Book of The Dead

As it turned out, the contract Dove had been compelled to sign was indeed very restrictive. Layers of constraints and restrictions that bound Dove’s soul so tightly he barely had room to wiggle. To describe it as onerous would be exceptionally generous; a slave contract was more one-sided, but not by much.

To get any information at all, he was forced to use his most forceful and intrusive methods, attacking Dove’s mind and soul, taking hold and squeezing, until a few little secrets started to spill out. The process was… unenjoyable for Dove, but his own actions had forced him into this position.

Tyron had taken the time to study the ritual his former teacher had been trying to cast, and it was an interesting piece of magick. Complex dimensional magick, complex enough that the Necromancer was confident Dove couldn’t have come up with it on his own, aimed at the rift. Perhaps Tyron should have let him get a little closer to finishing the spell before having his minions put a stop to it, but what he had was enough to make him worried. Very worried.

If he understood it correctly, then this ritual would draw in magick and use the weakened Dimensional Weave in this location to either punch a hole to another location, or perhaps redirect an existing rent. Of course, it was possible to cast dimensional magick anywhere, but some locations were much easier to reach than others. The Abyss, for example, was everywhere. A blank space between worlds, it was equidistant from every point, so it didn’t overly matter from where you tried to reach it.

Other places, like the Astral Sea, were relatively easy to reach, even without drilling a hole. Summoners cast their consciousness into it all the time, seeking creatures to form contracts with.

Other places were much harder to get to. Although it was difficult to be sure, Tyron had a feeling that Dove had been trying to reach a place that nobody was supposed to reach.

Not in a physical form.

As such, the power flooding out of the rifts and the weakened weave were all necessary to try and get through. In between the screams, insults and genital references, Tyron was able to extract enough from Dove that a picture began to form.

He wasn’t performing this ritual of his own accord, but to fulfil a condition of his contract. This was why he’d been so insistent on coming to the rift in the first place, in order to make an attempt, which would at the very least ease the burden the contract was placing on his actions.

Dove had known he would be caught before he could succeed, but had been compelled to make the attempt anyway, knowing what the consequences would be.The logic wasn’t hard to follow. Dove had formed this contract inside the Realm of the Dead, which meant a powerful individual, or individuals, living there had been able to force him into it. He wasn’t able to speak of the terms, or even reveal the existence of the contract, not directly.

One of those terms obliged him to try and create an opening, connecting this realm to that of the dead.

That revelation sent a shiver down Tyron’s spine. He couldn’t imagine what purpose some… overlord of the afterlife might have with this realm, but he didn’t imagine it was good. As if dealing with the rifts and The Five weren’t bad enough.

“Alright, Dove. I’m done with you.”

“Didn’t… didn’t even b-buy me dinner f-first,” the skeleton mumbles.

Ignoring that remark, Tyron stood up and idly brushed the dirt from his robe, thinking. It took a few minutes, but eventually Dove rose as well, still recovering from the mental strain, and the soul-shredding pain he’d been forced to endure.

Not that he held it against his former student, not that much, anyway. He’d known this was going to happen. Planned for it.

“Did you have enough to go on?” he asked, sounding hopeful.

“Enough to be worried. Enough to know I don’t have enough information to work with,” Tyron replied absently, still considering. In the end, he shook his head and grunted. “I’m going to have to ask them. You know that, right?”

Dove could only sigh, hands on his bony pelvis.

“I thought it might come to that,” he admitted. “Sorry to put you in that position.”

An uncharacteristic apology. Tyron raised his brows in surprise. What was next, the rifts spitting out rainbows and chocolate cake? Before he could even begin to think that the Spectral Summoner might have changed, Dove ruined the moment by dramatically pointing down to the gap between his legs.

“Now where’s my snake?!” he demanded. “That’s my fucking property!”

Reminding himself not to expect any different in the future, Tyron summoned a host of skeletons to drag Dove away.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

“I’m going to have you watched for a while, old friend,” he said as Dove cursed and howled and somehow managed to gyrate as he was being hauled off. “Just until we get clear of the rifts.”

It was likely Dove would be compelled to make another attempt so long as they were here, so there was no choice but to have him contained and supervised. Preferably somewhere Tyron wouldn’t have to listen to him.

Still thinking, he couldn’t help but grimace as he imagined the path forward from here. Things were going to get difficult, and messy, very quickly as he looked into this issue. Dove had done well to warn him and pass on as much information as he could, proving he hadn’t become a complete nihilistic monster in his undeath. Realising the danger he had brought to the realm, he’d acted to prevent it as best he could.

Noble, in a sense.

With a final shake of his head, Tyron pushed the issue out of his mind. There wasn’t much he could do about it right now, and he had to focus on more immediate concerns.

With his honour guard in tow, Tyron walked back to the center of the rift, moving around the various battles taking place as Slayers and undead battled to bring down the monsters who constantly pushed through. His demi-liches were already present, having gathered under his mental command.

“I have ideas on how we can improve the ritual,” he announced when he reached them.

Master Willhem nodded.

“I suspected you might,” he rasped.

He quickly explained his thoughts, but the old master was the only one of his undead able to understand what he was getting at. It appeared even Grand Magister Tommat was lacking in his understanding of ritual magick. An indictment on Magister training if ever there was one.

“Are the totems prepared for the other rifts?” Tyron asked.

“They are, but I can make the necessary changes,” Willhem replied. “It will take me a few hours.”

“That’s fine. I can work on this one while you get that done,” Tyron gestured to the already active circle around the massive rift nearby. He flicked a glance to the other demi-liches. “I suppose I’ll have to control you personally to speed up the process. Let me know if you think you can do it yourselves.”

None of them did, and the Necromancer sighed. Nothing for it, then.

For the next few hours, Tyron and his undead moved around the circle, making minute adjustments, never letting the flow of power break. Every change had to be implemented in careful stages so as not to disrupt the ritual. Tyron drew the sigils himself, not only with his own hand, but guiding those of his minions at the same time. In this way, Tyron slowly adjusted the ritual circle until he had done what he could.

He stepped back and observed the magick. He wasn’t satisfied, not even remotely. If he were able to start over from scratch, he could do so much more, but it wouldn’t be worth the time. The energy was flowing more smoothly, the circle taking in more magick than before, preparing and channeling more rapidly.

Turning his gaze to the rift itself, he examined it, trying to feel it out with his enhanced senses. It was hard to determine anything concrete, proper magick would be required to analyse something as complex as a rift, but he could sense the pressure his ritual was exerting on it.

The rift was shrinking. It was glacially slow, to be sure, but it was closing. Decades would be needed to close it entirely, a century, maybe, but if the ritual he had enacted functioned continuously, it would happen. Once he had applied that ritual to every opening in these Broken Lands, the pressure may accelerate the closing, but not by much. Shutting a rift that had been open for perhaps thousands of years was not a simple matter. It would take time.

As would his next chore….

It didn’t take long to find Worthy. His uncle was a large personality who commanded attention, even amongst other gold Slayers. Laughing and fighting, he was a boisterous presence, guiding the other Slayers, a natural leader. When he spotted his nephew approaching, his eyes lit up and a broad grin split his features.

“Tyron, lad! What’s the word?”

“Not much, Uncle,” the Necromancer said, a slight smile on his face. “I’m going to replicate the ritual circle for the rest of the rifts now. It’s going to take some time. Are you prepared to look after your nephew for a day or two?”

“Bah. I’ve been looking after you since you could walk. This isn’t anything new.”

A group was quickly chosen to help defend Tyron as he worked, Worthy among them, of course. With that done, it was time to get to work. With the help of the gathered demi-liches, Tyron moved to the next rift and began to create the next ritual circle.

There was less need for correction this time, and the setting powder was able to harden the ground as soon as he was finished with a section, reducing the need to rework anything. Progress was much more swift than it had been before, but it was still painstaking work.

Tyron worked unceasingly, his hand unwavering as he drew each sigil with speed and precision, one connected to the next in a grand sequence. Layered circles, one connected to the next, taking in the power, seizing it, shaping it, directing it through a meticulous series of manipulations until at last it was ready. Fed into the pillars, the magick was directed against itself, tearing itself apart, breaking down at a fundamental level, the resulting pressure directed back at the rift itself.

Ten times as precise as the gears in a clock, every angle, every curl and line had to be perfect, or none of it would work.

When it was finished, Tyron stepped back to study his creation. He walked a slow lap around the broad circle, then another. Only then did he speak the words and ignite the ritual. After a few minutes, he was satisfied it was functioning as intended, so it was time to move on to the next.

And then the next. Then the next.

All told, there were almost two dozen rifts of various sizes within the Broken Lands, all clustered around the largest, which he had worked on first. It took three days for him to complete it, and when he was done, he stepped back to gaze on what he had done.

Blazing pillars stood around every tear in reality, every circle functioning perfectly. This was the first tamed rift in the history of the realm. The first of many, he hoped.

Worthy and the Slayers looked on with powerful emotions stirring in their hearts, wondering if they saw a future that not one of them had ever thought possible.