Book of The Dead

Tyron collapsed with a groan, the bones wrapped in his old blanket rattled within his pack and slumped to the ground. He desperately wanted to sleep immediately, even for someone used to going several days without sleep, his activity over the last week had been especially draining.

Physically, he was a mess. He was never particularly unfit, he continued to be on the thin and unmasked side, something Magnin frequently ribbed him for, but he’d never put on excessive weight. But his lifestyle had been sedentary for the most part. He was a bookworm who didn’t exercise much, that was something he couldn’t deny.

Now he found himself hauling a heavy pack through a forest for hours and hours on end every day. He simply wasn’t built for it, despite the improvements his higher constitution brought to his hardiness. His calves burned, his thighs ached, his shoulders protested every time he raised his arms.

He was a wreck.

And there wasn’t much of a chance that things would improve any time soon. It wasn’t as if he could take three days off to rest his body, he simply didn’t have time to waste. He could only hope he would adapt to it eventually. He leaned back, his head resting against his pack and just let himself breath.

He’d been lucky to find this place. After the butchery, which had taken far longer than it should, the light had been all but gone, but he’d refused to wait and had packed his gear immediately. After stumbling through the woods for long hours he’d eventually noticed this abandoned building rotting away in a small clearing.

There were holes in the roof, the floor practically didn’t exist, but the walls were surprisingly solid, better than he could have hoped for. If he were to guess, someone had begun construction on a farm or holding out here where the land was extremely cheap but had been forced to abandon it when they couldn’t hold off the rift-kin.

Their loss was most certainly his gain.

Despite his exhaustion, Tyron was desperate to keep his mind turning. The less time he allowed his mind to dwell on what he’d done, the better. Rather than sleep, he reached into his pack and withdrew the bundle of bones he’d carefully placed inside. He tried not to notice the way the bones were still stained from the flesh he had so recently removed as he unwrapped them and began to lay out the complete skeletons on the ground.

He’d had to mix and match a few bones here and there, due to damage sustained in the fight that had killed the team, but after his efforts he’d been able to put together four complete skeletons. Under the light of a magick globe, he patiently put each bone in its place. His research was paying off and he no longer confused arm’s with legs, or fingers with the tiny bones in the feet.

As disturbing as the task was, he found it oddly soothing, as if he were completing a puzzle. He tried not think about what each piece actually was, or where he had got it from, and so long as he did so, he was able to relax. By the time he was done, it was deep into the night. His remaining three skeletons stood watch outside the ruined cabin in which he worked, the dark fire flickering in their eyes as their dull minds searched for something to kill.

When the four former slayer remains were completed on the ground before him, Tyron smiled. When these four were completed to the best of his ability, he would finally feel that he was in a stable place. The growing danger around the rift was worrying, but with four brand new skeletons to protect him, he felt he’d be safe enough to continue hunting in the area.

Hopefully he’d be able to meet with Dove when he returned to Woodsedge.

He shook his head, thinking of the Summoner was pointless, he couldn’t do anything to help him right now. Rogil’s team were high levelled and well disciplined. If anyone was going to be able to fight their way out of the rifts, it would be them. He would be much better served worrying about himself.

There were a number of things he could do now. He could start to analyse and prepare the remains, or he could jump straight to Bone Stitching, preparing the remains to be raised. He still had several avenues he was exploring that might improve his mastery over the Raise Dead spell.

He was also tempted to perform the status ritual on the spot. With additional levels and the higher stats that they gave, he would put himself in the best possible state to perform the important work of creating his four strongest minions to date.

That thought led to another which didn’t disturb him as much as it should. If he wanted to be in the best condition, and to gain as many levels as he could, then there was a way he could practically guarantee he would level Anathema again, giving him the level five feat and very useful stats.

Don’t decide when tired, he told himself. Better to sleep and sort it out tomorrow.

He unpacked his bedroll and ate a quick handful of dried meat before he stripped off his boots, folded his cloak for a pillow and rolled into his blankets.

”Sleep.”

The sun rose the next day on a predictable scene. Tyron had cleared and swept one side of the building he occupied and stood over a half drawn magick circle.

”This is a bad idea,” he told himself.

Dove had warned him repeatedly against trying to perform such a dangerous ritual without proper preparation. In fact, the Summoner had warned him against performing this ritual ever again. Tyron didn’t have good memories of the last time he’d cast this particular spell, the creeping dread of watching some strange entity reaching out, trying to invade his mind, was a horrifying experience. He’d had nightmares about it.

But he was in a better place to deal with it now. He had more levels, better stats, his skill at casting Beyond the Veil had improved, and he now had a ritual focus, a fairly basic one, but a focus all the same. Thanks to his foul mouthed benefactor, the polished chunk of crystal would help him focus the arcane energy needed to shape the ritual and give him another layer of safety should something go wrong.

Tyron walked to his pack and dug about until he found the carefully wrapped and padded bag that contained the focus and removed it, unwinding the soft purple cloth that swaddled it. Exposed to the light, the crystal glowed softly, which illuminated the delicate script that had been etched into the metal bands that circled the gem. A complex piece of enchanting, a ritual focus existed to help a mage in casting large and demanding spells. By using it as a filter that sat between the caster and the spell it added a layer of stability and control which gave him further confidence that he would be able to pull this off.

The more he thought about it, the more determined he became.

It’s fine, he assured himself, I can be careful.

And surely, as far from Woodsedge as he was, no one would detect the ritual as he was casting it. Even the slayers on the rifts were kilometres away. He would be safe from detection, at the least.

He returned to drawing the circle, referencing his notes extensively as he used his finger to draw the complex shapes in the dust. Several times he had to make slight adjustments when the alignment was less than perfect, but he proceeded swiftly, his hand steady as he worked with confidence. The ritual circle took shape rapidly under his hands. The broad circles, the connecting lines, the sigils of protection and a host of other shapes and symbols were layered one on another.

Tyron stepped carefully as he moved around the room, two globes of light placed overhead to eliminate any trace of a shadow that might obscure part of the circle. This was a hell of a lot easier than the first time he’d done it, working furtively in the dark. At least this time he didn’t expect anyone would come along and disturb him as he was casting.

After four more hours of careful work, the circle was done, but he didn’t begin the ritual immediately. First he inspected every inch of it carefully, making sure he didn’t miss anything. Only when he was completely satisfied there were no mistakes did he gather up his new focus. Even then he didn’t begin, instead he walked outside of the cabin to inspect conditions outside. His three skeletons remained perfectly still, watching the surrounding area for any sign of a threat. The sky overhead was clear for the time being and there was no wind. That was a major concern he wouldn’t have to worry about. If water disrupted the circle, or a stray breeze shifted the lines as he was casting it would spell disaster.

With a final check of his notes, Tyron stepped into the centre and took several measured, deep breaths.

He was extremely nervous. If he had the choice, he would not be casting this ritual again.

Let’s do this.

With one final intake of breath, he began to speak.

As they had before, the words of power rolled sonorously from his mouth as his hands swept from one gesture to the next, giving shape and purpose to the power that flowed through him. On and on it went, the ritual focus drawing all of the magick he released through it and then directing it to the spell, refined and purified.

It was a long and difficult ritual, but even as he focused his whole mind on the spell Tyron could recognise that he was progressing more smoothly than before. His experience counted for a lot and he didn’t falter for a moment as the energy continued to build and the veil began to appear.

The circle beneath his feet had ignited by now as the ethereal curtain that separated this world from the Abyss materialised before him. As he had done the first time, Tyron progressed through the ritual without pause or delay, reaching out with his hands to open a hole into the unknown.

He almost stumbled, in that final moment.

As he drew his hands down, the memories flooded him. The whispers that tore into his mind, the dark limbs that reached for his flesh. The hunger of the Abyss. The terror of it returned to the forefront of his thoughts and for one horrible moment he felt his concentration begin to waver, the words almost slipping as he spoke. He teetered on the edge of annihilation in that moment. A new fear was born that quickly rose to overwhelm the others. What if he failed? What if he died an ignominious death here, failing to cast a ritual? What would his parents think? Tyron’s eyes burned red as he felt his mind begin to crumble.

No.

With an inhuman force of will, he shoved it down. The fear, the memories, the uncertainty, all of it.

Like a poison that he had isolated, he gripped the negative emotions that plagued his mind in an iron fist forged from his will to succeed and throttled them before he cast them away. His concentration firmed, his voice continued, steady and he drew his hands apart, piercing the veil once more.

His face was cold and hard and no emotion could be read from his eyes. To a bystander, he may have appeared as a statue, without feeling, without thought, illuminated by the flickering arcane fire that traced the patterns on the floor.

When the voices came, he was ready.

Once again they clawed at him, a clamour of thousands of voices that tried to sink into his brain and tear it apart. Whispers in an alien language flooded and overwhelmed him as they boxed him in from all sides. Pressure quickly built in his head until a splitting headache pounded in his temples.

But it wasn’t the same as it had been the first time. The ritual focus protected his mind, gave him an additional layer of protection against the assault of the voices. Having experienced this once before, he’d modified his inner circle of protection also, strengthening its defence against any attack on his mind.

The voices gnawed and clawed, chewed and scratched at the edges of his sanity, urgently whispering in his ear, but he held them at bay, if only just, and in doing so he learned something new. He could comprehend them. Flashes of knowledge, slices of information, blurred pieces of a larger image, the voices each tantalised him with secrets and visions that he could not grasp.

This is the knowledge that they offer.

The voices, the entities in the Abyss, they knew things that nobody should know, understood secrets that would ruin a mortal mind, had mastery over spells that would rot a human soul. They held it all just out of his reach, feeding him tiny drabs and they danced closer and closer to him, pressing themselves against the protections around his mind as they whispered more and more desperately.

Tyron grappled with them as much as he fought with himself. The temptation to reach out and take what they offered was overwhelming, but to do so he would open himself up to them, allow them into his mind. If he could just take hold of them, if he could just understand.

With a start he wrenched his consciousness back to his body and sight returned to his eyes. The tentacles had almost reached him, a thousand, thousand splitting lines of thread that stretched from beyond to wrap themselves around him. Within the gap he had created in the veil, an eye stared out at him. Dark red. Unknowing and unknowable, it stared at him as he stared back trying to see through the fractal nature of what he saw. Within the eye was eye within the eye inside the eye which was within an eye within an eye that was within an eye that trailed on and on and on and on.

Tyron snapped his hands down, his fingers rapidly flicked from one sigil to the next as he barked out five words of power, each rumbling into the air, filled with the unknowable strength of the Arcane.

It all receded. The whispers began to recede, the eye faded and the veil closed and disappeared from view. Tyron was left standing in the centre of the circle as the flames guttered out, no sound but the rasping of his laboured breath.

”Holy shit, that was a dumb idea,” he choked out before he slumped to his knees.

Almost drained of magick, his throat ruined and his thoughts in turmoil. That hadn’t gone as well as he’d hoped. He’d learned something, and traumatised himself all over again in the process. He instinctively shied away from remembering what he had seen and heard. There would be time to dwell on it later. For now, he needed to rest.

For the next few hours, Tyron did just that. When he had enough energy, he packed away his ritual focus, placing it back in its bag and then carefully wrapping it before placing it in the bottom of his pack. He swept away the ritual circle until not a speck of it remained, checked on his skeletons before he sat and ate a simple meal and had drank his fill from his water skins.

His throat was raw from speaking and he would need it in top condition if he was going to Raise four new minions.

Deciding he needed it, he decided to sleep, despite the fact is was only early afternoon. He would need to be in top condition for what came next. To think about what he had learned from the ritual, and to perform the status ritual so he could harness his gains before he took the first step to forging his undead legion.

Once again, he commanded himself to sleep and the world faded to dark as his magick stirred.