Book of The Dead

“We’re being pushed too hard. Magisters are falling over from fatigue. Mistakes are being made. You need to reconsider your timetable!”

Lady Erryn kept her expression neutral as her eyes bored into the Grand Magister’s.

“This is not my timetable, but that of the gods themselves,” she replied coolly. “If your Mages cannot keep up, then consider why they are so unfit for the purpose that has been assigned to them. Perhaps you should explain to his excellency the Duke why his purge of the heretics is falling behind. I can’t wait to see his expression when he hears that the divine purpose placed into his hands is being delayed by fat and lazy Magisters.”

She lashed him with the weight of her authority in the last sentence, letting him feel the pressure of her scorn.

“Grand Magister Tommat, I would hate to think that, even at this late stage, I need to remind you of the price of failure. If you think that my head would be the only one to roll, you are sorely mistaken. Yours, along with all the senior Magisters, would be rotting in a sack before mine touched the ground.”

With a glare so heated she herself felt the heat of it, the old Mage before her wilted visibly, a weed blasted by the sun.

“I wouldn’t dream of such a thing, Lady Erryn. I wish for nothing but success for our current endeavour, I am a loyal servant of the Divines! All I wanted was to ensure you were aware of the situation. Mistakes are being made, mistakes that could impact the great work of yourself and the Duke. It would be remiss of me not to alert you of potential failures….”

At that moment, Recillia Erryn hated everything about this situation. She hated this frail, short-sighted old man who had somehow risen to the top of his order. She hated the Red Tower, infested with entitled, lazy second sons and daughters. She hated her office, and the fact she had to sit here amongst these cast-offs. Most of all, she hated her responsibilities here, having to wrangle such creatures to serve as was their fate.

“Stand straight,” she demanded acidly. “You’re the Grand Magister, for the gods’ sake. Show a little dignity.”

Magister Tommat straightened himself, flushing red from both anger and shame. She didn’t care.

“There will be no change to the timetable,” she informed him, “and with even a modicum of thought, you would understand why. Should the Duke fail to enact the words of the Oracles, he will be deposed faster than you blink. When the stakes are so high, you can imagine what will happen to those who put success in danger. The main problem I see, is that your people are not operating under enough fear.”

She stared contemptuously at the old man.

“These are unprecedented times that come with unprecedented danger. Even the heads of the Noble houses are at risk, let alone Magisters.”

Leaning back in her char, the noble lady considered her options, one finger tapping against her bottom lip. As she thought, Grand Magister Tommat could do nothing but fidget and sweat, cursing his own bad luck. A few more years and he would have retired, a respected and valued contributor to the peace of the realm. As much as he hated to admit it, he was unsuited to the circumstances he found himself in. For the entirety of his time as a Magister, things had run like clockwork, the occasional slayer problems put down quickly and easily. Now that they were being forced to perform in ways they were unaccustomed to, the fragility of the Red Tower was being brutally exposed.

“I believe a demonstration of the seriousness of the situation is all that is required,” Lady Erryn announced, her tone as sibilant as a snake.

Unease crept into Tommat’s mind as he tried to process that.

“What do you mean?” he asked slowly. “I’m sure my people are more than aware of the circumstances.”

“I disagree,” she replied smoothly. “The next two Magisters to fail in the course of their duties are to be sent directly to me. I will ensure they receive the discipline that is warranted.”

Though he knew it was pointless, Grand Magister Tommat had to speak up on behalf of his people.

“We have always handled disciplinary matters internally. I myself have been responsible for ensuring lapses are met with appropriate punishment.”

Recillia narrowed her eyes.

“We are in this position because we disagree on what is ‘appropriate’. It will be as I say.”

Tommat bowed his head, knowing he had no choice but to yield. The Magisters served by the will of the Noble houses; they could not defy them.

“What are you going to do?” he asked softly.

“I will give them to the church,” she replied, voice flat and emotionless. “They will be tried for obstructing the work of the Divines.”

~~~

The screams were never ending. No matter where he was in the tower, there was no way to escape them. They haunted his sleep along with his every waking moment.

The young, recently promoted Magister Regis Shan had never seen anything like it, and he hoped never to see it again. The Divine fire that had descended, burning not the flesh, but the spirit. Even now, it continued to burn, two Mages committed to the flames.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

The only thing that kept him going was the thought that he might be next.

Despite the fatigue, he pushed himself forward, reaching out a hand to steady himself against the door frame as he knocked on the door. Without waiting for a reply, he swung it open, closing it quickly behind himself.

Inside, Grand Magister Tommat sat behind his desk, two other high-ranking Magisters alongside him, including Herath Jorlin. For once, the young Magister wasn’t looking his usual, well-coiffed self, appearing just as haggard as Regis felt.

However, it was the much older man who drew his eye. The Grand Magister appeared as a shadow of his former self, eyes sunken into his head, skin pallid and pale.

“I have the reports from Lotsford,” Regis announced quietly, placing the pages down in front of the three men.

Herath collected them without a word, eyes running down the summary on the first page quickly.

“That many?” he asked, no hint of surprise in his tone.

“That’s what the report says,” Regis replied.

“Surely even the church is going to have trouble dealing with so many prisoners at once. What are they doing with them?”

“That is not our concern,” Tommat said. “We are not to interfere in the working of the Priesthood. Handling the heretics is their responsibility. We are to assist them in collection and managing slayers. That is all.”

After a moment’s pause, Herath bowed his head toward the Grand Magister.

“Of course. I will refrain from such enquiries in future.”

“See that you do.”

All through the conversation, the sounds of screams rang in their ears, ceaselessly. None acknowledged it.

“The further the search stretches to the west, the thinner our numbers become. There are barely enough Magisters left in the tower to maintain our normal functions as it is,” the hitherto silent Magister Anlyn said.

“It doesn’t matter,” Tommat sighed. “There will be cessation in the efforts to sweep the unclean from the province. The Duke has set the timetable; we have no choice but to meet his demands.”

“That means more Magisters leaving the tower,” Herath said, forcing out a smile. “I suppose I’ll need to start packing my bags. I’m guessing they won’t be finished in Lotsford anytime soon, which means the next group to head out will be going to Waybridge?”

Anlyn shuffled through his papers for a moment before he nodded.

“Yes,” he confirmed. “Then further south, toward Endless Sand and Dustwatch Keeps.”

“I hate it down there,”: Herath compalined. “The sand gets into everything.”

“Pardon. Should I remain or return to my duties?” Regis asked.

He was swaying on his feet, so he reached out a hand to grasp an empty chair to steady himself. It had been over three days since he’d last slept, and the lordling was unaccustomed to such deprivations, to say the least.

“Stay a moment, young Regis,” the Grand Magister said, turning his haunted gaze upon him. “You will need to leave us and head out into the field alongside Magister Jorlin. I wanted to ensure that you are prepared for your new duties.”

Although he had been dreading such news, the fatigue left the young Shan lordling feeling too numb for any great reaction. All he could muster was a sigh and a shrug.

“As long as I get to sleep on the way there, I think I’ll be fine,” he said.

Herath forced a laugh with a lopsided grin to match.

“I understand where you’re coming from, but you don’t want to be making any mistakes out there. The consequences can be… ear-splitting.”

On and on, the screaming simply never ended, a constant refrain to life in the tower. How did they not run out of breath? Surely their voices would be gone soon? Were the damned Priests healing them?

Regis shook his head. It wouldn’t do to dwell on such thoughts. He pushed them from his mind.

“Remember, we don’t determine the targets, we help the Marshals and Priests. Our main responsibility is to step in and control any slayers caught up in the purge.”

Herath Jorlin found a map amongst the scattered papers on the desk and unrolled it.

“We’ll be heading to Waybridge. There are already teams at Reynold Keep and Havercroft in the south. Have you ever been to Endless Sand Keep?”

Regis shook his head wordlessly.

“It has a… reputation, let’s say. It’s a long way from Kenmor, and the Slayers are a little more… independent than those you find at Blackrift or Undermist. Dustwatch and Skyice are even further west and are significantly worse.”

Regis blinked. They were openly talking about disgruntled Slayers? Such a thing had never happened in his presence before.

“What should I expect?” he asked finally, trying to focus his mind.

“The worst,” Herath replied. “That way, when things turn out better, we won’t be surprised. One thing has been true for the duration of this emergency: the further from the capital we get, the more arrests are made. By the time we get to Skyice, half the damn place is going to be in chains, including the slayers.”

“What happens when we arrest slayers?”

“People die,” Grand Magister Tommat answered for him, wearily. “If they aren’t subdued fast enough with the brand, they’ll try to push past the agony and inflict as much damage as possible. We’ve already lost Magisters who weren’t careful enough, and I would hate to see a promising young man cut down just as his career was beginning.”

Despite the crushing fatigue, Regis felt a chill run down his spine. There were so many ways to fail, so many ways to die. Just what was happening in the province, and why were the Magisters being crushed under so much weight?

Just how bad were things going to get as they pushed further west? How many Magisters were they going to lose?

Perhaps Herath could see the thoughts written on his face, for he smirked and answered his unspoken questions.

“It’s going to get bad. Very bad. I expect there will be far fewer members of this tower by the time this is all done. Lady Shan is driving us hard, and there will be more examples before too long.”

The screaming. Always the screaming.

“But it isn’t coming from her. It’s coming from the Duke, from the Priests, the Oracles, the Emperor himself. We live in unprecedented times, and if we aren’t sharp, we will be swept away with the tide.”

Regis stiffened his back.

“I won’t be swept away,” he declared quietly. “I’m going to survive.”

Herath stood and clapped him on the shoulder.

“You’re starting to sound like my good friend Poranus. A little fire in our bellies will get us a long way right now.” He turned back to Tommat. “How long until you need us to leave?”

The old man didn’t need to consult his notes.

“Two days. That’s the most I can give you.”

“Very well. If you’ll excuse me then, my fellow Mages of the Red Tower. I’m going to bed.”