Book of The Dead

The great wall of Kenmor loomed in the distance, so wide it was difficult to see the curve as the carriage approached. Tyron sat, tense, eyes darting from his hands folded in his lap to the open window. Rain drizzled down, spattering through the opening and onto his cloak, but he paid it no mind.

There was a pall over the land, a shadow that didn’t seem to solely be due to the low-hanging clouds. The side of the Emperor’s Way, the road that ran through the centre of the city, was lined with people. Some travelling in groups, moving away from the capital, others huddled in small tent gatherings, looking lost and hopeless.

The purge was ongoing, and nowhere were the effects felt more strongly than here, in the beating heart of the province.

Tyron could see it in the hollow expressions of the people as his carriage rolled past. These were people who had lost loved ones, lost homes, been driven out from their communities by fear and false accusations.

In each and every one of them, Tyron saw a potential soldier. Right now, they were fearful, terrified, aimless. They had suffered at the hands of the empire, but couldn’t imagine striking back against it. They sought to ride out the trouble, or endure it, as best they could.

It wouldn’t be long now until the word of rebellion spread across the province. What would happen to these people then? Would they continue to cower? Doubtless many would, but some, some would fight.

“Not much further to the checkpoint, Master Almsfield,” the carriage driver called back.

“Thank you, driver,” he said, and took a deep breath to steady himself. Getting back into the city wouldn’t be easy, but he’d expected that. Had planned for it.

Nothing about his return had been easy. It had been a terrible risk to use the rift from Cragwhistle and return to the Oldan estate, but neither could he afford to travel for weeks across the province. Emerging from the ritual site had been nerve-wracking, but thankfully, he hadn’t found any marshals, or a small army of priests waiting for him on the other side.

Getting from the estate to a village where he could hire a carriage had been another thing entirely. The house was likely nothing but a smoking ruin at this point, and he wasn’t so foolish as to try and see it. Instead, he’d had to pick his way through the forest, for days, emerging to the south and finally managing to connect to a road.He heard the driver slowing the horses, pulling back on the reins and Tyron steadied himself. It wasn’t long until there was a knock at the side of the carriage and as a lantern was held to the open window, shining a light inside.

“Mind stepping out of the carriage, sir?”

“Lukas Almsfield, Arcanist.”

“Master Almsfield, if you would.”

Tyron nodded and the marshall stepped back, allowing him to emerge into the rain. The checkpoint straddled the highway, a series of hastily constructed buildings on both sides of the road. Teams of marshals, with priests mixed in amongst them, moved from carriage to carriage, inspecting every individual, every pack and every parcel.

Interestingly, there were far more people moving out of the city than into it.

There were four marshalls outside his carriage, each of them tense, hands never far from their weapons. Tyron noted their shaky nerves with interest. Something was driving these men and women, pushing them to the edge of their nerves.

“Status ritual please, sir.”

“Of course.”

Masking his nerves, Tyron pulled back his cloak to reveal the knife sheathed at his waist. When it was indicated he could withdraw it, he did so and made a neat slice on his thumb.

He was presented with a page pinned to a thin slate and noted how the water ran off the paper without soaking in. Enchanted, and in quite a clever way. As he pressed his thumb to the paper, he didn’t bother trying to disguise his professional curiosity.

“Is the array on the back of the slate?” he asked as his blood flowed onto the paper.

The marshal shrugged impatiently.

“I don’t know anything about it except that it works, sir.”

“Can I take a look after?”

“No, we need to keep the line moving.”

When his status was finalised, they withdrew the slate. Two marshals watched him as the other two took the sheet away and inspected it closely under a burning torch. After a few moments, they returned.

“Everything seems to be fine. Just wait here a moment and a priest will be along shortly.”

“A what?”

“A priest,” the marshal repeated impatiently before waving over another officer to watch him as the four moved down the line to the next carriage waiting.

Fighting to maintain his calm, Tyron stood in the rain, hands clasped inside his cloak as he watched the bustle around the checkpoint. Fires guttered in the drizzle, and he spotted a few arcane light sources here and there, bobbing through the dark as people walked with them attached to something or other.

Soon, a white-robed figure approached, a Priestess of Lofis, judging by the leaves embroidered on her robes. With a staff in one hand, she trudged through the rain, a disgruntled look on her face.

“A good evening to you, Priestess,” Tyron said, bowing to hide his wary expression.

“Yes, blessings of Lofis be upon you. Let’s get this done.”

Without any further words, she raised her free hand, which began to glow softly as she closed her eyes, as if listening to something. Tyron tensed. He hadn’t anticipated something like this. Were the Divines themselves inspecting every wagon heading into the city? Impossible. Whatever was happening, he hoped The Three were covering him. Otherwise, he might be in real trouble.

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Surreptitiously, he began to gather magick, forming sigils within his robes as he watched the Priestess.

After ten seconds or so, she lowered her hand and the glow faded.

“You’re fine to go through. Take this pass and show it to the guards further up. Go in the light of the Five.”

No sooner had she handed him the pass and spoken her blessings than she was off, pulling her robe up out of the mud and striding to the next carriage.

Unsure what had just happened, Tyron let his magick disperse as he looked down at the pass. It was a palm-sized metallic rectangle, stamped with an intricate pattern of interlocking circles and the symbols of The Five. Not sure what else to do, he climbed back into the carriage and signalled the driver to continue.

Despite the majority of traffic flowing out of the city, there was still a significant line of people trying to get in. They waited an hour before they finally reached the outskirts of Shadetown, where a second checkpoint sat astride the road. Feeling nervous, Tyron handed over his pass, which the guard took from him, threw into a waiting box filled with others just like it, and waved them through.

The carriage rolled on and he finally allowed himself to relax a little. He’d been worried his pass would mark him as a heretic and the dozens of guards would jump him the moment he’d handed it over.

The rain continued to drip and drizzle as the carriage pushed into Shadetown, the wall looming high ahead. If the signs of despondency and fear were clear on the road, they were practically a shout here, just outside Kenmor.

The streets, usually full of people, and traffic, and trade, were a shadow of their former selves. Not even the dismal weather could explain the small number of furtive people, making their way across the streets at a hurried pace. Every person he saw seemed to have their shoulders hunched, as if a weight had been placed on their back, or they sought to avoid the gaze of someone.

Everyone, except the marshals, that is.

Almost like gangs, there were groups on street corners, and others moving between the houses and storefronts, clearly with a target in mind. The tense atmosphere hung over the entire city like a blanket.

Tyron kept his head down and tried not to stare at anyone as the streets rolled by. Eventually the carriage driver pulled to the side, and Tyron thanked the man before paying him. With his bag in hand, he made his way through the roads, making a beeline for his shop.

Everywhere he looked, stores, inns and taverns that had thrived not long ago were boarded up, the occupants having been taken by the purge or fled the city in fear. When he approached the market, even that normally bustling part of Shadetown, filled with commerce, discussion and haggling was quiet, with barely anyone out of their homes. When he arrived at Almsfield Enchantments, to his shock, that too had been boarded up, the entrance dark and dusty.

He fished his key out of his bag and opened the door to find the interior hadn’t been disturbed, but a fine layer of dust told the story of neglect. Nobody had been here in weeks, perhaps longer. Wondering what had happened, Tyron locked the door behind him and cast a light orb, letting the soft glow of magick fill up the dark shop floor.

The cabinets were undisturbed, the display pieces still in their places along with the descriptive cards alongside each of them. Moving behind the counter, he found the safe still intact, the coins stacked neatly inside. They hadn’t been robbed, and there was no damage, or sign of struggle. So what had happened?

Confused, Tyron continued to inspect the store, letting his light rest above his right palm as he checked the back rooms. The tools and equipment were still there, along with boxes of cores, already engraved and waiting to be set. More and more puzzled, he checked to make sure there was no sign the entrance to his study had been tampered with or discovered and found none.

Even more baffled, he made his way upstairs. His feet heavy on the wooden steps, he thought he heard a muffled conversation cut off as he approached the door at the entrance to the second floor. Was there someone in his rooms?

On guard now, he raised his hands and prepared a Death Bolt in one hand and the Dominate Mind spell in the other. Was someone lying in wait for him? Had Yor decided to push the issue?

Anger pulsed in his temples and he forced it back down. He needed to be calm, in control. Making too much of a scene would give himself away, raise suspicion when he could least afford it.

With smooth movements, he opened the door, took three strides down the corridor and flung open the entrance to the upstairs workshop.

There was a scramble inside, a body dove under the worktable as Tyron flung his light glove into the room and hunted for a target.

Raising his foot, he kicked over the table, sending it onto its side with a crash. A figure cowered below, but Tyron allowed them no time to recover, slamming his mind into the other’s and crushing it in an instant.

The figure went limp, rolling to the side, and only then did Tyron recognise who it was.

“Flynn? Bone and Blood, what are you doing?”

His apprentice lay flopped onto his side, unable to move, and Tyron stared down at him in consternation.

“And where the hell are your pants?”

“M-m-master Almsfield?” a timid voice called from deeper into the room. “Is that you?”

“Cerry?” Tyron asked, sending his globe higher.

Wrapped in a blanket, his former store attendant saw him in the dim light and burst into tears, her loud sobs filling the workshop.

Only then did Tyron notice the changes in the room. A pallet and bedding, a chamber pot, water and food tucked away in the corner. Clearly, something had happened here.

“I’m going to my room,” he announced wearily as he released his grip on his apprentice. “Flynn, put your dick away and make yourselves presentable. Then we can talk.”

His own room was just as dusty as downstairs, and Tyron cursed as he resigned himself to tidying the place up. At least none of his possessions had been messed with. Since the place appeared abandoned, it was almost a miracle it was unrobbed. Even the reputable parts of Shadetown weren’t above a little petty crime when the opportunity afforded itself.

Ten minutes later, a clearly embarrassed Flynn and Cerry joined him just as he finished wiping down his small table and chairs. With a gesture, he invited them to join him as he sat with a sigh.

“Let’s not waste time,” he stated. “I can see that something has gone very wrong, which led you to close down the store and take up residence upstairs. Out with it. You wouldn’t have hidden here if you didn’t want me to help you.”

Flynn, shame faced, looked down at his lap, and it was Cerry, barely holding back her tears, who spoke first.

“I-I-I’m sorry, M-m-master Almsfield. I j-j-just d-didn’t know where else to turn!”

She broke down again, sobbing into her hands, and Tyron turned to Flynn impatiently.

“What happened, Flynn? Talk to me.”

The young man gathered his courage and slowly brought his eyes up to meet his teacher’s.

“It was… ahem… it was Cerry’s… ah… Awakening. She… She was g-given… an illegal Class.”

Tyron’s eyes sharpened, then he sighed and softened his gaze. He brought up a hand to massage the bridge of his nose. This was his fault… in a loose sense. The Old Gods had unleashed chaos when they’d decided to interfere with the Awakening stones, right as a purge was under way. Clearly, Cerry had been caught up in the crossfire and Awakened something the Priests would not have wanted to see. So, they’d closed the store and had been hiding her here ever since.

“I’m amazed you weren’t found. Hasn’t anyone checked the store?”

Flynn nodded.

“A few times, but we managed to hide Cerry in the supply crates.”

“Ah, they needed you for the keys. You knew when they were coming.”

Again, his apprentice nodded.

“Well,” Tyron muttered, “this is going to be a pain. Let me say this first, I’m not going to turn you in, Cerry.”

Both of them stared at him, hope and surprise warring on their faces.

He smothered a wry smile.

“It would be difficult for me to do so, considering what I am.”

He pushed himself up from the table.

“I’ll make some tea. This might take a while.”