Book of The Dead

“I apologise for keeping you waiting, Venerable,” Tyron said as he bowed his head.

A wheezing cackle came from the emaciated figure sat on the large wooden throne at the back of the room.

“No you don’t,” the old man rasped. “You couldn’t give a shit. But that’s fine, I don’t think the three of them care much either.”

He waved a lazy hand up toward the three figures carved and hung on the wall above his head. The two-faced lady, the storm-eyed bird, the withered tree. Crone, Raven and Rot.

Tyron eyed the three of them, trying to conceal his distaste. He had never forgiven the Old Gods for attempting to force his submission, and had been leery of them ever since. Which had led to some… difficulties, when it came to fulfilling the terms of his advanced sub-class.

“It’s not like they can’t see what you’re up to,” the venerable said, his voice so thin it was barely above a whisper. “Despite your attempts to conceal yourself from their eyes.”

For a moment, the old man lifted his brows to reveal eyes filled with lightning. Tyron averted his gaze and shifted uncomfortably. The venerable chuckled and let his wrinkled brow sink low once again.

“Thrice-blessed venerable, I’ve come to hear the word of the Three and fulfil the terms of our agreement. What do the Old Gods have to say?”

After a short silence, the old man wheezed a shallow laugh that quickly turned into a fit of coughing. When he was done, the venerable lifted himself on shaking arms so thin he appeared almost skeletal. He reached out to take hold of his staff and leaned heavily on it as he walked.

“Come on, you little shit,” he rasped, “I want to go outside.”

“A-are you sure that’s wise?”

“I’ve been blessed by three gods as old as this damned realm. You think you can tell me what’s wise? You still stink of your mother’s tit.”

Tyron ground his teeth and reined in the flash of anger that threatened to choke him. Despite his fragility, there likely wasn’t anything he could do to this decrepit old man, and the venerable knew it.

Besides, he had no idea how old this geezer was. The venerable might be a hundred, or a thousand for all he knew. Apparently, he’d lived here on the Oldan estate since it was established, which was at least two hundred years, but despite his best efforts, he’d uncovered absolutely no information about him. As far as public records went, the man didn’t exist, nor did any rumour of his existence.

“Come and help me, disrespectful brat,” the venerable grumbled and Tyron forced himself to take him gently by the shoulder, supporting him as he made his way through the house.

“Venerable?” Rita said as she caught sight of them, her eyes widening with alarm, “are you well?”

“Just getting a little fresh air, my dear,” he replied. “Young master Steelarm will assist me, no need to worry yourself.”

She hesitated, eyes flickering to Tyron and back.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course, of course,” he waved her off with a stick-thin arm. “Be at ease, girl.”

She was likely forty years old, but looking as he did, he could call her a toddler and get away with it.

When they reached the outside, the old man stepped blinking into the sunlight, raising his head to the warmth of the light. A few wisps of hair still clung to his skull, reminding Tyron of the stubborn grasses he’d seen on the Barrier mountains, rooted into the bare, unforgiving stone.

“You’re thinking disrespectfully,” the old man noted querulously. “Stop it, and help me over to that rock. That one gets the most sun.”

“Fine.”

When he finally got situated, the venerable lowered himself with a sigh and pulled his loose fitting robes a little tighter around his shoulders.

“Gets a bit too cold for my old bones this far north,” he said. “I lived close to the desert in my youth, and sometimes, I feel like I never adapted. The chill gets right through me.”

There’s not a lot it has to get through, Tyron noted, but kept his mouth shut.

“What do you think the Old Gods are?” the venerable asked suddenly, and Tyron suppressed a sigh.

Every time he came up here, he was forced into discussion about the Three that he simply had no interest in.

“Ancient creatures of immense power and malevolent nature,” he answered honestly.

The venerable chuckled.

“You aren’t all that wrong, really. The Three are pricks. You hear me up there?! Pricks!”

He raised his staff and waggled it weakly at the sky.

“But of course they seem like arseholes to us. How nice are you to ants? Or worms? They were born along with this realm, far before humans, or the dust folk came here. It belongs to them far more than it belongs to us.”

“They didn’t defend it, so they lost their claim,” Tyron shrugged. “If they want to control the realm, then they need to get up and do something about it.”

The motivations of the Three were difficult for him to understand. It seemed like they wanted things, but weren’t willing to exert any of their massive power or influence to get it. Even their followers seemed mad to him. They begged for an intercession that may harm far more than it helped, what was the point?

“You think of them as if they were logical actors,” the venerable noted. Once again, he revealed his lightning-filled gaze. “That is a mistake.”

Tyron nodded, chastened.

“Crone, Raven and Rot. They feel no desire to be understood by the likes of you, no need to be comprehended. They will do whatever the fuck they want, and there isn’t a damn thing every living creature clung to this fracturing rock can do about it. And who knows? Perhaps their actions are perfectly logical, from their perspective.”

Tyron doubted it.

“You little shit,” the venerable wheezed a chuckle. “I can read your thoughts on your face, plain as day. Let me ask you this, are you a multi-dimensional force of nature?”

“... No.”

“Then you have a fart’s chance in a fireplace of figuring out what those three pricks want or need.”

It was a valid point, and something for Tyron to consider. The venerable shifted on his rock and gazed out over the rolling hills. South lay Kenmor, in all its glory, and to the north west was Nortwatch, and beyond them Blackrift and Undermist Keeps. It was green here, warmer than it was further west. Perfect farming country.

“You’ve found more success with the vampires because you find you can understand them better. They’re transactional, they were once humans, they think much the same way you do, except on a much longer timescale.”

The venerable nodded to himself.

“But it’s an illusion. In reality, you don’t understand them, or what they truly want. They are able to pretend they were human, they remember what it was like, some of them at least, but it isn’t genuine. They are dead, with a heart that beats for nothing and no-one. If you depend on them too much, they will draw you in and bleed you dry.”

“I’m being careful,” Tyron said stiffly.

“Bullshit,” the venerable snorted and extended one gnarled, pointed finger towards his face. “You lean on them for everything and rush to do their bidding to repay the favour. You aren’t safe from them. The only thing that can protect you from the Dark Ones, is another of those powers.”

“So you want me to lean on you, instead? I don’t trust the Three, and I’m not sure that I ever will. Even the Abyss hasn’t tried to suppress my will and dominate my mind.”

“No, but they will try and drink your soul if you aren’t careful. Those secrets you chase are expensive, and it will lure you deeper every time you have a question. Am I wrong?”

He wasn’t. The few times he had called on the Abyss over the past few years had been tantalising, hints of knowledge and mastery that he yearned for, but wasn’t granted. Each time, he was asked to step further into the void to get what he wanted.

“You chose to serve three masters,” the venerable noted, “because you thought the only way to survive was to play one against the other. As good a strategy as any, I suppose, but it’s not going to fucking work when you ignore one of the masters entirely.”

After a moment of hesitation, Tyron nodded reluctantly. It was true. He was getting too deep with the Court, too comfortable calling on them for favours and paying the prices they demanded. For now, they wanted resources, influence, but soon, they would begin to ask for more, ask for things he wasn’t so willing to part with.

“What do they want?” he finally said.

The venerable chuckled, then coughed and hacked before spitting up a hunk of phlegm.

“Hak! Ah, that’s better. They want a few things, since they’ve been waiting so long. They want to speak to you themselves, which will mean enacting the ritual you’ve avoided for so long. For everything else, they will send an intermediary to work with you more closely. Can’t expect you to go gallivanting to the forest everytime they want a word.”

The Necromancer clenched his teeth, but released them slowly. He didn’t have good memories of that place, and he certainly didn’t want some idiot priest poking their nose around his business and risk exposing him.

“I have a need for discretion,” he ground out.

“You think us followers of the Three don’t? You idiot. Ever seen what happens when they find us? It isn’t pretty. Don’t worry, we’ll be careful. The Old Gods might not give a shit, but we do.”

The old man reached around and scratched his backside before he sighed.

“I’m done. Can you go tell Rita to bring me a blanket? Then you can fuck off.”

“Thanks,” Tyron said sourly. “Don’t die on me before I get back.”

Low cackling followed him into the house as Tyron found the owner. There was still time before he had to travel back to the city. He stepped outside and oriented himself before he began to trek east, toward the mist-covered woods that bordered the property in the distance and spread toward the horizon.

It’d been too long since he’d cleaned the grave.

~~~

Filetta smiled at him as he emerged from the shadows in the sewer. It was a smile he didn’t much like. Predatory, like Yor’s often was, but also playful. Like a cat staring at a bird.

“Elten,” she purred, “how lovely to see you again.”

Tyron suppressed a sigh.

“The pleasure is mine,” he executed a short bow and the woman’s eyes glowed with delight.

She really was desperate for a taste of good manners.

“Another twenty of Kenmor’s finest corpses,” she said, gesturing for her men to step forward. One by one, they lay their burdens down on the grating, tightly wrapped linen bundles of two corpses each.

“Excellent,” he breathed.

The first set had proven to be extremely fruitful for his research, but had only opened his eyes to possibilities. He had so much follow up work to do before he could confirm any of it.

“I’ve never seen someone so pleased to see a corpse,” Filetta observed, a slight smile tugging at her lips. “Let alone this many.”

Tyron stepped forward and passed her the purse directly.

“Your payment.”

Even more than before, her eyes gleamed at the sight of gold.

“And I presume you want the same again next month?” she said.

“I do.”

He hesitated a moment.

“I… would also like to enquire about an additional transaction.”

“Oh?” Her eager gaze flicked to his as she wet her lips. “And what might you be looking for?”

“Bones.”

“Bones?”

She glanced down at the corpses.

“Don’t you have enough… bones, already?”

He shook his head.

“No.”

“What sort of bones would you require?” she asked, curious.

“Human. In decent condition, not crumbling, not splintered, preferably.”

“Hmmm,” she considered for a moment, eyeing him. “I believe we can do this. But I would like to have another meeting in which we discuss the price and time of delivery.”

That was reasonable.

“Shall we say, here, same time, in a week?”

She frowned.

“No, nooo. That won’t do at all. Let us say, tomorrow, at the evening bell, in the Golden Gateway.”

If he wasn’t mistaken…

“Isn’t that a restaurant in the city?”

She smiled at him, again, part predator, part play.

“Why yes, yes it is.”