Book of The Dead

The sound of air being sucked through gritted teeth filled the tent. The pain came almost constantly now and Magnin bent all of his considerable will to combating it. He had long ago risen to the point where complete mastery of his mind and body had become second nature to him, yet under the unrelenting assault of agony he could feel his spirit begin to crack. He’d built what had felt like an impregnable fortress around himself and had tried to believe that it would be enough. Despite all their preparations, he was still shocked at just how much torment the brand could inflict on him.

He would break eventually, he’d always known that he would, if it came to this, but he’d hoped for longer.

His face twisted into a ghoulish approximation of a grin. Another week would be the most he could hold out, especially if the pressure continued to be applied as it had been recently. They were never able to rest. At most, they had short, ten minute breaks in between long bouts of enduring the unspeakable agony that burned within their very souls. The relentless pace, without even those brief windows of down time wherein they could regroup, was grinding them down ever faster.

Beory would be able to hold out longer than him. Of the two, she’d always been mentally stronger. He could only hope she would be able to endure after he had succumbed and buy Tyron more time.

”How are you holding up, darling?” he rasped, a broken attempt at his usual ragged charm barely peeking through in his tone.

”Shut up, idiot,” Beory growled, her face a mask of concentration. ”Every time you talk it distracts me from my meditation.”

”Because I’m handsome?”

”No. Because you’re infuriating.”

”Infuriatingly handsome?”

”Shut. Up. Magnin.”

They lapsed into silence again as they focused inward. The brief moment of banter was their own way of connecting and sharing their suffering. It was important to Magnin that Beory be aware he was there with her, and she with him. It was easy to forget sometimes, when engulfed in the pain. On and on it went, torment without ending, suffering without pause. If Magnin were condemned to a hell when he died, he doubted it could get much worse than this. At least he’d have practice before he got there.

When the pain finally ebbed, it was so abrupt Magnin almost fell on his side at the sudden release of tension. Not only was the piercing agony no longer burning him, but the constant background simmer of the brand was also gone. Shocked at the alien feeling of no longer being in pain, Magnin blinked owlishly at his wife.

”What the hell is this?” he said.

Despite the shift, Beory had managed to retain her meditative posture. She scowled at nothing in particular.

”More mind games. We should be ready for anything. We have ten minutes, so let’s make use of it.”

”Right,” he replied.

The two had worked out a routine. They could move much quicker than an average person even when they weren’t exerting themselves, so they could pack quite a lot into a short window of time. First came the food and drink, their stores of prepared fare were depleted but still sufficient, followed by a quick wash and fresh change of clothes. Wiping away the sweat and grime that accumulated over multiple days of torture helped to refresh their spirits and minds a surprising amount. Then they would stretch to release the tension in their bodies, give each other a shoulder rub or light massage, then air out the tent before making themselves comfortable again, ready for the next session to begin.

They went through the motions, but neither could shake the feeling that something had changed. They’d been constantly subjected to the torment of the brand for two weeks, the magisters had no reason to relent now, especially after investing goddess knows how much effort into torturing them. To be honest, the thought of irritable, exhausted magisters slumped in their beds, shovelling mage candy into their mouths, brought more than a little joy to the two of them, but there was no chance they would let all that effort go to waste.

Magnin mentally prepared himself for the pain to return, yet after the ten minute mark had passed, it didn’t come. He frowned.

“If this is their new form of mental torture, they should keep it up, it’s working,” he quipped.

“I can’t imagine what they’re up to,” Beory fretted, a frown creasing her normally flawless brow. “They have to know that if they give us enough time we’ll recover. It’ll take them days to bring us back to this point.”

“Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Magnin cautioned. “Some idiot probably slept in. They’ll be back to it soon enough.”

That wouldn’t explain the lack of the usual background pain. They would consciously need to shut that off, but neither of them could imagine any motivation for the magisters to do so.

So they sat, and waited for their suffering to continue, resolved to face it to the inevitable, bitter conclusion. But an hour passed and nothing happened. Then another hour passed.

Nothing.

“I almost feel neglected.”

“Shut up, Magnin.”

They continued to wait, but nothing changed.

“Should we… go to sleep?” Magnin suggested.

Beory eyed him through narrowed lids.

“You can sleep right now?”

Magnin tried to shrug nonchalantly.

“I mean, we could try, right? It’s important to get rest when we can. We don’t know when they might start again. It’s been almost a week since we slept, right? We should seize the opportunity and hit the blankets.”

It was good and reasonable advice, which made Beory instantly suspicious. Magnin was intelligent and capable when he wanted to be, but more often than not, he would play the fool when she was around to pick up the slack. What he said made sense, but something about the tone in which it was said hinted at something else. The powerful mage puzzled over it for a few seconds, her focus locked on her innocent looking husband.

”Magnin…” she said, ”… are you?”

The Century Slayer’s brows rose as his face took on an aspect of pure, childlike innocence.

”You are!” she squawked incredulously. ”No you are not getting laid! I’ve been tortured for two weeks!”

Both hands rose, palms out, presenting a solid defence.

”Nobody suggested it, darling,” he spoke with reason, ”I’m just trying to make sure we’re as prepared as we can be.”

”Right,” she scoffed. ”You aren’t wrong, we should get some sleep if we can…”

”As I was saying -”

”… but you can sleep outside.”

Harsh, but nothing the powerful slayer hadn’t dealt with before. Caught in the act, he could only laugh, send his wife a saucy wink, which earned a huff in return, before he left the tent and found a comfortable patch of ground to lie on. In truth, at his level, with all the feats and the enormous physical stats that came from his class, sleeping rough was almost no different than sleeping in a bed. He wouldn’t be sore or stiff, his muscles wouldn’t knot or cramp. If anything, the ground would yield to him, not the other way around, something Beory understood perfectly.

”Not my fault you look so fine,” he grumbled to himself as he settled his head on his arm.

”I can hear you,” Beory called.

”I know, you sexy fox,” he whispered, knowing she could hear that as well.

”Sleep,” she incanted and Magnin chuckled as he felt the spell roll over him.

He could push it away, of course, but he allowed it to drag him under and was soon snoring away. Beory Steelarm could only shake her head, exasperated, before she cast the magick once more on herself. She expected to be awoken by that wrenching agony, but she was exhausted. Even an hour of sleep would help.

To her utter shock, she woke six hours later, fully rested and pain-free. Confusion and suspicion blossomed in her mind as she ripped off her blankets and found Magnin still snoring outside.

”Wake up,” she hissed and the slayer’s eyes snapped open immediately.

”What’s wrong?” he asked, his tone deadly serious.

A moment later his eyes widened as he too realised they were still free. The same horrible realisation began to dawn on his face when he realised what it might mean.

”Do you think they -?”

”Don’t even think it,” Beory snapped at him. ”I won’t believe it until I see his body cold in front of me.”

The magisters would have no reason to continue torturing them if Tyron had been killed.

”KAW!”

The ear-splitting cry of a large bird rang out and both of them turned their gaze to the sky. With their preternaturally sharp eyes, they could make out the approaching Ro-klaw with ease. The enormous, four winged bird of prey powered through the air toward them, its gaze as sharp as the claws that tipped each of its hooked feet.

”Surely, there’s nicer birds that can carry messages,” Magnin complained. ”These feathered thugs are always such foul-tempered pricks.”

”I think we’re about to get an answer to our question,” Beory said.

There were few who had permission to use the messenger birds. The aristocracy made frequent use of them when conversing by magickal means was too expensive or not necessary. Certain wealthy guilds paid through the nose to make use of them. And of course the magisters, who created the damned things.

As it swooped overhead, the beast released a slender tube from one claw before it beat the air with its wings and turned around. With several powerful strokes of its wings, the hateful creature was already on the return flight, another of its piercing cries shattering the peace as it went.

Magnin caught the falling cylinder with ease, his hands steady despite what he may now hold. This message may very well inform him of his son’s death. Beory eyed it with dread. The swordsman rolled his shoulders and popped the seal off, sliding the rolled paper inside into his hands. Wanting to get it over with as quickly as he could, he spread the page and read the contents.

Then he started laughing.

”What?” Beory demanded. ”What does it say? Is Tyron alright?”

Magnin leaned back and roared with laughter until tears began to roll down his cheeks. Unable to stop, he held out the message and waved it at his wife as he continued to howl. A fierce frown on her face, the Mage snatched the paper from her husband and read it with a glance. Immediately, her expression was replaced with one of savage glee.

”Those arseholes must be spewing in their own beards,” she gloated.

”A break!” Magnin choked out as he continued to laugh. ”Can you believe this luck? A fucking break… now?”

It was too much for him. Unable to hold in his incredulous laughter, he collapsed onto the ground and rolled back and forth. The thought of the magisters being forced to abandon their assault on the brink of succeeding in order to save rank and file citizens, it must have felt like they were swallowing iron needles.

”Two weeks,” Beory smiled viciously, ”two whole weeks. With a little luck, we might be able to drag it out even longer.”

Even fighting back against the worst rift-kin Nagrythyn had to offer, they’d be able to recover their condition in that much time. When the pain inevitably resumed, the magisters would be starting from scratch. They’d been afraid Tyron had been found and killed, but things had never looked brighter for him. So long as he was able to remain clear of the break, he’d have a lot of time to continue growing.

”Things have turned around just like that,” Magnin finally managed to contain his laughter. He lay spread out on the ground, staring at the morning sky with a blissful smile on his face.

”You’re just happy you get to fight.”

He didn’t deny it.

”I’ve got a lot of pent up stress,” he grinned, ”thanks to someone.”

”You’re blaming me and not the unimaginable agony those pricks sent our way?”

With a pleased sigh, Magnin lightly flipped himself onto his feet.

”Well, we may as well pack the camp and get moving. I’ll take care of that while you reach out to your people.”

”Are you sure?”

”No problem. I’ll have it done in a flash.”

They set to their tasks, their hearts light and smiles on their faces.

Across the western province, the rift-kin advanced relentlessly, destroyed farms and villages left in their wake.