Book of The Dead

It was somewhat embarrassing to have forgotten he had this ability. Tyron had been so focused on perfecting his ability to assess, prepare and Raise Skeletons that his other abilities had dropped almost totally from his awareness.

Specifically, his ability to speak to the dead.

The spell was certainly an interesting one, and something he’d love to study in further detail, but as it didn’t directly lead to the creation of superior minions, and therefore wouldn’t help him to level, he’d left it for more important things.

As night began to fall over the farmstead, Tyron hesitantly wandered over to the house being used by the survivors. When he made it to the door, he took a deep breath, then knocked a few times before stepping back.

He couldn’t hear much on the other side. It was almost unnaturally quiet over here most of the time, doubly so when you considered the dozen or so children inside. When it wasn’t quiet, it was usually because someone was either screaming or crying, or both. Tyron preferred it quiet.

After a few moments, the door swung open and he saw Annette, the lady who had met him by the hand pump earlier. He breathed a quick sigh of relief, though he tried to hide it. Of all the wives who had been saved, she was the most… capable, though she was still quite injured and seemed incapable of looking him in the eye.

“Y-yes? Is there something we can do for you?” she asked timidly.

Bit of a silly question really. What could they possibly do for him?

“No. No, of course not. In fact, is there anything I can do for you? Do you need anything else? I’m happy to go looking if there’s a shortage.”

The young widow held up her hands.

“Oh, ah. We’re fine for the moment… thank you.”

The two fell silent for a moment as Tyron struggled to deal with the awkward situation. He felt terrible for what these people had gone through, but anything he said or did just felt so hopelessly small compared to their needs.

“I, uh, just wanted to say I was going to use the courtyard for a ritual. I would appreciate it if someone kept an eye on the little ones and made sure they didn’t come out. It may be a little… disturbing for any of you to see it.”

Anettes eyes widened in fear for a moment before she looked down and nodded repeatedly.

“Yes. That will be fine. We will be careful. Thank you.”

So saying, she stepped back and closed the door softly.

Job done, Tyron turned around and let out an explosive breath. Every interaction he had with the survivors was painful in the extreme. He’d saved them from a terrible fate, that was true, but it was hard for them to be grateful in the moment. They’d lost their families, their futures, their life’s work. Some of them had lost children.

They were shattered people who could barely, just barely, take care of each other. Any time he was around them he felt he had to step carefully otherwise they may just break, fall to pieces like dropped porcelain.

He’d done whatever he could in terms of supplies and aid, but that was the extent of his capabilities.

If his mother and father were here, it would be a different story. They would comfort them, make them food, give them a shoulder to cry on, a sympathetic ear. They’d stay for a week or more and slowly bring them out of their shells, slowly help them pick up the pieces of their lives.

He just wasn’t built that way.

Dealing with people was hard. Thankfully, he could now focus on something much simpler. Namely, dealing with the dead.

He stepped around the courtyard, remembering exactly how it had been laid out after the battle. He’d rather not have used the courtyard at all, but the closer he was to the site of the death, the better he would be able to use the magick.

He decided he’d quite enjoy a chat with his old friend Davon. After making brief preparations, he began to incant the ritual.

Commune With Spirits was a curious piece of spellwork. Truth be told, Tyron didn’t understand half of it. Even now, he didn’t know if what he conjured forth was an actual ghost, the soul of the recently departed, or simply a … psychic imprint left of the ambient magick.

There was a real chance that the Dove he spoke to every day was not, in fact, his actual departed friend. He might be, but Tyron just didn’t know. It was something he’d rather not think about.

The words rolled from his tongue, each syllable giving shape and purpose to the magick he drew from within himself, assembling the ritual piece by piece.

When it was done, he brought his hands together with a sharp clap, cutting off the flow of words. This was the first time he’d used the spell for its intended purpose, and he was a little nervous as he waited for something to happen.

A mist appeared over the ground where Davon had died. The air grew colder and flowed inward, rapidly building the mist into a swirling column. Tyron studied it. The mist was cloudlike, thick, and it flowed and twisted to unseen currents, but never extending far outside the column.

Two lights began to glow within, cold and blue, those eyes did not belong to any living creature. Tyron recognised the look of the dead.

Speak.

It wasn’t with words that the shade spoke, or even with its mind, as the Abyss did. It was the hiss of a blade sliding deep into a soul. It was the whisper of winter pulling the heat from a dying man. Tyron had no language to describe how he knew what had been said. But he did.

“Is that you, Davon?” he asked.

You have pulled me here. Speak.

The spirit didn’t seem particularly chatty.

“You seem to be in a rush, Davon. Got somewhere to be?”

Normally Tyron wouldn’t mock the dead, but in the case of Davon and his band of merry thugs, he could break with his normal habits. These people deserved no respect, not even in death.

The mist roiled faster as the shade grew agitated, the eyes narrowing to slits.

You killed me.

“Sure did.”

I will kill you!

The fog boiled forward, the eyes and something else suspended within leaping forward to strike him. Except it couldn’t.

A golden shield sprang into being around the Necromancer, fending off the mist that shrank back from it instinctively.

“I don’t think that’s going to work, Davon. You’re stuck here until I release you,” Tyron stated with a wry grin.

There was something unhealthy about taunting your enemies from beyond the grave. Tyron felt he was enjoying it more than he should. He tried to get back on track.

“Give me the answers I want and you can return back to… your grave.”

Speak!

The mist calmed once more, the current easing until it once more drifted lazily around itself. The eyes remained cold and baleful, but Tyron felt there was not much he could do about that.

“Your little gang here. How many of you were there?”

The shade roiled for a moment before it replied.

Twenty five.

That was more than he’d expected. There hadn’t been that many when he’d arrived. He frowned.

“How many did Monty take with him when he left? He was the leader of the group, wasn’t he?”

Half. His idea to rebel. Convinced the others.

Not what Tyron wanted to hear. He’d only killed six bandits before they’d fled the scene, spooked by his undead. That meant there may well be nineteen still out there.

“Nearly done with you Davon. I want you to tell me why Monty left. Where did he go? When do you think he will be back?”

Those cold eyes burned with a savage light as the shade replied.

Went to recruit. Farringer farmstead. Two day trip. More hands. More girls. Back soon.

The Necromancer’s face twisted. These scum weren’t happy with the little slice of paradise they’d carved out for themselves? Was this Monty trying to set himself up as a bandit lord?

The glee he saw in the shade sickened him. Were these people even human any more?

“You think they can kill me, Davon? When this idiot gets back, you really think it matters how many people like you he brings?”

You’ll die. Vengeance.

“After I kill them, I’ll raise their bones as new servants. Then I’ll talk to you again, just so you can sleep forever knowing that I survived.”

Tyron forced a sick grin.

“In fact, I might go grab your bones right now. I carved the meat from your corpse, you know? Now I might just raise you so perhaps you might contribute something useful for once in your miserable existence.”

The shade roiled, the mist twisting this way and that at a furious pace. It went to rush toward him once more, but Tyron ended the ritual with a contemptuous wave.

At once the column of fog began to dissipate, falling as if it were being sucked slowly into the ground. The eyes faded as they too were pulled down, a long hiss of anger and despair echoing out as the shade was sent back to wherever it had originated.

When it was done, no sign remained of the magick he had performed. Tyron stood alone over the dirt and gravel that marked the place Davon had died.

“Well,” he sighed to himself. “That was creepy.”

“If you find conversing with a mere shade to be more than you can handle, I am most concerned for your future.”

Tyron jumped as he heard the soft voice breathe into his ear. He spun to see Yor standing uncomfortably close, her perfect features set in an alluring smile.

She’d managed to find herself a dress at some point. Humble and plain, it had likely belonged to one of the farmwives, but somehow she made it seem like a ball gown. The dignity and grace of her bearing was such that it likely didn’t matter what she wore, she would look like nobility all the same.

The Necromancer blushed and stepped back to create a little space, his heart rate accelerating.

“Oh. Ah. Hi, Yor. I didn’t realise the… uh… sun had gone down.”

She watched his reaction with mild amusement. For a moment, he feared she would step forward and draw close again, but thankfully she remained in place.

“Indeed,” she drawled, “you were most focused on your discussion with that thing.”

She sniffed.

“Ghosts and shades. Such ungrateful and undignified creatures. Only when bound to serve can they be relied upon.”

“Are you saying… he might have lied to me?”

“That is indeed possible,” Yor smiled, “but that is not quite what I am saying. What I want to communicate … is that nothing can be relied upon that is not bound to your service by chains stronger than steel.”

“So I can’t trust you?”

The vampire laughed, a throaty, musical sound that set his blood racing.

“Of course not, sweetling. Never trust a Vampire. That is simply common sense.”

A timely reminder. He wasn’t good at dealing with Yor. She was enchanting to look at, her every gesture, every word, was designed to draw him in. Which was entirely the point. She wasn’t a woman, she was a poisoned chalice. Every aspect was designed to be a lure, but if you tried to drink, you would die.

Or in Tyron’s case, likely be turned into a creature like her, more likely than not bound to her service by means he didn’t understand.

Somehow, even knowing she would kill him wasn’t enough to completely kill his attraction. It wasn’t hard to imagine just how quickly Dove would have died by her hands were he still living.

He’d have invited her to a private room within ten seconds of seeing her. Then been exsanguinated. He would probably say he’d have died happy.

“Since you admit I can’t trust you,” he said slowly, “then I want to say something clearly. I would … be grateful… if you didn’t hurt any of the people staying here. The women and children have suffered greatly. I would spare them further pain if I could help it.”

One elegant eyebrow arched.

“You think I would prey on these people?”

It was a nice sentiment to hear, but he was confused.

“You wouldn’t?” he asked.

From what he knew of the Vampire, she didn’t care much for mortals of any variety. They were food to her, little more than cattle.

Yor sighed.

“You can put your mind at rest. I have no intention of feeding on these humans. For now, I am well sated, I have no urgent need to slake my thirst. They are safe from me.”

“... For now?”

Her eyes glinted. Once again he caught a glimpse of the wild beast that dwelt within that alluring shell.

“For now,” she confirmed. “If my need grows dire, then I will feed, from whatever source is available. All I can promise you is, that should the need arise, they will not suffer.”

So saying, she turned and walked away, soon vanishing into the shadows and disappearing from the courtyard altogether. Tyron stared after her for a minute before he shook off his daze.

That had been far more of a concession than he’d been expecting from her. She’d never indicated anything other than complete contempt for the living before. Was there something about these survivors in particular that Yor would avoid harming them if she could? Or was she just trying to keep him happy in the hopes he would accept her offer?

The thought worried him, but he pushed it away. He’d learned other things that would need to be dealt with. The farmhouses had grown dark now, only a few candles lit inside the buildings casting a tiny flickering light outside. With a word, Tyron summoned a globe to illuminate his path and rushed back into the home he shared with Dove.

“How’d it go, kid? Good chat with a dead guy?”

“In a way. Apparently, the people we fought here were only half of them. The other half went with the leader to ‘recruit’ at another farm.”

“Well… shit. That’s not good.”

“No it isn’t. There could be as many as twenty or thirty coming back, and we have no idea when they might get here. Last time they got spooked by the skeletons and ran for it, but they’ll be ready this time, assuming they meet up with the others.”

Without the advantage of surprise, his skeletons wouldn’t be as effective. They were decent enough fighters, especially against former farmhands without any combat skills, but they weren’t reliable in a fight where they were outnumbered. More minions than the enemy was the safest place to be.

“I’ve got a lot of work to do,” Tyron fretted, “I need to raise more skeletons. Anything less than twenty won’t be nearly enough.”

“You’ve got enough remains,” Dove pointed out, “you could even work on some bone armour with the leftovers.”

A beat.

“Or you could just run for it,” the skull pointed out. “You have no obligation to be here when those thugs get back.”

Tyron froze. It was an option, that was definitely true.

“What about the survivors?” he said.

“Kid, they don’t have to be here either. They can run like hell back east and they’ll bump into slayers and marshals eventually.”

“That’s too dangerous,” Tyron frowned, “with the rift-kin still out there, they won’t make it far. Having to travel with the kids, there’s no chance they’d even outrun the bandits, and they would go looking for them. You know that Dove, surely.”

The skull was silent for a moment.

“Just be careful kid,” he said finally. “You have no reason to get yourself killed protecting others. You think these people would protect you? From the marshals? From the magisters? They’ll hand you over with a smile, no matter what you might have done for them.

“You almost died for them already. That should be more than enough. Don’t forget who you are, Tyron. Don’t forget the situation you are in. You’re an outlaw, just the same as those bandits are, and if the marshals catch up with you, you’ll share the same fate. Don’t make an emotional decision, that’s all I’m saying.”

Tyron clenched his fists.

In many ways, Dove was right. He knew that. He understood it, but that didn’t mean that he had to accept it.

“I’m not going to leave them to die,” he growled.

He stalked his way upstairs, sat down at a table covered in bones, and got to work