The Necromancer and the Paladin

Dead Weight has left Tiberius unconscious but will this be enough to stop the man clad in white? And what are the Cult of Mechanics doing with Grosse Mann's body?
...enjoy...

Tome: When the Night Falls

Chapter 4

Tiberius fell to the floor, unconscious and Dead Weight felt the light energy fade from the ropes. The forest became darker and its shadows were cast over the two. Dead Weight’s headache started up as the light seared through his body. It had taken most of his energy but he had managed to break the Paladin’s conscience eventually…

 Without the hindering pain on his body, Dead Weight wriggled about until the ropes fell around his heels. He stepped over them and walked over to the fallen Paladin:
 “Forgive me Tiberius…” Dead Weight said and began to walk away.
 Progress was slow, the wound that the Paladin had caused with its gun still throbbed around his ankle and a little blood leaked out. His black skin-tight suit had some blood blemishes on its form.
 Dead Weight walked, close to the trees fleeting when he heard the weak voice, “You stay here Necromancer…”
 Then the binding power of the light shone around his feet, burned his skin and brought him to a dead stop flying through the air and landing amongst the fallen leaves.
 Staggering to his feet Dead Weight drew his sword, its haze of darkness drew the light away and threw its darkness into the sky.
 Tiberius brought himself to his own feet and the towering, seven foot, behemoth raised himself to his full height. He reached for his double headed axe, the chain around his wrist clanked and as soon as his armoured gauntlet made contact with the wooden haft. Instead of the charm making the metal shine, it made particular parts shine brightly showing patterns and inscribing. The magic invested in that weapon was great. Tempered and held within that magic for centuries. Few had the ability to do such things to weapons. Parts of those few were the Paladins.
 Tiberius started in a slow charge with the momentum behind it getting greater and greater until he reached Dead Weight. His shoulder hit his head first and sent him reeling backwards, blinded by the full power of the shot and the spinning world. Dead Weight gathered himself again in time to see the axe being brought around in a thunderous uppercut.
 Dead Weight forced his hand out and the shadows gripped on the axe head like sticky tar stopping it from moving anywhere. Tiberius let go of the axe and brought round his stone like gauntlet and delivered a backhander that sent Dead Weight reeling across the foliage on the forest floor.
 Dead Weight picked himself up from the forest floor and spat into his ski-mask the coppery blood that gathered in his mouth. He could feel it hot against his lip as it bled out.
 Raising his sword, Dead Weight threw himself forwards and brought his sword down on Tiberius’s head but the helm was the thick Paladin armour, even though it was cracked by the attack, it was still stronger than he could have imagined. A hand flew into his gut and he dropped his sword, it clattered against the ground and its haze burned the leaves on the floor. Dead Weight soon followed his sword as another fist flew into his face sending him soaring backwards and landing with an almighty crash and skidding five meters on his face.
 Dead Weight’s ski-mask ruined. His face bloodied. Eyes closed. He didn’t get back up…
 Tiberius watched as the shadows receded back into the ground and he picked up his axe, the chain around his wrist rattling as it was sheathed. The light flew away and spun through the air dying.
 “Just be glad that my orders are to keep you here Necromancer,” Tiberius said smugly.
 Dead Weight did not reply…

Number 47 took one look at the wreak of a man and looked deep into his open eyes. His face was too ruined to recognise anything.
 “And you’re sure that he killed the Clockwork Watchman, Paladin?” Number 47 looked doubtfully.
 “I am not Paladin anymore… my name is Tiberius…” Tiberius told Number 47.
 Number 47 nodded and thought to himself, “What is becoming of the world?” then said aloud, “Tiberius, are you sure that he killed the Clockwork Watchman?”
 “Positive,” Tiberius replied.
 Number 47 nodded and turned to Tiberius, “Keep him secure then, see if anywhere here can be used as a temporary holding cell.”
 “It will be done,” Tiberius replied, bowed and threw the barely conscience Dead Weight over his shoulder.
 He marched down the corridor as if Dead Weight were but a fly perched on his shoulder.
 Then he stopped beside a door and waited until one of the Cult of Mechanics passed him and his arm shot out barring his way.
 “Please, Sir I must be…” he started but Tiberius interrupted him.
 “Open this door fist, I assure you it won’t take much time,” Tiberius ordered.
 The man took one look at the seven foot behemoth and nodded turned to the door and opened it.
 Tiberius threw Dead Weight into the broom cupboard and watched as he slumped weakly against the door.

 “I hate you…” Dead Weight mused out loud.

 “I know,” Tiberius answered and slammed the door shut.

 Grosse Mann lay, dead on the table, his physical body only mildly aware of the changes that were being made to it. His suit as ever stood as an impenetrable barrier against the changes. They had to compromise his non-existent ears remembered hearing.
 Still they worked on it however and more compromises were made… They were human. Oh so human and ripe for picking off their souls… they looked blurry but… delicious.
 Although this sort of thought should have been impossible, he should be… dead… The thought was a harrowing one, one that made his impossible mind fear. Emotion, another impossibility in this sea of impossibilities that expanded with every passing second.
 Then Grosse Mann felt the jolt of pain and the power of life flood through his dead, dead body before he awoke truly and then lapsed back into the deep sleep and the realm of death where his head lulled over and he stared with his infamous faceless face into that of another blurred man.
 “Why isn’t it working…” the man slurred through his wide open jaw. If it opened any wider it would fall off…
 Something else wandered up or more waddled up in Grosse Mann’s blurred vision and whispered something into the man’s ear before he roared back, “Then replace him…”
 Grosse Mann already had a certain disliking for this man looking at him with his jaw dropping off. He looked stupid but then so did his dead body.
 What were they doing to him, he felt stronger, he felt bulkier… he felt much more Godly. Was this what Death felt like all of his sombre little life. Stalking the mortals with scythe and Necromancy to enforce his power?
 If so he was enjoying it…
 And he was dead…
 It was a strange sensation being dead and yet one that he greatly enjoyed. Grosse Mann was able to sleep on the very edge of the living without a care in the world. No more need to feed and live. No more need to stalk and kill… No more needs… No more wants… Bliss…