Book of The Dead

Huddled in his cave, Tyron continued to scribble away in his book of notes, face a mask of concentration. There were so many things for him to work on, it was difficult for him to focus on a single thing at a time.

He’d promised Dove he would work on a new Status ritual, and he would, but when was he going to find the time? The depths of his new space, the Ossuary, beckoned him constantly and required study, but he was reluctant to explore it too soon. Until he better understood what it was he had created, he wanted to tread lightly, lest he make a terrible mistake.

Another thought had bubbled up in his head, the idea that his minions could remain behind on the mountain after he left and continue to fight against the kin. As far as he knew, such a thing was impossible. No matter how skillfully, how perfectly he formed the conduit between himself and his minions, it would never stretch far enough to move his magick from one side of the province to the other.

Even if it did, gaps and holes would appear along the way, meaning not a single drop of energy, no matter how much he fed into it, would reach the other side. Was there a solution? Maybe. A construct, formed of bone, to soak up the ambient magick spewing out of the rift and feed it into his minions would theoretically be able to feed them the power they needed, but he had a feeling it wouldn’t be that easy.

For starters, the minions would still be connected to him via a conduit, which would attempt to pull magick from him the second this new source wasn’t sufficient. If enough minions tried to draw from him at once, and if his body could actually attempt to supply it from such a range, it was possible he would die. All the magick would be ripped out of him in a second, and he’d hit the floor before he’d even realised what had happened. Possibly.

Then there was the issue of control. The skeletons were semi-autonomous, able to make simple, routine decisions for themselves, minor things that helped them complete the tasks he gave them, but anything more complex was completely out of their reach. Since instructions were transmitted through the conduit… there was no way he could communicate with the skeletons over such a distance.

Despite all the issues, none of which he had a solution for, he still felt there was something there… a possibility that might enable him to continue reaping experience via combatting the rift, while living in Kenmor.

On the page in front of him, a rudimentary design for a large, bull-sized construct formed of human bones was taking shape. Scribbled notes, some crossed out, some circled, spirals of runes in various configurations, and dot points elaborating on the questions overhanging the design surrounded the image.

There was a rustling at the cave entrance and Tyron scowled at his broken concentration.

“Are they back again?”

“Hey, don’t get pissed at me. You’re the one who asked me to tell you.”

“I know,” Tyron sighed. “I appreciate it. How’s it been going with your kin-killing?”

As he spoke, he pushed himself to his feet and stepped out of the cave to find Dove waiting for him by the exit.

“Is it having the effect I would have liked to see? No.” The skeleton shrugged his bony shoulders. “But I must say, it’s been nice to be killing the kin again. Cathartic.”

Tyron raised his brows. Anything that was good for the former-Summoner’s state of mind was ultimately a good thing. For too long, he’d feared Dove was dangling over a cliff’s edge. Or had already jumped off.

“That’s good. I haven’t forgotten about what I promised you either. I’ll have your armour ready in the next few days, and I’m still thinking on the ritual. Don’t worry.”

Dove made a disgusted noise.

“Imagine being able to fight the kin while sitting on your backside inside a cave studying magick. Holy fucking shit, that is the dream.”

The Necromancer winked at him.

“Still confident Summoner is the better Class?”

“Yes.”

His mentor tried to sound firm in his answer, but Tyron could sense him wavering. He chuckled as he began to make his way down the mountain.

“Usual place?”

“The usual place.”

“If you want to, feel free to take a look at my notes. I’m trying to design a bone-construct and could use your feedback.”

The onyx-skeleton froze in place.

“Is that?!”

“No, it’s not a dick!”

“You really know how to kick a man when he’s down,” Dove groaned, his shoulders slumping.

Tyron turned his back in disgust and continued walking, muttering under his breath as he went. Of all the things he could be devoting time to, creating an artificial manhood for a dead person seemed by far the most ludicrous. The further down the slope he got, the more his ire began to shift to the people he knew were waiting for him.

Why in the name of the dark gods did they keep coming? He was no saviour to them, no matter what the three said. Yet, no matter how he tried to communicate that, delegations from the village continued to climb the mountain. In fact, they were getting worse.

Now they were bringing tribute, and they wouldn’t leave until he accepted it.

“It was a mistake to take it the first time,” he muttered to himself. “It only encouraged them.”

He thought they were just being polite, and uncomfortable about it as he was, he’d thought it would be rude not to take it. Now he had to trudge several hundred metres down the mountain every day to collect what they offered him. It’s not like he needed it! These people were dirt poor! Refugees who’d left everything they had behind, what little they still possessed should be going into helping them build their new lives.

He’d tried to say as much, but they wouldn’t listen.

Skeleton body guards in place around him, Tyron came into the relatively flat ground of the clearing to find nearly a dozen people in attendance. He sighed.

Ragged clothing, faces lined with years of struggle, grim expressions, these were worshippers of the three alright. Like they were carved out of old tree roots, these people were tough, he gave them that much.

At the head of the group, an old woman stood, leaning heavily on the cane she held in her right hand.

Would she sit down if I asked her to? Tyron wondered to himself, then grimaced. Not a chance.

“I told the last group, and I’ll tell you the same. I don’t require tribute or donations,” he said shortly as he approached the group, stopping five metres away. “What possessions and currency you possess is far better spent on yourselves than it is on me.”

Wordlessly, the old woman at the front nodded, then bowed and held out a sack in front, her arms trembling with the weight of it. He knew she’d hold it until she collapsed if he didn’t take it, these people were stubborn, so he instructed a skeleton to collect it.

The minion took the roughly sewn leather sack and brought it back, opening it close to Tyron so he could inspect what was inside. If it was money, he’d have to find a way to slip it to Ortan again.

Instead, his eyes widened slightly, and the old woman smiled to see it. Inside the sack, he found a jumble of assorted bones, possibly enough for a full skeleton.

“Did these come from one set of remains?” he asked.

“Yes.”

With a voice as rough as bark and eyes as cold as winter, the old woman answered him for the group. Tyron made a snap decision.

“If you insist on giving me things, though again I ask you not to... I am no servant…” he trailed off. “I am technically no servant of your gods, and I do not believe I am anyone’s salvation. However, if you insist on ignoring me, then this is the only thing I will accept from now on,” he took the bag from the skeleton and held it up.

“Bones,” he said. “Human bones. Or horse. Full skeletons are much preferred.”

He tried to keep the hunger from his voice, though it was difficult. The supply of remains he’d brought with him had dwindled almost to nothing. Repairing the skeletons as they fought, various experiments, materials for moulding armour, all took a little bone here and there.

“Be careful. Any place with too many bodies and thick death magick will result in wild undead, which can be extremely dangerous. If you intend to do this for me, then I’d prefer you didn’t come to harm.”

He paused, then narrowed his eyes.

“And please don’t kill anyone for their bones….”

Hopefully, he didn’t have to specify that. The old woman narrowed her eyes and looked a little offended, so they probably wouldn’t.

Finally, he said, “If you find a good source of remains but need help securing them, let me know. I will send skeletons, or assist myself.”

The old woman bowed, turned and began to leave, the others trailing in her wake. When he thought the audience was over, Tyron considered what had transpired for a moment, before he shrugged and made to leave, only to find one young woman had remained behind. He regarded her as she took several steps forward, arms folded across her chest. This was a slayer.

At a mental command, the skeletons around him drew closer and he cursed himself for not wearing his armour.

Too incautious. Just because the villagers haven’t wanted to harm me, doesn’t mean someone else won’t try.

He strove to keep his anger from his face as the slayer approached. Dark haired, with a long sleeved coat and her hair bound back, she looked mature for a bronze ranked slayer, certainly for one fresh out of the academy.

“That’s close enough,” he said, ensuring there were two ranks of shielded minions between them. Just to be safe, he began to form the mind domination spell, his hands flickering out the sigils discreetly, hidden from view. “If you have something to say, please speak your mind.”

Calculating brown eyes watched him, with no sign of fear in them, though he may have detected the slightest trembling in her fingers.

“My name is Samantha Ingthorn,” she said. “Leader of team Starlight.”

“Ah,” Tyron nodded. “The all female team? I’ve heard of you.”

“Is there an issue with an all female team?” she asked, her voice hardening a fraction.

“No. It’s simply unusual.”

Tyron’s response was flat and direct, and the slayer seemed to be satisfied.

“I apologise if I seem defensive. Some people don’t approve.”

“It’s no matter. Though I assume you didn’t come here, at the potential risk of your soul, to discuss prejudice. I have many things that occupy my time, and would be grateful if you would come to the point.”

Samantha nodded, seeming to have expected as much. She continued to watch him, assessing.

“I wanted to meet you,” she said finally. “Trenan and Brigette spoke to you and returned alive, along with so many townsfolk. It seemed to me that if I was going to place my trust, and the lives of my team, in your hands, I should at the very least meet you.”

“People are still worried I’m going to murder everyone in town?” Tyron asked, a hint of amusement creeping through.

“You told those villagers yourself that you needed bones.”

“I do,” he said, “desperately.”

“There’s an obvious and easy way for you to get them,” she shrugged.

“If you think committing mass murder is obvious and easy, then perhaps you are more dangerous than I am,” Tyron chuckled. “To date, there are very few among my minions that I have killed myself.”

“So there are some?”

“Of course. Slayers included.”

“Is there a reason I shouldn’t fear becoming one of them? What makes us so different than those you’ve already killed?”

The question was asked in a casual manner, though he could see how intent she was on getting an answer. She was a leader, wanting to ascertain just how safe her people were. He respected that.

“They tried to kill me, instead they were killed, and now they serve in death,” he said simply. “If you choose to attack me, then that will also be your fate.”

Samantha absorbed that, then Tyron shrugged.

“Of course, you have no way to determine if what I have said is the truth. I’m fully aware I have put you and your team in a no-win situation, but that is the fate of the weak in this realm, I’m afraid.”

“Even your parents?”

A surge of anger erupted in his chest at the question, his eyes turned blisteringly cold.

“Especially my parents,” he replied. “The difference is that Magnin and Beory did everything they could to scratch and claw their way to power. They burned themselves trying to break free. They failed at the final hurdle. I will not.”

Those dark eyes continued to regard him.

“Can you tell me how they died?” she asked.

Tyron glared.

“Why?”

She wilted a fraction under the weight of that stare, but she didn’t retreat.

“I wanted to hear it. If the magisters lied to us, then I want to know the truth.”

For a full minute, Tyron considered in silence, until at last he answered.

“Very well. Let me tell you of two slayers who defied the gods.”