Book of The Dead

It took Tyron several weeks before he managed to fall into a steady equilibrium. Working on the enchantments necessary to keep his store running, teaching Flynn, reestablishing contacts with his suppliers and generally ensuring every aspect of his life as ‘Lukas Almsfield’ was once again ticking along smoothly.

It was shocking to him just how quickly the edges began to fray after so short a time out of the city. Then again, his connections here were relatively new. It took years to build trust, especially in an industry like enchanting. Picking up and leaving for an extended period so soon after establishing himself was an extraordinary thing to do in the eyes of the business community, but here he was already planning his second trip.

Over this time, Elsbeth kept in regular contact, keeping him in the loop regarding her fellow underground dark priests and their movements. More and more, they were extracting their people from farming communities, villages and cities around the province. Picking them up and moving them away from civilisation, heading further out west.

It was likely that after another few months had passed, the population of Cragwhistle would double again. Ortan would doubtless be pulling his hair out at the constant influx of new residents, but Tyron took no joy in the thought. He was uncomfortable with how those people looked at him, uncomfortable with how the Old Gods had made them regard him.

He was no saviour and he didn’t imagine for one second that he was. If he could achieve his vengeance by throwing those people into the line of fire, then he would. Perhaps that was even what Raven, Rot and Crone wanted, which gave him pause.

The steadier and smoother life as Lukas Almsfield became, the more freedom he had to indulge in his true purpose, and Tyron threw himself into it with wild abandon.

Only the frequent intervention of Elsbeth kept him to anything remotely like a schedule. Thanks to her incessant mothering, he managed to keep himself rested, fed and clean despite spending almost all of the night hours locked in his study, working on his minions.

Interestingly, he found he made better progress when he was actually taking care of himself. Who could have foreseen such a thing?

Tyron looked around the Ossuary, smiling with satisfaction. Twenty skeletons, each a product of his current and most advanced preparation methods, now soaking in pure and concentrated Death Magick. These would be his first skeleton mages, simple undead with the Death Bolt spell engraved on their minds. In preparation, he had gone to great lengths to ensure they were capable of power sharing on a level far beyond his regular minions.

With a final check, he stepped through the door and into a different realm. His study was more spacious now that he no longer needed twenty slabs to lay the remains on, but that room had quickly been usurped by his latest obsession: bone constructs.

Using what he’d learned from the Sand People, he was quickly coming to understand that even with his current abilities, he was capable of creating much more than he’d imagined. Closing the door behind him, he was quickly surrounded by piles of bones, half-formed, partially moulded skulls, scores of discarded cores and abandoned experimental networks.

“I really need to clean up in here,” he sighed, looking at the stray materials.

Long nights had been spent crafting, theorising and tinkering. Now that preparing the remains took so much less time, he had much more free time to pursue his avenues of enquiry, and for now, all of that time was sunk into exploring the potential of these constructs.

He looked from one discarded test to the next. This one hadn’t drawn power efficiently enough. That one had proven to be too thin to support the power output he needed. He still hadn’t discovered all the variables he needed to nail down. How dense should he make the bones? Which bones were best for which purpose? How could ambient mana be safely converted without burning out the channels in his arrays? How many arrays was optimal? Which cores should he use?

These and a dozen other questions thundered through his head, and he was progressing on all of them, but it was slow going. Part of the problem was that he didn’t know what was actually possible.

As he sat down at his desk, letting out a long sigh, he pulled his latest notes toward him. On one page, he’d written a list of his greatest ambitions for his current enquiries. In the best case scenario, what would be possible?

The list was populated with fanciful, wishful things that likely were impossible.

A mobile engine capable of providing power to a thousand skeletons.

Bone giant.

Bone-spear launcher.

Darkness generator.

And more. Ideas for generating power, ideas for storing it, ideas for using it in powerful and destructive ways. All of it was possible, to some extent. He could probably fuse together multiple skeletons to create a bone construct twice the size of a person, but it would be hideously inefficient. To work out if it would be worth the expense in materials and the truly massive drain of Death Magick it would require to move, he would have to build one and test it. Several designs could be found already on the scattered pages around him, but which to use?

It was late, and Tyron had become better at realising when he was starting to push further than was healthy. Before he could be tempted into picking up a pen, he pushed his chair back and rose again. His shoulders and arms cracked pleasantly as he stretched, before he ascended back up, out the secret door and then into his quarters.

There would be more time to continue investigating his theories the next day, so he made sure to eat, drink, and wash himself before turning in to get a few hours of sleep before his staff would arrive in the morning.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

However, the next day did not go as he had thought it would.

The summons came shortly after breakfast, and Tyron barely had time to put his formal robes on before he found himself at the foot of the Magister’s tower. This was his fifth visit to the dreaded red tower, but the security measures had only grown more strict, it appeared. Tyron was forced to produce his status four times, as well as strip down to small clothes to be carefully inspected by an altogether too thorough guard, before he was allowed to enter the tower itself.

Inside, Tyron was greeted by the young lordling, Regis Shan, and a flurry of activity. Even here, on the ground floor, filled with maze-like corridors, it was clear things were not normal. The tower was like a kicked hornets nest, buzzing with activity. Beyond the regular, red uniformed guards Tyron was used to seeing, he noticed other soldiers, dressed in the Baron’s livery, marching up and down the halls.

As the young Magister Regis led him through the corridors, Tyron thought furiously, watching everything. Something had happened, something had changed, clearly. When he had come to the tower previously, there had been a faint feeling of malaise, of complacency, but now they were stirred up. There was urgency in the hurried way young trainees rushed through the corridors, and there was tension in the faces of everyone he saw.

His guide did not give him any opportunity to speak or ask questions, setting a brisk pace through the twists and turns, then up the stairs as they ascended to the next level. In short order, he found himself outside Lady Erryn’s office, a feeling of trepidation in his chest.

“Lord Shan–” he began.

“Don’t talk,” the young lord shook his head sharply. “We don’t have much time.”

For what?

The question followed naturally, but Tyron didn’t ask it, heeding the request to remain silent. Regis reached out and knocked firmly, then held himself still as he waited to be acknowledged. A voice called from within and he pushed open the door, indicating Tyron should enter.

Once again, the Necromancer found himself faced with a real Noble, the Lady Recillia Shan, and her opulent office. Much like the rest of the tower, a change in tone had swept through this place also.

No longer did the lady sit alone behind her desk. Furniture and displays had been moved to make way for more desks, behind which administrators poured through documents. Lady Erryn herself appeared unruffled, yet her own work area was laden with documents, and several men and women stood waiting on her words.

A quiet, feverish air hung heavy in this room, muttered conversations and whispered questions kept the volume low, but the pace remained high. The Lady murmured to this person and that, pointing at the pages in front of her here and there, asking questions, seeking clarification. Several people were dismissed, and then Tyron stood at the front of the line.

“Please approach the desk,” the Noble instructed, and Tyron stepped forward as close as he deemed appropriate.

His expression was polite and expectant, his posture subservient and willing. To the outside observer, he was honoured to be here and eager to help in whatever way the tower deemed necessary.

Within him was a storm of fury and rage. He felt as if the blood in his veins cried out for vengeance. This woman needed to be dead!

“How may I serve, Lady Erryn?” he asked quietly, executing a reasonably elegant bow.

As he rose, the sensation he had been dreading came once more. Like a needle driven hard into leather, an invisible force slammed into the glamour that covered his features. There was no change in his expression, no shift in his breathing, yet Tyron sweated as he felt the magick bend under that pressure, stronger than it had been the first time.

Yet it did not break.

Thank you, Dark Ones. Thank you, Elsbeth!

Had his false-face cracked here, there is no doubt he would be dead in seconds, or worse.

Giving no sign anything had happened, Recillia leaned back in her chair for a moment, letting the pen drop from her hand for the first time since he’d entered.

“Your reputation continues to grow within the Arcanist community, Master Lukas Almsfield. Master Willhem speaks highly of you, as do all of those for whom you’ve performed commission work. My own Magisters are pleased with what you’ve done for us, indeed, they marvel at your expertise.”

Tyron bowed low once more.

“Many thanks, Lady Erryn. My talents are narrowly focused, but in those areas in which I specialise, I believe I can claim to be exceptional.”

“Quite,” the noblewoman said shortly. She reached out for a page and gathered it smoothly, holding it out to him in one motion. “We foresee a significant rise in demand for enchanting work which will outstrip the capacity of our in-house Arcanists. Would you be willing to take on more commissions for the Magister’s tower?”

A natural smile bloomed across the Necromancer’s face.

“I would be delighted.”

She nodded as he took the page from her. A quick scan revealed what they wanted him to do. Significant sections of the tower’s defences would be undergoing maintenance, upgrades, or being redone entirely. As a conduit expert, his list of tasks was extensive, having him hop from array to array to ensure they were as efficient and self-contained as possible.

“If you agree to undertake this work for us, I will require you to be bound by tighter restrictions than before. If you are willing, I will apply these restrictions now.”

Without hesitation, Tyron accepted. Immediately, he was overwhelmed with Divine Authority. His blood pounded in his ears and his vision went fuzzy as the words spoken by the noble before him thundered within his brain.

“By my Authority. You will not speak on what you have learned here. You will not share what has been discussed, what you have seen or heard, through any means. You will work to the betterment of the Magisters and the Nobility, completing the commissioned work to the best of your ability. You will not betray this trust. Should you fail to heed this command, your heart will cease to beat, and you shall die. Divines make it so.”

The words wrapped around him like invisible chains, tightening and binding him in ways he did not fully understand. When he came back to himself, he had managed to retain his balance, though he had clutched at the Lady’s desk to keep himself upright. With a muttered apology, he stepped back and straightened himself.

“You may go. Magister Regis Shan will be your point of contact going forward. He will let you know when you are required to attend the Tower, and be responsible for ensuring your commissions are fulfilled.”

Just like that, he was dismissed. Tyron bowed low once more, then turned and made his exit. Outside, he found the lordling waiting, looking none too pleased.

“You accepted the terms?” he asked flatly.

“I did. I take it you are to be my associate for the next while.”

The young man grunted, making it clear he didn’t appreciate the connection. He turned to walk away, remarking over his shoulder as he went, ”You look happy about this turn of events.”

Indeed, it was difficult for Tyron to keep the grin off his face.

“Oh. I am always happy to serve.”