Book of The Dead

Tyron sighed as he sat down on his bed. It had been a risk revealing himself to Cerry and Flynn, but it was a measured one. Who were they going to reveal him to? The moment Cerry popped her head above the parapet, she was going to get it taken off, and Flynn wanted to marry the girl, putting her at risk was not something he could handle. For better or worse, his apprentice had chosen his side the moment he’d helped Cerry hide from the authorities.

The Necromancer leaned back and pinched his brow. He was tired; the travel had been long and arduous, draining even his own formidable reserves of endurance. At times, he’d felt he wouldn’t make it back into the city at all, but now that he was here, he could feel the danger pressing in all around him.

Here he was, in the seat of power for the Duke, the Divines, the Magisters, all of them. At any moment, they could break down his door and sweep through the store. If even the slightest trace of Death Magick was found, they’d break through his floor and eventually find his study, with all the evidence of his activities.

Adding Cerry and Flynn on top of his existing concerns wasn’t something he wanted, and if her Class hadn’t been so unique, perhaps he wouldn’t have bothered.

The ability to calm the spirits? A Spirit Speaker? What’s more… the Class description said she could grant them release from their suffering. Did that mean she could move them on from their aimless wandering on this plane after death? In that case… where did they go?

If he worked with her, it might be possible for him to finally locate the realm he had been searching for: the Land of the Dead.

It had to exist. Dove was able to summon creatures from there; his Class description stated as much. Also, Tyron had long harboured suspicions as to the origin of the dense Death Magick that flooded the Ossuary. Where else would there exist a nigh endless source of such potent energy?

This was the secret knowledge the Abyss had promised him, in exchange for a truly terrible price.

If he were able to find it… if he could go there… the possibilities were endless. An infinite supply of spirits, powerful Slayers of old, heroes of legend, and an endless river of Death Magick with which he could empower his constructs.

If he could tap the energy of that realm and siphon it into his minions, he could sustain an undead army of unprecedented size.And perhaps… just perhaps… he might be able to find the souls of Magnin and Beory.

He had no idea where their souls had gone, just that they’d made some sort of arrangement to ensure they were beyond the reach of their enemies, and beyond his own.

No matter what deals he’d offered any of his ‘patrons’, none were willing to give an inch when it came to his parents. The Abyss had rejected him despite the abundance of souls he’d been willing to offer. The Scarlet Court had rebuffed him, despite the blood slaves and favours he had desperately proposed. He’d done everything shy of offering himself to them on a platter, but they wouldn’t budge. The Old Gods had refused to even hear his pleas, completely uninterested in anything he could give them.

It was maddening. He’d been driven into a wild rage, but now… now he might have a way forward. There was no evidence their souls could be found in the Realm of the Dead, but at the very least he could rule it out.

Thoughts and emotions swirling in his head, Tyron forced himself up. Rest wouldn’t come easy in this state, and there was still so much to do. Before he allowed himself to sleep, he needed to make sure he was secure, which meant going down to the study and checking his wards.

He took his time as he moved through the store and into the backrooms, inspecting every nook and cranny to ensure everything was exactly as he’d left it. When he triggered the mechanism to reveal the hidden staircase, his eyes sought every rune and enchantment he’d built into it to ensure it was neither found nor disturbed. Finding nothing wrong, he breathed a small sigh of relief and made his way down into the underground cellar.

It had been months since he’d been here, but as far as he could tell, there had been no change to the room at all. His wards were intact, the sigils engraved into the stone walls were functional, and not a trace of Death Magick remained in the air.

Just as he began to allow himself to relax, he did notice one difference. On his desk sat a rolled up sheet of paper bound by a single thread of twine, placed exactly in the centre. Tyron stood and observed for several minutes, as if it were a deadly viper reared back to strike. Eventually he moved toward it, but didn’t pick it up, instead subjecting it to every manner of magickal test he could think of or devise in the moment. Unable to find anything wrong with it, he finally picked up the paper, broke the string and unwound it.

The page contained a short message, written in a neat, uncomplicated hand. Tyron scanned it once, twice, then placed it down, a contemplative look flitting across his face.

This… was another complication. What he needed to figure out was if it would tilt things in his favour, or against.

~~~

Yor had not been having a good night.

“Get that undisciplined wretch below or I’ll cut off her head myself,” she whispered harshly into the ear of her confidant.

Her voice was filled with wrath, but she didn’t allow it to touch her face; a serene, coy expression played across her exquisite features, leaving all who saw her thinking that slight smile was for them alone.

“I have no idea how she got up here, mistress,” Carlotta begged.

The vampire tightened her grip around the thrall’s arm until it was painfully tight.

“I don’t care how it happened. Get. Her. Down. Now.”

Finally, she managed to cut through the terror that gripped the useless woman. Carlotta nodded before stumbling toward the back room where the… incident had taken place.

For her part, Yor continued to play the room. A word here, a touch there, she kept everyone yearning for more, eager to stay, but ever so subtly, she made sure that none moved into the deeper rooms.

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“Oh no, please stay in your seat,” she purred to one gold Slayer, “I’ll have someone fetch you a drink. I couldn’t bear to see you move out of my sight.”

She signalled one of her staff, another thrall, of course, to tend to the man’s needs before casting her gaze around the room. Everyone appeared settled, happy to remain where they were and indulge in their vices. Hopefully, they’d remain so for at least a few minutes so she could attend to the… situation herself.

With a final glance, she turned her back on the darkened lounge and moved down the corridor. More of her people were here, standing nonchalantly, leaning against the walls, but in position to block access to any who would seek to walk through.

In the back room, she could hear the disturbance. Someone was thrashing, limbs flailing and scraping against the floor. Yor growled under her breath as her fangs extended in response to the anger boiling up inside her.

And because of the rich scent of blood that filled the air.

In the back room, Carlotta was sobbing, attempting to pull a hunched figure off the ground, but could only watch as they slurped and sucked at the blood pooling on the floor. Still seated at the table sat what had not long ago been an esteemed customer, now missing his throat.

With a blur of motion, Yor crossed the floor and sank her slippered foot into the side of the prone vampire with a sickening crunch. The creature tried to unleash a howl of outrage, but Yor was already there, her hand pressed around the throat too tight for air to pass through.

She stared with blood red eyes into the gaze of the other, dominating the fledgeling with her superior will.

With an almost animalistic whimper, her victim slumped in defeat, going completely limp in Yor’s grasp.

With contemptuous ease, she threw the defeated vampire to the side and turned her gaze on Carlotta, who cringed back from her mistress.

“She will be docile now,” Yor stated softly. “Take her below before there is any further unpleasantness.”

How had a fledgeling broken out of their rooms? It was not supposed to happen, not now of all times!

A question for later; right now, she needed damage control.

“Someone fetch Vincent. Have him clean up this mess and find out who that was,” she said, gesturing toward the still-gushing corpse sitting at the table, a blissful smile still etched on his face. “Ensure that none of our guests come back to this room for the rest of the night.”

The nearby thralls nodded, and two of them dashed off to find her trusted right-hand man. At least there was someone competent she could rely on in moments of crises.

“If you’re looking for Vincent, I think he’s right here,” a voice said from the doorway.

A familiar voice.

Yor turned slowly to the entrance and saw Tyron Steelarm, smiling at her with dead eyes, one hand placed on the shoulder of a vacant-eyed Vincent.

“He’s been very accommodating, haven’t you Vincent?”

No words were spoken as the vampire’s glazed expression didn’t shift. Tyron shook his shoulder a little, and other than causing Vincent to sway on his feet, nothing changed.

Yor felt her temper flare, but she mastered herself quickly. She hadn’t lived as long as she had in the Scarlet Court without learning how to control her mental state. In the Court, even blinking at the wrong time could lead to a gruesome death. By comparison, this realm was a child’s playground.

“Tyron, how lovely to see you again,” she said, caressing every word in the way she knew caused his hackles to rise.

As expected, disgust flickered over his features and Yor, not for the first time, wondered why he was so immune to her charms.

“I wish I could say the same,” he replied evenly, stepping around the dominated Vincent to enter the room. He took a close look at the deceased at the table, shaking his head.

“I hope this one wasn’t a Priest. That could prove a little difficult for you to brush under the rug.”

“Are you worried about me, Tyron? How delightful. I take this to mean our relationship is fully mended?”

“Hardly,” he scoffed, taking care to step around the still growing pool of blood. “Is someone going to take care of this? I don’t suppose having your customers discussing the room filled with blood as they go home would go over well in the current environment?”

Yor wanted to snarl, but only tilted her head toward one of her thralls. For once, one of the creatures proved capable of thinking for itself.

“I’ll fetch Perior,” he stated before dashing off down the corridor.

A good choice. Another of her coven, tasked with managing one of the upstairs lounges. He could leave that post for an hour or two without issue.

She turned back to Tyron, who continued to examine the deceased with almost professional curiosity.

“Would you like to take our discussion to another room? One with a more pleasant atmosphere, perhaps?”

A little edge crept into her voice. She hadn’t called him out on his less than subtle threats, but she would only allow him to push her so far.

He ignored her.

“I’ve started to figure it out, you know.” He raised a finger and tapped it to the side of his head. “What your mistress did to me. At first, I thought it was about anger. I was losing my temper more and more. A constant, bubbling rage, always there, just simmering under the surface. Quite distracting.”

Yor listened silently as Tyron spoke. He didn’t look at her, just continued to step around the deceased, picking at the dead man’s clothes, his hands, even his pockets.

“But that’s not all it was, was it? Of course, it had to be something more insidious, more subtle than that. It’s a more complex manipulation of my emotions. Some have been deadened, but others heightened. More anger, less remorse. You tried to strip my compassion, my guilt from me. Turn me into something more like you.”

The vampire allowed herself a small smile.

“Quite the gift the Mistress has allowed you. Do you not feel yourself to be more fit for the purpose you have laid out for yourself?”

To her surprise, Tyron nodded thoughtfully.

“Perhaps. There may be a grain of truth to what you say, but then, how might I have thought of it before that spider sunk her claws into my head?”

Yor’s gaze sharpened. Spider? Where had he heard that from? Perhaps it was a coincidence.

“At any rate, I didn’t come here to go over my old grievances. I came to make an introduction.”

“An introduction?” Yor looked around the room mockingly. “To whom?”

In response, Tyron reached into the inner pocket of his cloak and removed a large, malformed rat.

Seething anger exploded in Yor’s chest as she glared at the hideous creature.

A voice emanated from the rodent, amused and superior at her visible rage.

“Whore,” it said.

“Dog,” she replied.