Book of The Dead

“You think they turned back?” Worthy asked, his brow raised. The Hammerman leaned back in his chair and scratched at his chin with one thick finger. “I don’t know much about the imperial army, but I didn’t think they did much turning around. That’s the reputation, at least.”

Tyron could only shrug.

“I can’t expose my ghosts too much. Every single one of them has magickal weapons which can cut through incorporeal undead. I lost more than a few to the scouts.”

“And you killed two of them?”

“I crippled two of them. Once they started fighting back, I had to let them go.”

Worthy grunted.

“Level seventy-nine. A whole army of them, at such a high-level.” He shook his head. “Even stepping a single foot into the gold ranks seemed impossible to me not that long ago. This lot are a single level away from a power most people can only dream of.”

“And the Empire will never let them take that step,” Tyron said, reaching up and tapping his shoulder. “They even have an insignia with their level on it. A badge of pride to show they’ve advanced as far as they’re allowed.”

“Do they let any of them advance beyond gold?”

“They must. They allow a tiny number of platinum ranked Slayers to exist in each province. People like Magnin and Beory would never have been tolerated if there weren’t some capacity to contain them. The Emperor himself must be platinum ranked at least, wouldn’t you think?”Worthy sneered as if he wanted to spit.

“Living with their shackles off me has changed my perspective a bit, I have to admit. Fighting without both of my hands tied behind my back makes a bit of a difference. All because of the Empire’s obsession with control.”

An obsession that had spanned thousands of years. As the world had slowly slipped off the precipice and succumbed to corruption, their stance hadn’t changed in the slightest. Active Slayers had been almost entirely restricted to the silver ranks, strong enough to fight back, but never strong enough to win. Gold ranks had been coddled, kept in reserve, used to give the rest something to aspire to and as unwitting breeding stock. Endless grist for the mill.

However, Tyron knew the real origins of this obsession, and it wasn’t the Empire.

“The Five Divines are the ones who are obsessed with control,” he told his uncle, resting his head on one of his hands. “They want to prevent anyone from rising up to challenge their authority, but I feel like there’s something more. The Empire was almost designed to fail. A slow, controlled collapse.”

Worthy didn’t look convinced.

“For what reason? Wouldn’t the Five suffer and cease to exist if this realm failed? Like the Three?”

Tyron’s brow furrowed. There was a thought there, a lead that perhaps he might be able to tease out into something more substantial. For now, it would have to be put aside; there were more pressing issues at hand.

“Who can say? Can you talk to Rurin and the others for me? We’ll need to work out a coordinated response.”

Even if there weren’t as many as he thought would come, the forces from the Empire still represented an existential threat. Underestimating the Golden Legion would do nothing but get them all killed. He had no idea why they had retreated back over the mountains, but now that they had this chance, Tyron was reluctant to let them go. Why let these thousand go only for another nine to come and join them later? As dangerous as it was, this was a chance that needed to be seized.

If he were successful, just thinking about what he could do with such high-quality materials was enough to make his hands twitch, reaching for his butcher’s tools subconsciously.

“Aye,” Worthy agreed, bringing him back to the present, “I’ll speak to them, but you’ll need to show your face over there, I wager. There’s more than a few Slayers who want nothing more to do with the Empire and would rather leave them alone.”

Tyron stared at his uncle blankly.

“But that’s idiotic,” he said. “The Empire won’t leave us alone, ever.”

“Some people would rather believe there’s a chance of peace, even if it’s remote.”

Worthy stood and left, closing the door behind him, leaving Tyron shaking his head. Who could possibly be so foolish? The Empire had proven itself to be just as vicious, vindictive and rotten as the most pessimistic of its citizens had ever believed. He was convinced the only reason they hadn’t been attacked so far was that the Empire had simply never believed anyone would survive the mountain crossing, let alone the wasteland on the other side. Hence, they must have assumed Tyron had fled somewhere else along with any survivors.

The bloodthirst of his enemies suited Tyron down to the ground. He had no intention of accepting any sort of peace, even if it was offered. Many of those directly responsible for the deaths of Magnin and Beory had fallen into his hands and now served as undead, souls screaming for a freedom they would never be granted.

Extracting his vengeance had tamped down the flames of his rage, but only for a time. It burned brighter than ever now, an endless heat inside his chest that would flare up to consume his thoughts and haunt his dreams without warning.

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There were still Magisters out there. More Nobles. Members of the Divine Church. The Emperor himself.

Above them all, the Five Divines themselves. He still didn’t know how, but he was going to bring them down. They would crash back down to the earth while everything they had worked for over thousands of years crumbled around them.

Only then would his vengeance be complete.

There was a polite knock at the door.

“I’ll be there in a moment,” Tyron called.

Footsteps retreated from the door, prompting Tyron to stand and gather a few volumes from his desk. His three students, along with Dove, were waiting for him in his sitting room, already at home in their own chairs. Except for Dove. For some reason, the skeleton had decided to perch on the mantle like a bird of prey. Not wearing his robes, or indeed any clothes at all, he looked like a grim decorative piece more than anything else.

Acknowledging his nonsense was always the first mistake, a painful lesson that Tyron had learned only with experience. Studiously ignoring the ridiculous presence of his former teacher, Tyron greeted his students as he sat down, an unusually warm smile on his face, given the circumstances.

His students sensed his good mood and straightened, their faces easing a little, releasing tension that they hadn’t even realised was there.

“The Empire has come to kill us,” Tyron announced, his tone calm and relaxed.

Georg, Briss and Richard each froze, their faces falling.

“W-what?” Richard stammered, eyes boggling.

“The Empire has sent a punitive force to kill us,” Tyron repeated, eyes hardening a little, though he continued to smile. “A thousand strong, or thereabouts. Each of them is level seventy-nine, a gold rank at the upper echelon of their power.”

Dove remained unmoving, watching the four seated figures like a humanoid-hawk.

“Do we run?” Georg asked quietly.

“Run? Why would we run? They only sent a thousand. I expected them to send ten.”

Richard’s face whitened, horrified by the possibility of facing such an insurmountable force.

“Would we even be capable of fighting so many? Can we even beat a thousand?” Georg asked.

The former farmhand had grown increasingly serious, his demeanour growing colder, his voice softer. Tyron appraised him, trying to read his thoughts. Unless he misjudged, he thought Georg may be considering going on the run. Perhaps he judged that he had learned enough, grown his undead horde and gained sufficient Skills to be able to survive on his own.

He didn’t begrudge his student. Doing anything else would be foolish. Georg didn’t owe any loyalty to Tyron; after all, he hadn’t brought the students in to benefit them, but as a resource for himself, a sounding board to help develop the practice of necromancy. He was making cold calculations in the pursuit of his vengeance, and he expected them to do the same.

Richard still seemed frightened by the prospect of direct confrontation with the Empire, while Briss was in the process of firming her resolve, mentally preparing herself to fight. He couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed with them. One needed more determination, the other to prioritise her own life.

“If we can’t defeat a thousand of them, then we may as well lay down and die right now. There will be more, many more, and they will track us wherever we might go.”

The last he directed to the farmhand, who blinked slowly as he realised his teacher had known his thoughts.

“If we can defeat these thousand, I don’t need to tell you just how much that would mean for us. With those materials, we could create incredibly powerful undead.”

“You’d actually let us have some?” Georg asked, brow raised.

“I would keep some for you,” Tyron corrected himself. “Unless you think you’re capable of making good use of them right now?”

Georg shook his head. He knew just as well as Tyron did that his skills were far too undeveloped to create minions of that calibre.

“I still don’t see how we could win,” Richard insisted. “Even against a thousand. I-I can see that you’re confident, Master Steelarm, but it would be nice if you could tell us why.”

He looked at Tyron as a drowning man looks at the tree branch extended towards him.

“Do you really think my horde of undead could overwhelm even a thousand gold ranked soldiers?” Tyron wasted no time disabusing him of that notion. “Those warriors could cut through dozens of my skeletons with a single swing of their sword. Even my very best minions could perhaps go even, for a while, against them. To defeat this enemy, I was never going to be enough. Not by myself.”

Dove shifted slightly on the mantle. Tyron continued to ignore him.

“The Slayers would help us, obviously,” Briss said, the determination starting to burn brighter and brighter in her eyes. “If we can coordinate with them, we can overwhelm this assault force and wipe them out!”

“Maybe,” Tyron stated, wavering his hand back and forth. “It would be close. I don’t want it to be close. We need as overwhelming a victory as we can achieve if we want to get stronger as a result of this battle.”

“Are you going to tell us how you intend to achieve that?” Georg asked. “So far, it seems as though you want to keep some secrets. Which is fine, but why invite us here?”

“Yeah, Tyron, you fucking piece of shit!” Dove yelled.

Tyron rolled his eyes.

“Finally going to stop pretending you’re a stuffed parrot?”

“... I mean… Ca-Caw! Ca-Caw!”

“I hate you.”

“Music to my ears.”

Finally stepping down from his perch, the undead summoner pretended to stretch, groaning as he rubbed at his knees and lower… spine.

“When you get to my age,” he grumbled, “it’s not as easy to squat on a mantlepiece. Really takes it out of you.”

“I’ll be taking the soul out of you in a minute,” Tyron warned him. “Why are you here? And if you have to be here, why are you interrupting my conversation?”

“Because you were being too fucking precious with the little kids and it made me sick to my… bones. Stop coddling them and fucking harden up! I know what you have planned, it’s not even that bad.”

“You do?” Tyron asked, visibly surprised.

“Of course I fucking do! You aren’t the only smartarse around these parts.”

“Go ahead then,” Tyron said, gesturing for Dove to take the floor and leaning back in his seat. “Enlighten us all.”

Giving him the finger, Dove strode forward and stood on the low table between the seats before glaring at each of the three students in turn. In slow, dramatic fashion, he spread his hands, then raised them to the ceiling.

“The grand strategy!” he proclaimed. Then he dropped his hands and shrugged. “It’s not that complicated. He’s going to create a break at the rift in Cragwhistle.”