Book of The Dead

Such a large creature demanded an absurd amount of weaving. The musculature of the monster was easily ten times that of a human, and Tyron was determined to do all of it as precisely and completely as he could. That meant using the rope techniques to create stronger fibres for the tendons and certain muscle groups, particularly around the shoulders and back.

It was extremely laborious work, and he was at it for hours, not trusting anyone else with any part of the task. There were still none who were his equal when it came to creating the magickal fibre necessary for a skeleton to move. In truth, there were none who were even close.

Tyron’s well-trained and dextrous fingers were able to endure the strain of hours upon hours of meticulous work, something most people would struggle with. He supposed he had his mother to thank. Endless hours of sigil drills and dexterity exercises were sure to pay off eventually. Even when his parents hadn’t been home, Tyron had been diligent, practicing more than they asked him to, so they would be proud of him when they got home.

The wyvern truly was an odd creature. Its neck was elongated, but not massively so, leading to a head and jaw structure that more resembled a wolf than a bird. It didn’t have a pair of arms at all, but rather two padded claws on the ‘elbow’ of the wings, which probably allowed it to effect a semi-awkward crawl while grounded. For all of that, its hind legs were still extremely powerful, dense with coiled muscle and tough fibres.

Wanting to ensure that this minion was as great a success as possible, the Necromancer went all out, weaving without pause and repeatedly examining his work. Every small error was fixed, unaligned joints picked apart and rewoven from scratch. The weave was of the highest quality, finely interwoven, using his softest and most flexible threads where appropriate, and the toughest and most durable in others.

He tried to treat the kin as if it were a powerful Slayer who needed to exert unnatural levels of strength through its body, ensuring it could handle the immense load that would be placed on it. By the time he was finally satisfied, Tyron was grainy-eyed, starving and extremely thirsty. He blinked, raised his head and found Elsbeth standing not far away, scowling at him.

Gripped in her hands, she held a simple platter with a pitcher of water and steamed vegetables. The veges had probably been hot when she’d gotten there, but he judged they were stone cold by this point.

“H-hah…” he rasped, then grimaced.

It seemed he hadn’t drunk anything for a while; his throat was painfully sore. Elsbeth raised her brows, then thrust the platter towards him wordlessly. Tyron could only stagger over a little awkwardly and take it from her. With a few mouthfuls of water and some decidedly cold sprouts in him, he started to feel a little better.

“Thanks,” he muttered before taking another drink straight from the pitcher.“I thought you were getting better at this,” she scolded him. “I’ve been here for over an hour.”

Only an hour? She was pretty lucky.

“I have gotten better,” he defended himself, “I make sure people bring me food and drink now.”

“So you’ve outsourced the problem to someone else? I don’t think anyone has brought you anything in days.”

“That’s… they’re probably avoiding the Ossuary…. I didn’t think of that.”

Maybe he needed to just give some of his wights the job. Their rapidly fading humanity caused problems when they interacted with the living, however, or with food. A lot of them had already started to forget what taste had been like, and all of them had started looking at food as if it were some sort of weakness. They’d bring it to him if he asked, but he might get five peas and a carrot, raw, if he got anything at all.

The human help was reluctant to come near the Ossuary, and he could understand why: it was intimidating. When he was too focused on work, it wasn’t enough to just leave the plate nearby either, they’d need to actually get his attention, and many were hesitant to do so.

“I can see there might be flaws in my system,” he allowed.

“Flaws? Well, maybe try sleeping twice a week and you’ll think a little more clearly.”

“I’m thinking just fine.”

His endurance was well beyond human limits at this point. He might be suffering a bit, but he didn’t need much to freshen up. A few hours of sleep, and he’d be ready to move on to the next step.

Ignoring him, Elsbeth stepped around to look at the remains of the wyvern, now fully threaded together, laying atop the altar in the centre of the room.

“Is this thing really going to fly?” she asked him. “How can it, with nothing but bones? Doesn’t it need… wings?”

She flapped her arms a few times as if to demonstrate.

“It will have spirit flesh wings,” he told her, rolling his eyes. “You’re going to lecture me about Necromancy now?”

“No, I was just curious!”

She walked around the kin, inspecting it from every angle before she returned to him. For his part, Tyron continued to nibble on his food and sip the water.

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Perhaps he was starting to turn undead himself. He found eating and sleeping more of an irritant than anything else at this point, things that got in the way of what he really wanted to do. Perhaps it was time to start… no, not yet. He didn’t have the right skills to make any sort of transition yet, certainly not one that would make it worthwhile.

He would hold on to his humanity for now.

“Tyron…” Elsbeth started hesitantly, twisting a strand of her golden hair around one finger, a habit she’d had since she was young.

“You really think you can convince me into letting you kill yourself for no reason?” he cut her off, raising his brows.

His tone said there was very little chance of that happening.

“So you’re going to make someone else do it? Even against their will?” she demanded hotly. “How is that right?”

“I don’t care if you agree. Why are you so desperate to throw your life away so pointlessly? Any Priest can do it, why does it have to be you?”

His pointed question broke through her anger a little, though she was still clearly angry. Elsbeth looked him in the eye, her crystal blue gaze cutting right into him.

“I refuse to let my choices be taken away from me,” she said. “After what happened with Rufus, and my father… I won’t let someone else try and manipulate me into doing what they want. I want to have control over my life.”

“I’m not trying to manipulate you,” Tyron said, crossing his arms. “I’m just telling you ‘no’.”

“And why do you have that power over me?” she flared.

“Because it’s my expedition,” he said, exasperated. “If I don’t want you to come, then you aren’t coming. I don’t care if you don’t like it, I’m not going to sit back and watch my oldest friend throw their life away for no objective reason. Some other prick can draw the short straw for a change, it doesn’t have to always be you.”

He leaned towards her a little.

“This doesn’t seem like you, ‘Beth. Why are you being like this? Are you going through something? Is there something I can help with? Insisting that you be given the chance to die so someone else doesn’t have to isn’t normal.”

“Oh, so I’m not normal now?”

“You’ve never been normal. I’ve never seen another person as selfless as you in my entire life, but there has to be a limit. Why do you think you’re the person for this task? There has to be a reason.”

It had been a long time since Tyron had felt any sort of concern for someone who wasn’t a direct member of his family, but he felt a twinge of worry seeing Elsbeth like this. It was as if she were desperate, eager, to be used as a mindless reservoir of power for The Three and burned out in the Realm of the Dead. Anyone who valued their life even the slightest would run screaming from such an assignment. As they should!

So why didn’t Elsbeth value hers?

She was silent for a long time, red-faced, her eyes shimmering with unspilled tears. Angrily, she brushed them away and faced him directly.

“I haven’t found anyone from my family in the city, Tyron,” she told him.

“That doesn’t mean they aren’t here,” he told her quietly, “or somewhere else. Not everyone who fled came over the mountains.”

She nodded.

“I know that, but there are so many, even amongst the Priesthood, who have families, wives, children. Why should someone else go in my place when I don’t have anyone like that?”

She hung her head.

“If someone is going to be a living sacrifice for The Three, then it should be someone without a family to miss them when they’re gone.”

Tyron looked at her, then threw back his head and laughed. Deeply offended, Elsbeth flushed red and clenched her fists. She might have actually punched him, if she hadn’t known it would hurt her more than him.

“You really think you won’t be missed?” he laughed. “I genuinely can’t believe you’re this stupid.”

Unable to resist the urge, she kicked him in the shin and yelped, hopping on the spot as the pain flared up her foot from her toe. The Necromancer shook his head, devoid of compassion. Instead, he pointed a finger to the door.

“Go and tell Munhilde what you told me, or I’ll tell her myself. In fact, I can have a wight do it in a matter of minutes. So you’d better hurry.”

“Is that supposed to be a threat?” Elsbeth hissed, rubbing at her throbbing foot. “I’m a grown woman.”

“Still a fool,” he shrugged. “If the single most beloved person in this whole damned city of refugees won’t be missed, then who the fuck would be? Get out of here and talk to your teacher, ‘Beth. You are cracked in the head.”

“Get stuffed,” she shot back as she started limping towards the doorway. “Your insults are childish and don’t make you right.”

“Me being right makes me right. The insults are a habit I learned from Dove.”

“Don’t learn habits from Dove.”

“It was a mistake,” he acknowledged.

When she reached the door, she hesitated.

“Tyron… who do you intend to take? You said you had someone in mind, and Raven seemed to know as well.”

He didn’t see a reason not to tell her.

“Nolan,” he said simply.

Even Tyron, as disconnected as he was from the rest of the community, knew the rumours about that man. If he wasn’t used for something like this, it was only a matter of time until he wound up getting caught doing something he shouldn’t and sentenced to death. May as well use him as a living battery for his own gods rather than serve as an undead.

The man appeared to have set his sights on Elsbeth this time around. Just another reason to nip the problem in the bud.

Without another word, the golden-haired Priestess left the Ossuary, closing the door behind her. Sighing to himself, Tyron could only shake his head and push Elsbeth’s nonsense to the side. Even he knew just how much she was loved by the survivors in the city. If the refugees found out he’d taken her as a living sacrifice, they’d riot!

He turned his attention back to the wyvern as he finished nibbling on the last of the sprouts. His condition had definitely improved, but his new minion deserved only the best. He’d turn in for a few hours, then come back and do a final check of the weave. If he was satisfied with his work, then it would be time to use his newly modified Raise Dead ritual.

Should he go over the sequence one more time?

No, he shook his head. Elsbeth was right about one thing: he did need to take better care of himself. This might be his last chance to rest for some time.

Leaving the Ossuary, Tyron wound his way through the narrow corridors back to his rooms. Via his minions, he arranged for a meal to be delivered to his door in eight hours before he stripped and washed himself down. Looking down at his shin, he chuckled to himself before pulling on a clean shirt and rolling into his blankets.

“Sleep.”