Book of The Dead

As it turned out, Annita Halfshard had agreed to help Master Willhem work on the dimensional gateway, much to Tyron’s delight. Of all the Arcanists he’d ever seen, she was the only one he could say was close to matching the skill of their Master. While Tyron was an expert in the narrow fields he had chosen to focus on, she was a true expert, with an incredible sense and gift for the art of enchanting. He didn’t doubt she had a Mystery related to the artform, perhaps even two. The fact he himself hadn’t received one was proof in his own eyes that his focus belonged on other aspects of magick.

He was confident that the two Masters would be able to correct any of his mistakes, and that comforted Tyron to no end. Also, with Halfshard helping the project, it would proceed twice as fast. That woman was almost as bad a workaholic as Tyron himself.

He had a little time on his hands after doing the rounds of the various research projects taking place beneath the temple. Everyone was intimidated the moment he walked into the room, but at least he was able to dispense a few pointers here and there to help them get some progress.

Back in his room, he decided it was time to make some moves. The gateway project was underway, but it would still be at least two weeks before it was ready to use. There was no reason he shouldn’t utilise that time to try and grind out a level if he could.

Raising his hands, he sent his consciousness racing along the conduits to find the commanders of his undead horde.

Filetta stiffened as she felt a presence roll towards her like a storm cloud, blotting out the sun and smothering her own thoughts. She hated it when Tyron did this.

What is it? She thought at him, a little snippily.

I need you to move out to the plains and connect with the undead already out there. Make sure you return in thirteen days and bring the entire horde back with you.

Filetta wondered what was going on.

We haven’t been back in the city long, and you want us to leave again? Are there going to be enough minions here to keep you safe?She felt amusement come through the link that bound her to the Necromancer.

Are you worried about me, Filetta? I’ll be fine. I simply need to kill more kin over the next two weeks.

Alright, alright, don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’ll round up the skeletons and head out to the plains.

Good.

Then, just like a storm, he rolled on. Far from the city, out in the desolate wasteland of crystal and blackened sand, Tyron’s undead had continued to fight, killing kin and clearing the way towards the next closest rifts. It was slow work; the kin were endless and the terrain treacherous. Anywhere they went could have a nest of home-grown rift-kin beneath their feet. The magick storms still boiled overhead, striking the ground and causing crystal growths to bloom dangerously. It was a hellscape, and to anyone but undead, it would be a nightmare.

To Brigette, she found she didn’t mind it that much. She didn’t feel the heat or the cold, didn’t get tired, didn’t get hungry. Flecks of crystal slipped inside her armour and rasped against her bones, but there was no pain, no concern at all. Instead, she focused on the monsters, and killing as many as she possibly could.

When Tyron Steelarm’s mind loomed over the horizon, rushing towards the undead like thunder, she instinctively turned towards the city, many kilometres distant, as all of the other undead around her did the same. That enormous mind dwelled on each of them in turn, inspecting the horde, checking on their condition, looking at their souls and minds like a human might peer at an insect in the palm of their hand.

Well done, he congratulated them. I am sending reinforcements. Along with mages to repair the damage you have sustained.Fight hard for another ten days, then I want you to return to the city. We will have a new enemy to fight.

She felt his mind begin to withdraw, but Brigette called out to him with her thoughts.

Master Steelarm. A moment!

That ponderous gaze turned toward her.

Brigette. What is the matter?

He was impatient, but willing to listen. Unconsciously, she straightened where she stood.

We found something that you should take a look at.

A moment of confusion echoed across the conduit.

Something important? Why haven’t I been notified before?

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Tyron was puzzled. He kept tabs on his horde, but there hadn’t been anything out of the ordinary that he could recall. Although… for the last few days, he’d been up to his neck in sigil work while wrangling Dove and Yor.

We weren’t sure if it was relevant or not, there was some confusion, but the wights didn’t want to bother you unnecessarily.

What is it?

Brigette gathered her nerve.

It’s difficult to explain. Look through my eyes and I will show you.

It wasn’t exactly unpleasant, to have the Necromancer use her undead vision, but it wasn’t pleasant, either. That giant mind settled above her own as she felt the conduit blaze with new energy. Turning her gaze behind her, she showed him what they had found the day before.

We were told you might be interested in something like this, she relayed, but we weren’t sure.

There was a moment of stillness as Tyron took in what she saw. Even the wights didn’t see very well, and all undead didn’t perceive things the way the living did. Even so, he was able to see enough.

I want this thing. Have it sent back to the city.

Is it important?Do we need to send an escort with it?

The reply was instant.

Yes. It must be delivered safely, no matter what.

With that, the connection was cut, Tyron’s mind retreating back over the horizon and to the city. Like a fish left on the shore after the tide had retreated, Brigette felt like gasping for air, except she no longer needed to breathe.

Jorlin approached her.

“I’m surprised you would bring it up to him directly,” he said, no judgement in his voice.

“I, I just thought it might be important. Turns out it was,” she replied.

Looking back at the remains of the winged kin they had fought, it didn’t seem all that important, yet the Necromancer was clearly interested in it. She didn’t know why they’d been asked to be on the lookout for certain types of kin while out on the plains, but it appeared they’d found one after all.

Back in the city, Tyron couldn’t help the smile that stole over his face. He couldn’t be sure, but it certainly matched the description….

All those years ago, back in Foxbridge, when he first read the name of Arihnan the Black, he had seen the descriptions of his horde, of the beasts and creatures of nightmare that had accompanied his skeletons and zombies. For a long time, he’d thought they were constructs, but perhaps not. The notes secured from the ancient Necromancer’s own workshop had indicated that he had learned how to convert certain kin into undead, along with instructions on how the technique could be replicated.

He wouldn’t be sure until he saw it in person, but perhaps his horde had managed to stumble upon a Wyvern.

Tyron rubbed his hands together. This could prove to be just the thing he needed before he took on the Realm of the Dead. Suddenly, his thoughts began to race, thinking over the notes he had read. No, this wouldn’t do, he would need fresh copies, his pen and notes. There was a great deal of work to do!

That familiar sensation was bubbling up in the back of Tyron’s brain, and he allowed himself to get swept up in it. A new project, new minions, new magick! This would be something interesting for certain.

Rushing to his study, Tyron sat eagerly at his desk, grabbed a fresh sheet of paper off the stack and began to write. Even as he started working, he sent orders for his minions nearby to gather the books and materials he would need. Arihanan’s personal notes had been given to his three apprentices to work on, and they still had most of the material, although some had been returned to him.

Over the next hour, the minions were everywhere, sticking their fleshless noses into his students’ business and demanding the return of this or that book while Tyron pored over the documents, took notes and began to craft a framework around which he could begin to develop his new ritual.

Because, although he had access to a fairly detailed breakdown of the ancient Necromancer’s process, Tyron hadn’t found Arihnan’s spells to quite reach his own exacting standards.

It wasn’t as if they were bad. A good amount of effort had gone into improving the spells over the basic template provided by the Unseen, but they lacked… many things.

Many practitioners of magick had their own touch, their own preferred way of doing things. The sigils and arrays to perform certain components of a spell may appear hundreds of times across a dozen different spells. Some would develop their own array and then apply it to all of those cases. Even if it wasn’t perfectly efficient, it simplified the process and made learning and executing the magick easier for the caster.

Those Mages were not people Tyron held in high regard.

Others would work on a number of solutions, each doing the same job, but emphasising different aspects. One for power, one for speed, one for efficiency, and then they would selectively apply these in the appropriate places of a particular spell.

Passable. Much of Arihnan’s work was done this way, with certain array patterns repeating throughout his repertoire. It wasn’t exactly wrong, but it meant the spells had been compromised. Perfection had been pushed to the side in the name of expediency.

Tyron didn’t work that way.

Every spell was built from the ground up to be as perfect as he could make it. Nothing was reused, nothing borrowed whole-cloth from another ritual unless it was a perfect match. Even down to the tiniest detail, he would seek to craft a version of every spell that found the perfect balance for what he wanted to achieve.

After all, you couldn’t build a spell to be maximally powerful and quick to cast and efficiently use magick and not strain the hands or voice.

In this particular case, Tyron would be working on a modified version of the Raise Dead ritual. Arihanan’s own version would provide the basis, most importantly detailing the artificial mind that would control the undead remains. After all, Tyron didn’t know how to teach a skeleton to fly. Other than that, he would be supplanting most of his own ritual in, since his was objectively superior, then refining it to better suit this new class of minion.

After that, he would need to create a new weave for the bones. An entirely new weave. Learning horses had been painful enough, but this creature wasn’t even native to this realm! Again, he would have to borrow extensively from the ancient Necromancer here, but Tyron was confident he would be able to make numerous refinements to the old design.

Eyes ablaze with manic intensity and brain boiling with ideas, Tyron Steelarm got to work.