Book of The Dead

”Do you think he’ll be mad at us?”

”Yes. You keep asking me, and I keep telling you. Yes! Of course he’ll be mad at us!”

”You agreed we should delay!”

”And I knew he would be mad when I did.”

Magnin Steelarm slumped over the pommel of his saddle as his long suffering horse whinnied and rolled her head.

”Ahhhhh,” he sighed as he contemplated his reunion with his only son. ”I don’t like it when my boy is angry with me, Beory.”

The proud sorceress rolled her eyes at her husband’s hangdog expression.

”Then you’d best go back in time and turn yourself into a different man,” she told him, ”since you are incapable of not making him angry.”

Magnin straightened.

”What do you mean? Who wouldn’t be proud of having a father like me!?” he declared, gesturing at himself as if stating the obvious.

”I didn’t say he wasn’t proud of you, darling, I said you can’t not make him angry. To avoid angering him, you’d have to get home on time.”

Magnin slumped again.

”Well I can’t do that.”

”I know.”

”Will he forgive us though?” Magnin asked in a more serious tone.

Beory nodded.

”It will take time, but he will. It doesn’t hurt that we were late for him, in a sense.”

”I still think he’ll like the sword better than your staff.”

”Care to make a wager on that?” she asked him archly.

The renowned swordsman eyes his wife askance for a moment.

”What are you thinking?”

”Latrine duty for a month.”

”Done.”

Throwing back her head she unleashed a throaty laugh.

”As good as mine,” she purred.

Seeing her happy, Magnin could only grin. Digging the latrine when they camped was trivial for both of them, he could dig it out in seconds with his physical prowess and she could shift the dirt with her magick in an instant. However, this had been the standard bet between them ever since they had begun travelling together. It wasn’t the difficulty of the task, it was the principle. Digging out that latrine would remind the pair of them who had one upped the other in the last wager.

And Magnin had a strong feeling he was going to lose this one. But if it kept his wife happy, he hardly minded.

Unlike what many seemed to think, he was under no illusions that his bookish son would be given some form of fighter class, no matter how much he wished his boy would walk in his footsteps. As long as the kid was happy, that was what mattered. He glanced over his shoulder at the two hilts poking over the pauldron of his leather armour. One was his own sword, the other was the master crafted work he had battled like a demon to acquire the resources for over the last month.

The thing had the core of an abyssal woven into it, an abyssal! No expense had been spared to the point it was almost as good as his own blade. The very thought that it would go to the hands of some mage with a level one swordsmanship skill made him laugh out loud. Humour aside, if he was going to give a gift to his boy to celebrate his awakening, then it was going to be the bloody best! Even if it meant they would be late!

Similarly, over Beory’s shoulder, the heads of two staves peeked, her own, and the much more likely to see a gift that they had prepared for the young (most probably) mage. Just as extravagant in its construction and cost as the sword, that stave was a work fine enough for all but the top Slayers of the western province.

Content with life, the two could smile and joke with each other as they continued to ride the final stretch along the river to Foxbridge. As they’d done many times before, they stabled their horses outside of town and walked the rest of the way, packs slung over their shoulders and warm feelings bubbling away in their hearts. It wasn’t necessarily that they were happy to be back in the rural town they had chosen to make their home, the town they could take or leave, it was family that made a home and there was a spring in both of their steps as they wandered down main street and turned toward the inn.

The return of the two mighty Slayers was always something of an event in Foxbridge. The two were far and away the most well-known residents and were a vanishingly rare opportunity for the country folk to lay eyes on high level Slayers. Such people were generally beyond them, more closely associated with the capital, the rich and powerful, or indeed the Slayer Keeps themselves, than small farming and trading villages on the fringes of the western province.

The very idea that the two of them chose to live in such a place was almost beyond belief, that is, unless you knew them. Magnin and Beory were certainly nothing like most of the people who achieved their level of success. Where most Slayers would retire to a mansion, a comfortable life working in the bureaucracy or take fat contracts training noble children, the two of them had continued to live much as they had all their lives, on the road taking contracts and killing rift-kin.

Magnin noted the usual whispers and pointing as his wife and he walked past, but beneath that there was a certain undercurrent, a tone of unease that he detected in the people around him. He couldn’t know the cause, but a sour feeling began to twist in his gut.

”Beory…” he muttered.

”I know,” she said. ”Wait.”

Though he tried not to let any tension show on his face, Magnin’s stride lengthened and a short time later he pushed open the door of the Steelarm Inn, a half-forced grin on his face.

”We’re home!” he announced to the strangely sparse crowd in the common room as Beory entered behind him and quietly shut the door.

The Swordsman looked around, confused.

”Tyron? You about lad? Worthy? Where the hell are you, brother?”

When the few customers blanched at the sight of him and tried to hide their faces in their cups, Magnin knew something was deeply wrong. When Worthy charged out of the kitchen reeking of drink with rage in his eyes, his heart sank.

With a roar that rattled the floorboards the normally jovial innkeeper charged like a raging bull across the common room, knocking empty chairs and splintering tables that got in his way. As he drew closer to his brother he pulled back one fist and brought it around in a wide arc, smashing it into Magnin’s chin. Despite the weight of the blow, the smaller man barely moved, his head knocked to the side and his broad shoulders tilting slightly.

Unsatisfied, Worthy pulled back again and unleashed a devastating right hand. Unlike before, Magnin did not move at all and his brother’s fist recoiled off his face as if he’d punched an anvil. Worthy cursed and shook his hand as he stumbled back from the no longer calm Slayer.

”You get one, Worthy,” Magnin growled, a little heat in his eyes. ”Now spit it out, what happened? Where is my son?”

An hour later the two of them stood within their own house, looking down at the letter and the status sheet that Tyron had left for them. After Worthy had finished his drunken rambling, sobbing and spitting as he alternated between furious and grief stricken, they had returned to their house and torn the place apart searching for any clue as to the location of their boy. The two of them thought so little of the trophy room that it had taken ten minutes before Beory thought to check there, good thing that she had.

The letter said much of what they might have expected to see. That he was sorry. That he refused to have his future ripped from him. That he would make them proud.

Beory wept as she read it, but even through her sadness she could not disguise her fierce pride at the status sheet.

”Look at this Magnin, look at it!”

”I’m looking, dear heart.”

”He has a Mystery! Before he even had a class I bet! It’s ridiculous!”

”Spell Shaping… at his age?”

”A genius! I always told you that the boy was a genius!” she grinned as she wiped the tears from her cheeks.

”And his swordsmanship is still level one,” Magnin pretended to despair.

”Oh pish!” the beautiful sorceress swatted him. ”He’s not going to need that, he’s going to have minions to do the fighting for him! He won’t even need a sword.”

”Now that hurts.”

Magnin laughed, then frowned.

”Necromancer though. That’s a difficult class isn’t it?”

”Very tough spell work,” Beory nodded as she chewed her bottom lip in thought, ”but look, he already managed to level Raise Dead to three, which means a few successful casts at the very least. Without any training! Remarkable.”

”Do you know what this is? Bone Stitching?”

”That’s how they make skeletons. Good to see he’s moved away from zombies as soon as possible.”

”I hate zombies.”

”Everyone hates zombies, dear. You would have to be weird to like them.”

”I’m not a big fan of this sub-class though. Anathema? Why did they stick that on him?”

Beory leant back in her chair as she thought for a moment.

”If they were attracted to his awakening and put that on him, then there’s likely a reason for that.”

Magnin stilled and looked his wife carefully in the eye.

”You think…?”

”It’s possible,” she nodded, ”perhaps even likely.”

Silence reigned in the Steelarm household as the two of them considered the implications of what they had thought. The atmosphere was grim and the lines on Magnin’s face deepened as the anger started to burn within him. With some difficulty, he mastered himself and placed his hands flat on the table, careful not to break it.

”Do we run?” he said finally.

Beory loved him for that. That he gave her the choice. Now that this had happened, now that Tyron had fled, things had been set in motion that could no longer be stopped. For all their power, how events would proceed from this point was no longer in their control. The only thing they could do was to change how it would end. In many ways, it wouldn’t have mattered much even if they’d been here the whole time. It would have been easier for the boy, with their support, but he would still have had to run in the end.

”No,” she shook her head, which caused her raven black hair to sway against her snow white neck, ”we’ll make them do it to our faces.”

Magnin’s brows shot up.

”You’re quite beautiful when you’re furious,” he observed.

”Shut up, Magnin.”

It was five minutes before the knock came, five minutes in which the couple moved through their house tidying and sorting, trying to settle things back to how they should be. The letter Tyron had written Beory carefully preserved and stored in her pack, the status sheet she burned.

When they answered the door, it was a grey faced secretary to the mayor who greeted them.

”T-t-t-t-t-the m-m-mayor wants to s-see you,” she chattered out.

The poor thing was scared out of her wits and Beory felt her heart go out to the girl for a moment, but no more than that.

”Lead the way dear,” she said.

The pointed fingers and huddled whispers were more pronounced now that word had gotten around of their return. More than a few people sidled back into their houses and locked the doors as the couple walked by. It didn’t matter to them, the fears, hopes and dreams of these people did not touch them as they passed, did not cling to them no matter how hard they tried. What had been set in motion the moment Tyron had his awakening would play out regardless of what anyone desired, least of all these people.

When Magnin and Beory were finally ushered into his office, Jiren Arryn didn’t know what to feel. Trepidation was there, certainly. These two were so much stronger than him, so much more powerful, that they may not be the same species anymore. No matter how high level a Farmer became, he would never be tough enough to stand up to a Slayer. The classes were just built differently. In truth, nobody even knew what Magnin’s class really was anymore. He’d started as a Swordsman, sure, but now? He could be anything.

But more than nervousness, more than fear, there was anger. It burned in his chest just as bright as the day he had walked into his family mausoleum to find his ancestor’s bones no longer at rest.

”Why don’t you sit down?” he stiffly invited the couple and gestured to the chairs across from his desk.

”No,” Magnin smiled as he walked to stand across the desk from the mayor, his hands resting casually on his hips.

Without batting an eye, Beory moved to stand beside him, her eyes as cold as a winter storm.

Broad shouldered and slim hipped, Magnin was a picture of physical fitness, but he wasn’t a giant, he lacked the height of his brother Worthy, to the point that Jiren was able to look him straight in the eye.

”I suppose by now you’ve heard what has happened with Tyron,” he grated out.

Magnin just continued to smile and Beory did not reply.

Jiren hung his head, but the anger wouldn’t let him stay silent.

”I’ve reported his flight, as well as his likely class to the Baron by ro’klaw, as is protocol.”

He reached down and opened a drawer on his desk. Before he could withdraw the sealed missive within, Magnin finally spoke.

”I’d think carefully about what you’re doing before you pull that out,” he said simply.

The mayor’s head shot up and he glared at the still smiling Swordsman across from him.

”You know what he did? To my family? To my father? You dare say that to me?!”

”Just bones,” Beory said dismissively, ”bones and dust. You should have more care for the living, mayor.”

”Is that a threat?” he growled.

”Yes,” she said.

For a fraction of a second, he could feel it, feel the sword on his neck, the blood in his veins frozen to ice and then boiled away. They could do it in a heartbeat, do it before he could even blink. But in a surge of reckless rage, he didn’t care.

He snatched the envelope out of the drawer and slapped it on the table.

”A Necromancer is a great threat to the stability of the kingdom. The Baron has ordered that you two, as the ranking Slayers of the western province, catch him and bring him in.”

The two looked down at the letter with unchanged expressions. Magnin still wore that half-smile, Beory still carved from ice.

”You want us to run out and capture our own son, then drag him back here so you can execute him?” Magnin chuckled. ”How about you get fucked?”

Jiren permitted himself a small smile.

”I think the two of us both know that you don’t have much of a choice.”

The sword was at his neck. In one moment, Magnin had been standing, hands on his hips, the next, the sword was drawn and at his neck. A slight sting told the mayor that his skin had been cut, a small trickle of blood, no more than a few drops, falling onto the bare steel.

Magnin still smiled.

”I get the feeling that what you think you know, and what is the case, are further apart than you imagine.”

It took all of Jiren’s self-control to remain still and hold his nerve as he stared down the blade of the Century Slayer.

”This order has gone straight to the Magisters,” he jabbed a finger onto the paper, ”by your oath you are bound to comply.”

”I’m also bound not to hurt innocent citizens, Jiren, but look at what I’ve done to your neck.”

A shiver of fear ran down the mayor’s spine.

”But the brand,” he rasped out of his suddenly dry throat.

”Oh, it hurts like shit,” Magnin cheerfully agreed, ”and it’ll get worse. Much worse. But I’ll have plenty of time to make you regret what you did here today.”

”You should have cared for the living,” Beory stated, her voice as cold as winter, then she turned on her heel and walked out.

As quickly as it had appeared, the sword was gone and the mayor slumped forward onto his desk.

”He defiled my family,” Jiren grated through gritted teeth.

”I don’t give a shit,” Magnin laughed. ”That’s my son. He can do whatever the fuck he wants.”

The Swordsman casually turned and strolled out the door, whistling as he went.

When he had finally collected himself, Mayor Arryn had run home as fast as his legs could take him, but long before he arrived, he knew he was too late. His wife and children were safe and he openly wept as he swept them into his arms. His children were hoarse from screaming and Merryl shook like a leaf in his embrace. As he did his best to calm them, he couldn’t help but feel his heart break as he looked out over the land his family had worked for generations.

It was destroyed. All of it, destroyed. The house he had grown up in was flattened, barely a brick stood on top of another. Every barn, every wall, every well was a shattered ruin. The fields themselves were scorched and barren, the soil torn and carved as if a giant ripped it up with his bare hands, all of the livestock were slaughtered. The farmhands stumbled about in a daze, scarcely able to believe their own eyes.

”You should have cared for the living,” Beory had warned him.

That night, when he made his way to the mausoleum, he was unsurprised to find that too had been levelled. The resting place of his ancestors reduced to nothing more than a few crumbling stones and a flat piece of earth.