Book of The Dead

Tyron didn’t know why the Messenger was so ill-disposed towards him. Features hidden deep within his hood, the servant of the Old Gods was displeased to see the Necromancer return to the Dark Forest, as he ever was.

Without being openly hostile, the Messenger made his feelings clear from the first moment Tyron’s feet set down on the mist-covered and root-tangled floor.

“You do not deserve to be here,” the Messenger hissed. “The gods have been too generous with a creature such as you.”

Tyron raised a brow.

“Is it your place to decide who is worthy and who isn’t? Your gods have done a great deal to support me, but they are getting their money’s worth so far, wouldn’t you agree?”

Floating above the forest floor like a spectre, the Messenger laughed derisively.

“You have no concept of how much effort the gods have expended on your behalf. Do you believe you are the first to bring down a province of the Empire? The foundation of your enemies is only being repaired, not weakened, while you waste time and energy dallying with blood-crazed undead and immaterial monsters you cannot possibly understand.”

He’d had a brief conversation with Elsbeth about the Messenger, and from her perspective, the strange creature had always been somewhat polite with her, but he supposed that made sense. She, after all, was a believer and a servant of the Old Gods, one of the flock, so to speak. From the Messenger’s perspective, Tyron was more akin to a bratty child. According to the strange being, he clung to the ankles of creatures more powerful than himself, not understanding the many ways they shielded him from harm and constantly begged for more treats.

To make matters worse, he wasn’t even grateful.

Tyron understood the Messenger’s poor attitude towards him, but that didn’t mean he tolerated it.“Do you think I don’t know who you are?” he demanded, irritated. “Do you think I don’t know what you are? That I could stand this close to you and not be able to figure it out? I have no fear of you or your gods. If they want to kill me, they can do so, right here and now. If they want to achieve their actual desire, then I am the best chance they’ve had in five thousand years.”

“They might kill you anyway,” the Messenger whispered menacingly, radiating resentment, and Tyron knew it was true. Cruel and capricious, they may well do so, even if it went against their own best interests.

As always, The Three lurked in the distance, enormous, unknowable presences that turned their attention towards him all at once. In an instant, the oppressive, thick atmosphere of the Dark Forest became suffocating, the weight of the Old Gods pressing down upon him. All they did was look, but it was enough to cause the Necromancer’s knees to shake and sweat to bead on his forehead.

He may have ascended higher than most in his home realm, but the patrons were determined to remind him of his place in the grand scheme of events, it seemed. Nevertheless, he was unbowed. He needed them, it was true, but they needed him also, it was the reason they had become his patrons in the first place.

The Scarlet Court and Abyss weren’t singular in their focus, there were a number of things they were willing to accept in bargains: knowledge, blood, souls, among others. For The Three, they had only one goal: to topple the pretenders who had driven their realm to the brink of destruction.

Thankfully, this was also Tyron’s goal, so they had a great deal in common.

“It’s absurd that they make it this hard to work with them,” Tyron grunted, glaring upwards to the distant presence of the Old Gods. “We want exactly the same thing, so why do they insist on making things difficult? Helping me is helping themselves.”

“You only reveal your ignorance,” the Messenger sneered. “If you knew them at all, you would know how much they despise those that take but are unwilling to strive. Their blessings are for the deserving and those with will. You want them to give you power that you have not earned. If they gave it to you, how would you be any different than those five fools who stumbled in here all those millenia ago?”

There was a slight hitch in the Messenger’s tone and Tyron’s eyes flicked towards him, his irritation fading a little. He thought about what the creature had said.

“Perhaps you have said something wise for once, Messenger,” Tyron said softly. “There is no reason for The Three to lift up another who would seek to take the place of The Five. Giving to the undeserving has driven the realm to the brink of destruction, five thousand years of suffering. Fine. I am willing to take that which I have earned and nothing else. Let us speak of what we owe one another.”

With Crone, Raven and Rot watching from the distance, Tyron turned and strode to the nearest tree. Roots burst from the ground in all directions, twisting and curling around each other to create a knotted web at the base of every tree in the Dark Forest. On a larger of these roots, the Necromancer sat, leaning back against the trunk which seemed to shift uneasily as he rested against it.

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

Tyron folded his hands in his lap and looked directly into the darkness within the Messenger’s hood.

“The Three protect me from The Five, hiding me from their sight and preventing them from intervening directly against me. Without this help, I would have been dead long ago, I know and appreciate this. In return, I have waged their war and begun to tame the rifts. For the first time since the rifts opened, there are a number of them growing weaker rather than stronger over time.

“If I am successful in my vengeance, I have agreed to set the realm to right, taming the remaining rifts and returning the world to its natural state. Their followers exist under my protection, preserved by my hand and defended by my minions.”

Now, he leaned forward a little, feeling the pressure on him growing stronger by the second.

“Yet, we have reached a point where achieving the goals of The Three is getting in the way of my own. I have left minions protecting each of the rifts that I have tamed, clearing out the kin, preventing monsters from damaging the rituals I have completed and alleviating pressure on the weave. This helps protect the realm, but it does nothing for me.”

“Keeping the Realm whole keeps you alive as well,” the Messenger pointed out.

Tyron clicked his tongue.

“Destroying the realm is the quickest and easiest way for me to destroy The Five Divines. They’ll die along with it, after all. I have other places I can survive, especially now. If it weren’t for The Three, I might have snapped this world in half already.”

“The Three would never allow it.”

“Exactly.”

Tyron leaned back again. Each of The Three were listening to him, their awareness pressing down as an inexorable weight. Interestingly, he could sense their different reactions to his words, their emotions bleeding through in their presence.

Crone was amused. Of The Three, she understood human nature the most, which tended to make her the only one of the Old Gods to be actively cruel, as opposed to simply indifferent. To her, he appeared as a sort of pet, a weak, snivelling creature that refused to do as it was told. For now, that resistance was interesting and endearing, but at any moment it could become irritating, at which point he would be squashed.

Raven was angry, fully capable of sensing the stink of the Abyss on him. A hoarder of knowledge itself, the bird god was caught between wanting a new trinket to feather its nest, prying open his head to retrieve it if necessary, but also wanting to see the realm, and itself, survive.

Rot was… content. Death and destruction were rife in the land, and as the deity of decay, it wasn’t unhappy to see the world in such a state. Rot did not see death as something to be avoided, as the other two did, but as an inevitable part of existence. Ultimately, it didn’t care if death came in the next year, or in another million. Towards Tyron, Rot was merely interested, watching the world shift and change around him.

“I am weakening my horde in order to stabilise the rifts, as you want me to,” Tyron said, speaking up to the suffocating canopy above. “If this continues, I won’t have enough advanced minions to wage war against the Empire. Fix it.”

Upon hearing his blunt demand, the Messenger hissed with fury, enraged by the lack of respect. The Three however, pondered.

“I know what you have here,” Tyron said, “I can feel it from where I’m sitting. You could always give me that.”

“Never,” the Messenger rasped, its voice like a thousand nails being drawn down a chalkboard at once. “Even if you possessed it, you are not capable of utilising such power. It is beyond you.”

Tyron leaned back again.

“Something else then,” he shrugged. “If I’m unable to achieve my vengeance, then I have no reason to serve, and right now, I cannot achieve it.”

It was a blunt message, but one that needed to be delivered. If they wanted him to be their agent and war upon the rifts, doing what the Five Divines had refused to do and reversing the flow of magick, then they had to help him. His horde of basic undead and constructs swelled day by day, but his supply of wights, revenants and demi-liches continued to shrink with every rift he tamed. It would soon get to the point where he didn’t have enough wights to properly manage his skeletons, forcing him to do it himself. Putting energy into managing his undead as they marched across the Western Province would slow his progress on the thousands of other things he needed to do.

Silence hung over them heavily. The Three were… considering what he had said, weighing the truth of it, wondering if it was their problem, if they should do anything at all, or if he had earned their help in the first place.

Tyron waited. If they refused to help, he would simply not tame any more rifts and preserve the advanced undead he had while he found a way to press into the other provinces of the Empire. Doubtless The Three would be displeased, but he wouldn’t let them bully him on this front.

Of course, it was possible that the Court would be able to satisfy his needs in this area, more than possible. Vampires could serve in his ranks in the place of wights, or much more simply, they could provide the souls and remains that he needed directly. Who could possibly say how many dead they had amassed in their realm of blood? A tiny fraction would suffice for his needs.

As he sat, the Messenger communed with his gods, unable to contain his anger and disdain towards the Necromancer.

However, the Messenger was only a servant in this place, chained to the will of beings far, far greater than itself. They made their decision, and the Messenger would have to abide by it.

Finally, the pressure began to alleviate, each of The Three turning their attention elsewhere, pursuing their own inscrutable goals and objectives. In their absence, Tyron and the Messenger were once again forced to interact directly with each other.

While the servant of the gods radiated displeasure, Tyron simply sat, content to wait.

Eventually, the Messenger was forced to speak.

“They have something for you,” it said.

Unclasping his hands, Tyron brushed himself down and then stood.

“Wonderful.”