitched, struggled upright — and then paused.
Instead of attacking again, it let out a dry, guttural hiss and began clawing its way through a narrow gap between two pillars. In the next second, it was gone — sprinting down the far corridor and out of sight.
Ned exhaled heavily, lowering his blade, his heart pounding.
"What in the gods' name…" he murmured.
Footsteps echoed behind him — Charles, coughing and rubbing his throat, his voice hoarse and raw.
"Your skeletons," Ned said grimly, "they're not under your control anymore, are they?"
Charles managed a bitter, rasping laugh. "No… you're right."
A bruise the shape of a hand had already darkened his neck, ugly and swollen. "Turns out," he croaked, "I can only control one skeleton at a time. Any more than that, and the magic turns on me."
Ned's expression tightened. "So it goes mad?"
Charles shook his head slowly, voice low and edged with unease. "No. Not mad. It just… attacks. Anything alive. Me, you — anyone."
He swallowed painfully, the ache in his throat sharp with every word.
"Lesson learned," he said bitterly. "One skeleton's company… two is a death wish."
For a long moment, Charles and Ned just stared at each other in silence.
Neither of them knew what to say.
It had all happened too fast.
Charles had descended to the lowest level of the dungeon, thinking his next summoning would go as smoothly as before. The ritual had worked — perfectly, in fact. The corpse had twitched, split open, and the skeleton had clawed its way out from within.
Except… the moment it stood, it lunged straight for him.
He hadn't been ready — not even a little. The thing's attack had been so sudden and violent that he'd barely survived.
If not for Skeleton One's intervention, he might have been strangled to death before he could even scream.
That single moment burned itself into his mind.
Lesson learned:
When you barely understand a spell, don't get clever with it.
It's not just risky — it's suicidal.
"Looks like this plan's a failure," Ned said at last, though his tone hovered somewhere between disappointment and relief.
"No," Charles rasped, still rubbing the dark hand-shaped bruise around his throat. "It's not a failure. It helps our plan."
Ned frowned. "How do you figure?"
"It attacks living things," Charles said hoarsely, eyes narrowing. "So let it attack. You saw it yourself — once you hit it hard enough, it runs instead of fighting to the death. That means it can survive long enough to cause chaos."
Realization dawned on Ned. "You're going to release it?"
"Of course," Charles replied without hesitation.
He half expected the old lord to explode in outrage — but Ned didn't. He only sighed, grim-faced and tired.
"You're not objecting?" Charles asked, surprised.
"I still object," Ned said, glancing back at the blood-smeared stone chamber that now looked like a butcher's pit. His jaw twitched. "It's vile. It's inhuman. But…"
He drew a long breath, forcing reason over revulsion. "Letting those things loose to sow confusion… might just work. They're fast, aggressive, even cunning. You saw it — when it couldn't win, it fled. That kind of instinct could be useful."
Charles raised an eyebrow. "So… we agree?"
Ned exhaled through his nose and turned away. "Let's just get it over with."
The dungeon filled with the wet, sickening sound of tearing flesh.
One by one, the corpses split open.
Each body convulsed and burst apart as a red-stained skeleton clawed its way out, dripping with gore.
Charles and Ned stood ready — one with magic, the other with a sword — to drive them upward rather than allow them to turn on their masters.
The creatures hissed and shrieked without voices, scrambling over each other in their frantic rush for the stairs. Within minutes, the lower chamber was a slaughterhouse — nothing left but mangled flesh and bones slick with blood.
Four corpses. Four monsters.
When the last of them disappeared up the stairway, Charles and Ned didn't waste a second.
They left — fast.
Since Ned could barely walk, Charles hefted him onto his back. Skeleton One followed silently behind, its green-lit eyes flickering like twin candles in the dark.
When they reached the upper level, there was no sign of the four newly-born horrors — only long smears of bloody footprints leading deeper into the dungeon.
As they passed the rows of old wooden doors, Charles noticed crimson handprints on the iron bands — the mark of bony fingers.
"They didn't stop," he said, half to himself, half in awe. "They're heading upstairs."
He broke into a run.
The next level was filled with sound — screams.
By the time Charles reached it, he caught a glimpse of one skeleton bolting up toward the next flight, while the prisoners in their cells were shouting, eyes wide in horror. Through the barred windows of their doors, they had seen what was out there.
It was a nightmare come to life.
"Lord Ned! Lord Ned, save us!"
"Please! Help us!"
"Don't go up there — there are corpses!"
Their cries echoed through the corridor as Charles sprinted past, the old lord on his back trying not to meet their eyes. The shame of being recognized — of seeing men who once fought beside him — bit deeper than any wound.
But Charles didn't slow down. There was no time for sentiment.
Ned sighed quietly and let the voices fade behind him.
The bloody footprints continued upward.
Charles followed them until they reached the final level — the top of the dungeon.
And there, as he lifted his head over the last step, he saw chaos.
A wide, circular hall spread out before him — the upper guard post. Iron-barred cells lined the walls, while the center held wooden tables, crude beds, and half-empty mugs of ale.
Just as Ned had predicted, there were four guards and a single servant stationed there.
Now, they were running — screaming — as the skeletons tore through the room.
The guards had drawn their weapons, but panic had already won.
They scattered, tripping over benches, desperately trying to escape the mindless attackers that refused to die.
Charles almost smiled despite himself. Perfect.
Then Ned's voice cut through his thoughts — sharp, urgent.
"Left side! The servant— he's going for the alarm rope! Use your skeleton, now!"
Charles's eyes snapped toward the far corner of the hall.
The servant — a boy in a gray livery — was sprinting toward the wall. His hand stretched toward a thick, gray cord swaying gently in the air — the rope that would ring the castle alarm.
If he reached it, every guard in the Red Keep would come running.
Charles's breath caught in his throat.
He had seconds.