Book of The Dead

Worthy swung his hammer up onto his shoulder with a sigh before he pushed the corpse of the kin away with a shove of his foot.

“I hate these things,” he growled. “They don’t know when they’re dead.”

Almost draconic in nature, the kin were hardy in the extreme and kept fighting even after he’d smashed their head to smithereens. As a Hammerman, smashing the head to bits was his favourite move and he didn’t appreciate its questionable effectiveness.

“Not as bad as those croaking fuckers out at Undermist,” Rurin said, wandering up beside him. “Remember? They refused to die, no matter how much you hit them. Even cutting them into pieces wasn’t enough.”

Worthy grunted.

“Oh aye. They were awful, but at least they were weaker than these things,” he said, with another shove of his foot for emphasis. “I thought I wouldn’t have to worry about rift-kin being this strong once I was gold ranked,” he complained. “Shouldn’t all of this be easy now?”

“Strong kin can get through rifts that haven’t been tended for a hundred years,” Rurin said, shoving him in the side, “who knew?”

“I’m trying to whinge and complain here, woman. Stop bringing your logic and reason into it.”

Rurin chuckled, her short grey hair tied tight to keep it out of her eyes.

“I didn’t know the great and powerful Steelarm was such a whiny brat. I suppose I should leave you to it.”“Shut up. I think we’re done here, aren’t we?”

“Looks like it. Hey, Tim! Are we finished?”

A hundred metres off, the Mage turned and waved lazily at them. Dead and dying kin lay all around them, soaking the ground with their blood. All through the broken lands strode the bruised and bloody Slayers, covered in the gore of their fallen foes. Weary from exertion but happy that the job was done, Worthy could see the bounce in their step as they looked forward to going home.

Home. Not long ago, that had been the Western Province and his inn. Now it was a blossoming society built inside the ruins of a lost kingdom. Well, as long as his family was there, what did he care where it was? Home was home.

“Are the Mages ready to tame this rift or is there something they need?” he asked.

“Why the fuck are you asking me?” Rurin groaned, rolling her eyes. “I’m not in charge anymore. Go ask a Mage.”

“What? You are in charge. Didn’t you lead the rebellion?”

“We aren’t rebelling anymore, so I’m not leadership anymore.”

“The hell you aren’t.”

Despite his protests, Rurin refused to take charge, seemingly amused by Worthy trying to put responsibility off of himself. Vowing he would get her back one day, he stomped about the broken lands until he found everyone he was looking for.

As it turned out, the Mages were ready to start, but had been waiting for someone to tell them that they should. Since when had Slayers become so incapable of thinking for themselves? These people used to walk through rifts to other realms and live hard battling kin for weeks at a time! Now they needed him to tell them when and where to piss?

“Absolutely ridiculous,” he huffed, sitting down on a log.

When she was done laughing at him, Rurin came and sat beside him, two old friends who’d fought together in their youth.

It was bittersweet for both of them, as they had shared those times with Magnin and Beory, two enormous presences that had gouged a deep void in everyone they had left behind. They sat together in silence, watching as the various teams began to keep watch over the rift, killing everything that poked its nose through while the most experienced Mages prepared to cast the ritual that Tyron had taught them, erecting the various posts and working on the ritual circle required for the spell.

After a time, Worthy turned to speak to her.

“Have you–blasted hells, Rurin! Are you crying?”

“Fuck off, Steelarm,” she huffed, not bothering to wipe her tears away. Rurin continued to look out towards the rift where the Mages were working, unashamed of the tears dripping down her face. “This doesn’t move you?” she asked him.

Worthy shifted on the log, unused to such an open display of emotion from someone like Rurin. She was most comfortable on the frontlines, covered in blood and guts. He didn’t think he had ever seen her shed a single tear before, regardless of her injuries!

“Move me in what way?” he said eventually. “I guess I’m… tired and wanting to go home.”

He rocked to the side as Rurin shoved him in the arm.

“They’re taming the rift, you idiot. You know what that means.”

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“I do,” Worthy said softly. “But I’ve seen this before. You’ve seen this before.”

“And I get emotional every time,” she stated firmly. “I’ve always wanted to save people from the rift-kin. My entire life I fought for that, but we always knew it was fucking useless. We were losing. Slowly but surely, we were losing. The rifts got that little bit larger every year and it made me sick to my stomach.”

Weathered and ruddy from years of fighting outside, Rurin’s face looked just like the rest of her, as tough as nails and twice as strong. Somehow, on her face, tracks of tears looked like a sign of strength.

“Aye,” Worthy nodded. “I know it.”

“Then your nephew comes along and… and this,” she waved her hand. “Magick we never had before. Magick we never imagined.”

Worthy cracked his knuckles, frowning.

“Boy told me he was taught the ritual by these Old Gods. It’s not like he figured it out himself.”

“Oh pish. You’re downplaying the achievements of your own nephew now?”

“Of course not, you old bat. He’s a genius, anyone can see that.”

Tyron probably didn’t realise just how remarkable he was, which was understandable. After all, he lived in his own mind and had never known another one. On the one hand, people seemed to expect it from him, given who his parents were, but that only helped to downplay what he had achieved.

“Do you remember how they used to look at Magnin and Beory?” he said, seemingly shifting the subject and gesturing towards the Slayers.

Rurin snorted.

“Like gods walking on the realm. Could barely bring themselves to talk to them.”

Worthy nodded. It would have been so easy to hate Magnin, growing up together. Worthy was older by two years. He’d been stronger, wiser, more capable… for what felt like five minutes. Everything he struggled for came easily to his younger brother. He fought as if he was born to it, had an easy and ready charm and seemed completely fearless in everything he did.

It hadn’t been long before Worthy found himself following his little brother around, a humiliating experience for an older sibling under normal circumstances. Magnin, however, was far from normal. When he’d eventually met Beory, it was like a chemical reaction. Alone, they were magnetic, together they had the power to pull in anyone and everyone just by walking past.

The hero worship directed at the two was so extreme that Worthy had eventually distanced himself, teaming up with a few of his friends, in part to escape the relentless focus on those two and the attention they brought.

It was probably for that reason that they never made a formal team again, choosing to work exclusively with each other.

“I don’t want Tyron to be treated the same way,” Worthy said. “It was isolating, they treated those two as if they weren’t even human. If you ask me, without a wife and kid, Magnin would have lost his damn mind eventually. I mean, he was always a little crazy, nobody is supposed to be that confident, nobody, but it would have driven him over the edge eventually. Beory and Tyron literally saved his life.”

He watched as the Slayers continued to work, killing kin and defending the Mages hard at work on the ritual. Men and women, really, ordinary men and women, who had devoted their lives to becoming super-powered killing machines and grown strong through the blessings of the Unseen. Worthy knew these people, trusted them with his life, respected and valued them, but he also knew how dangerous they could be.

Even though he was worshipped as a hero, or maybe because he was, Magnin had been forced to fight against his fellow Slayers on dozens of occasions. Ambushed on the other side of rifts by jealous teams. Jumped by admirers, stalked, endlessly watched and scrutinised from all angles, even challenged by those seeking to best a worthy foe and prove their skill.

Magnin and Beory had taken it in stride and eventually got to the point they were so irresistibly strong that none could dare challenge them. Tyron, though… say what he would about the boy, Worthy held no illusions as to the strength of his people skills.

His mother and father were selfish arseholes at heart, but they were perfectly capable of being charming and personable when they wanted to. Tyron was more fitting to the Necromancer Class than Worthy had been willing to admit at first. He was closed off, liked dark, cramped spaces and was up at night more than he was during the day.

How would that boy deal with the sort of pressure and attention that the Slayers had given to his parents? Worthy didn’t think it would go well.

“I don’t think you have to worry too much,” Rurin said, taking a sip from her canteen. Worthy could smell the scent of strong spirits wafting from the open cap. “Tyron would just tell them to fuck off. That’s for the brave ones who get close enough. They might start to see Tyron as a hero, but they’re scared of him in a way they were never scared of his mum and dad.”

“That’s… true,” Worthy sighed.

Tyron never attempted to charm anyone, which left him looking standoffish, and he spent most of his time surrounded by the living dead or elbows deep in a corpse. It was a lot harder to approach someone in the heart of their undead army rather than someone relaxing at the keep.

It was half a day later by the time the work was finished. A raucous cheer rose into the air as the Slayers celebrated, whooping and shouting at accomplishing what had once been thought to be impossible. Grumbling at having to be responsible, Worthy took it upon himself to have the teams draw lots and determine who was going to have to remain to keep the rift clear. Although the losers were pissed at having to remain in the field, they accepted their loss with as much grace as could be reasonably expected. It didn’t hurt that Worthy promised to send them a supply run of meat and drink.

With that final duty done, the Slayers turned around and began the march back to the city, another tamed rift in their wake.

It would likely take hundreds of years to transform the wasteland of what had once been Granin back into a natural, verdant land. Overcome with magick-charged crystals that had literally supplanted the soil with ground up shards and even spawning native kin, the wasteland was a horrifying glimpse of what awaited the rest of the realm if nothing changed. However, as the monstrous concentration of arcane energy began to decline, it would quickly become more habitable.

Worthy would be happy if the magick storms went away, but right now they powered most of the city’s enchantments.

After this last expedition, every rift within reasonable distance of the city was now tamed. Rift-kin no longer roamed the land in wild packs, and over time the survivors of the Western Province would be able to expand, perhaps create multiple settlements.

With high spirits, they marched night and day, eager to make it back home to properly rest. Pushing their enhanced physiques, they made excellent time. When light dawned on the seventh day, Worthy greeted the sun on his face with a smile. In just a few hours, he would enjoy a home-cooked meal and be able to sleep in his own bed.

When he saw the smoke rising over the horizon, his smile quickly faded.

He ripped his hammer from the loop at his belt.

“RUN!” he roared.