Book of The Dead

A ro’klaw was, at its best, an ill-tempered brute of a semi-monstrous bird. It had a beak capable of cutting through steel mesh, claws that could shred a human’s flesh with casual ease, and tough, layered feathers that could stop an arrow. Combined with their surly attitude, they were a nightmare to train and keep. Workers in the rookeries were frequently injured, and it wasn’t uncommon for there to be deaths, especially among the younger trainees.

Yet, the beasts had many undeniable benefits. They were smart, very smart, and could be taught to deliver messages to several locations, making them extremely flexible. Due to their size and fearsome weapons, they were menaces to the predators of regular birds and would almost never be killed by hawks or falcons. Furthermore, they were fast and enduring. Once they reached maturity, a ro’klaw could fly for a week without rest, and was fast enough to reach Kenmor from anywhere in the province in that time.

Despite their usefulness, Rurin just wasn’t a fan. They were noisy, bit everyone they could get their beaks on, and unleashed an unspeakable amount of foul-smelling shit. It smelled so acidic she swore it would melt through a sword given a little time. Alchemists went mad for the stuff, but they were just as useless in her eyes.

“All right, Meesha, I’m here,” she announced, striding into the rookery. “And why couldn’t you just send it to me like usual?”

“Because,” the old woman’s voice echoed out from deeper in the rookery, “all the runners decided to try and be Slayers, and because you asked me to send for you if a black ringed message came in.”

The acrid stink of the rookery was enough to wrinkle Rurin’s nose just at the entrance, but she knew damn well Meesha wasn’t going to meet her at the door. With a powerful sigh, she stepped further in, holding her breath.

The Keeper of the Rookery was a wrinkled old woman who’d worked there since before she was Awakened. She looked about two hundred years old and sounded like she breathed in smoke every day on waking. In short, she was as tough as leather boots and took less shit than Beory Steelarm, despite being ankle deep in it.

“I’ve entered your palace of bird crap, just as you wished. Can I have the message now?”

Meesha reached out and went to drop the long, thin message-tube into her open palm, but pulled back at the last minute.

“Have you idiots approved my request for more help yet?” she demanded querulously.“You aren’t going to give it to me, are you,” Rurin stated, her eyes narrowed.

“Answer the damned question first.”

It wasn’t easy to keep something from a gold Slayer if they really wanted to grab it, and this proved to be the case now. In a blink of an eye, Rurin slipped around the Keeper and snatched the message.

“Like taking candy from a baby,” she grinned.

Meesha graced her with a thunderous scowl.

“If you morons think you can run a rebellion out of this keep without a well functioning rookery, then you’re even dumber than I thought you were, which would be the first impressive thing about you.”

Rurin’s smile slipped and she rubbed at the back of her head with the leather tube.

“Sorry, Meesha. Look, I know you’re right, but we don’t have enough people for anything right now, and working in the rookery isn’t… desirable?”

“What does desirable matter?” Meesha spat, pouring every ounce of scorn into the word it could possibly hold. “It’s necessary. Besides, I’d take the company of these prick birds over most people any day.”

As if to take issue with her words, a nearby cage shook as the ro’klaw inside decided to slam against the bars, clawing and shrieking like a mad thing.

The Keeper just chuckled before she reached into a pocket in her filthy robe and withdrew a slice of dried meat, which she tossed into the cage. The bird inside dove on the treat like a starved beast, tearing the tough morsel to shreds in seconds.

“They get irritable when they’re hungry,” Meesha stated, “and irritable ro’klaw cause a lot more problems than happy ones.”

“I take your point, Meesh. I’ll make sure to get people in here to help, even if they end up rotating through.”

“Better than nothing,” the old woman snorted, then turned to look at Rurin more carefully. “Are you still holding your breath?”

The Slayer nodded.

“Weak as piss,” the Keeper snorted, turning away and heading deeper into the rookery.

Finally freed, Rurin happily took herself away, breathing deep of the sweet, non-shit-filled air outside. Despite the relieving breath, she still felt the weight of responsibility press down on her shoulders. Another task that needed seeing to, another thing she needed to take care of.

Only now that she was the person in charge did she finally realise how nice it was to have someone else to push all the responsibility onto.

“The things I do for you, Beory,” she muttered, looking up to the sky. “Things you would have never done yourself.”

Take responsibility? Beory, the war witch, had run from it at every opportunity. She and Magnin had been a perfect pair in that regard. It was what made them so impossibly compelling, how free they were, but also so endlessly infuriating.

In her hand, the leather tube, with a solid black line painted around one end, rested heavy. She needed to find Tim. Surprisingly, he was in his office working, which shocked her deeply. He looked up as she poked her head in the door and eyed him suspiciously.

“What?” he sighed.

“Are you doing your paperwork?” she demanded.

“Just because you don’t see me do it doesn’t mean it doesn’t get done,” he said, his voice flat. “As a matter of fact, my work is usually done well in advance of yours, because I am efficient.”

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

“And here I was thinking you were just slacking off all the time.”

“Perish the thought. Now, can I ask what brings you to my office, dear leader?”

“Oh, no, do not call me that,” Rurin shuddered.

“Fine. Why are you here?”

She held up the message tube, and a serious expression settled on the mage’s features.

“Have you read it yet?”

“I was hoping we could share the moment.”

“Well, get to it.”

Timothy leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, as if bracing himself. Rurin rolled her eyes and popped the cap off the end of the tube, sliding out the rolled paper within. Without any ceremony, she scanned over the page, rolled the paper up again, and fell into thought.

“Rurin…” Tim asked.

“Hmm?” she grunted, still thinking.

“You know you were supposed to read that out loud, right?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Why are you like this?”

She threw the paper onto the table and the mage snatched it up, running his eyes over it quickly. There wasn’t much there, only a few sentences, and he was through it in an instant.

“Is this source trustworthy?” he asked, frowning.

Rurin looked up from her reverie, a hint of fire in her eyes.

“Never ask me that again,” she warned.

Tim held up his hands.

“Alright, noted. So they’ve reached Foxbridge.”

“They haven’t just reached Foxbridge. We have people in that town. There’s been fighting in Foxbridge.”

“And?”

He knew. She could see that he knew. Even more obvious was the fact that he knew she knew that he knew. He was being a pain, as usual.

“It’s the first direct conflict of the war,” she sighed, hands on her hips. “Our people against the law. Against the Magisters.”

“It’s a little late to be reflecting on that now, don’t you think?” Tim observed dryly.

“It just makes everything final,” she said, and shook her head. “There’s no going back now.’

“There was never any going back,” Tim disagreed. “The moment we advanced in secret, everything was set in motion. Our own deaths, and the deaths of every Slayer in Woodsedge.”

“Don’t try and put too cheerful a spin on it,” she laughed, but didn’t contradict him. “I know you’re right, but even so, this feels like it’s changed something to me.”

“Well, if this was the first battle of the rebellion, at least we won,” Timothy noted, tapping the page with his hand.

“Of course we won,” Rurin scoffed. “Do you have any idea who they were messing with in Foxbridge?”

“Obviously not,” Tim drawled, “but they must be impressive to inspire such confidence.”

“That’s Worthy Steelarm,” she grinned.

Tim’s eyes widened.

“Magnin’s brother?”

“The very same.”

“Isn’t he only Silver?”

“Not anymore.”

The mage whistled appreciatively.

“Well, that’s not a small thing.”

Worthy had been working with them for weeks. Supplies coming to Woodsedge always went through Foxbridge. The docks on the river handled almost all of the goods that travelled from the west to the capital, and everything coming the other way as well. It would have been impossible to keep the Slayer Keep running without someone helping to access the market. Teams of people had been going to and from Foxbridge in a steady stream, and Worthy had helped to coordinate everything.

However, that arrangement would likely come to an end now. The Slayers in town had been caught in a conflict with the patrol who’d just arrived, and Worthy had involved himself to resolve it.

“It won’t be long until Foxbridge is swarming with Priests, Magisters, Soldiers… the works,” Rurin muttered.

“Which means our easy access to supplies is gone,” Tim confirmed.

Which meant they were reliant on locals and what they could secure for themselves.

“We’ll have to abandon the keep soon anyway,” Rurin muttered. “We should make sure we pile up all the supplies we can, tighten our belts. It’ll be hard to get what we need once we’re on the run.”

“We should notify the other rebel Keeps of this development,” Tim stated. “Things are going to move fast now. We should arrange a place to meet our allies once we abandon this place and share whatever information we can.”

Rurin nodded, then stiffened.

“Does this mean I have to go back to the rookery?”

Timothy nodded solemnly.

“It means you have to go back to the rookery.”

~~~

Tyron groaned as he staggered, not for the first time, and clutched at his side. He’d bound the wound as best he could, but he wasn’t capable of treating it with any level of skill. Also, he probably should have cleaned it before he’d come into the sewers.

Blood and bone, that bastard had been fast. Who knew what abilities and Skill levels a Silver ranked footsoldier had, but that speed, strength, and strange sword Skill had been greater than Tyron had expected. His wights had been completely outmatched, but that was to be expected. They were still untested, in need of experience and levels.

Without his armour, he likely would have been disembowelled. If he’d been any slower with his spell, he might have lost his guts anyway.

With his absurd Constitution, he was capable of absorbing inhuman amounts of punishment. Despite the deepness of the cut, it had already stopped bleeding, but he would need to have it stitched to ensure it healed properly.

It was almost morning now, and the light was starting to creep through the grated drains overhead. His undead were already below ground, slipping through the water intake in the river to enter the sewer under the cover of darkness. Tyron himself had needed to find a different entrance, but he’d been able to slip into Shadetown and find a sewer opening there.

He kept walking forward. Once he got back to the store, he could patch himself up and rest after a successful outing. One hand on the wall to help his balance, Tyron extended the other hand in front of him, a globe of light balanced above his palm.

Which is how he saw the vampire waiting for him.

“You’re taking too many risks,” Valk growled.

Tyron resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Despite their power, the bloodsuckers were remarkably risk-averse.

“That’s for me to decide,” he said.

The vampire narrowed his eyes, a deep, burning hatred blazing within. Tyron’s expression didn’t change, but he summoned his minions with a thought and prepared himself to cast at a moment’s notice.

“If exposure is guaranteed anyway, then killing you is no longer a risk,” Valk warned him. “How many patrols did you hit?”

“Two,” Tyron answered honestly.

Valk grunted.

“With any luck, you’ll go out again and get yourself killed,” he inhaled deeply through his nose. “Smells like you almost succeeded this time.”

“What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” Tyron shrugged. “Now, if you aren’t going to try and kill me, then I suggest you get the hell out of my way.”

Valk glared at him hatefully, his hands flexing into fists, before he stepped back and faded into the darkness, vanishing from the sewer, leaving Tyron to his thoughts.

Doubtless, there would be a reaction to his outing; the roads near the capital would be swarming with troops. It would be a while before he was able to step out again, but he would have to. It was imperative that he give his wights opportunities to gain strength.

Not to mention all the precious materials he’d been able to gather…. No, he would have to go out again.